WindWarrior

New Concepts Publishing www.newconceptspublishing.com Copyright ©2009 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

WINDWARRIOR By Charlotte Boyett-Compo © copyright by Charlotte Boyett-Compo, April 2009 Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, April 2009 ISBN 978-1-60394-293-5 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

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Chapter One

The war had been going on for decades with no end in sight and in Geddyn the dead outnumbered the living. To the west, the country of Merrimuid lay in ruins with no signs of life except for the carrion crows circling the devastation. To the north, the hills and valleys of Bassoil were a wasteland of charred huts and villages, the earth scorched. Along the eastern border, war-weary refugees poured into Treischt with their meager belongings, their starving animals, and their hollow-eyed children too weak to make a sound. Ragged shelters, lean-tos, and torn tents had sprung up overnight in the capitol city of Ghraih—taxing the charity of the already overburdened inhabitants. However, what one had, they all shared until it was gone. One mother did not fill her baby's belly so another mother's infant would die of hunger. The female citizens of Ghraih worked together to keep one another alive while their men folk fought the encroaching threat from the south—the feared Tarryns led by the demon Deklyn Yn Baase, Laird of Drogh-gheay, the Black Baron of the WindWarrior Clan. A curfew had been imposed in Ghraih for it was feared the Tarryns had sent warriors to inspect the defenses of the city. No woman was safe after the sun went down and only those who had an emergency reason for being on the streets or those who used their bodies to survive were out and about. Either was considered fair game to the invaders. **** "Well, what do we have here?” he asked, reaching out to catch her arm as she hurried past. “What are you doing out so late of a night, tarrishagh?" She could smell the liquor on his breath and tried to pull her arm free. “Let me pass, milord. Please." "Come into the light and let me see you, dearling,” he insisted, his words slurred. His brogue was that of the invading troop, driving fear deep into her gut. "I'm not a prostitute,” she said, twisting her arm now in an effort to get free. “I work at the hospital and...." "She'll do, my brother,” another male voice said. “I don't have to look at her face to take my pleasure of her." 3

"Watch your tongue,” the first man said. He backed her up against the wall, pinning her there with his muscular body. “How ‘bout a kiss, tarrishagh? Can I have at least that much of your sweetness?" Though she tried to evade his kiss, he dipped his head and slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue probing hotly at lips she kept tightly pressed together. That seemed to amuse him. He raised his head, squinting to see her face in the shadows of the alley. “You taste of cherries,” he told her. She put her hands to his chest and pushed, pleading with him. “Milord, please. There are plenty of women available to you. Please, let me go." "Never,” he said, grinding his lower body against her. The press of his erection frightened her even more. She struggled against him but she was no match for his strength. "She's a whore,” the other man said. “It's just a matter of agreeing to her price.” He reached down to drag the skirt of her gown up. "No!” she hissed, beginning to fight him in earnest as his fingertips touched the bare flesh of her thigh. "Stop that,” her captor said, batting his companion's hand away. “I want another kiss, pretty one." She tried to knee him in the groin yet that only made him laugh as he wedged himself between her thighs, trapping her legs to either side of his. Straining to get away from him, she heard him laugh, and before she knew what he was doing, she was hanging over his shoulder with his arm like an iron band clamping her legs together. "Help!” she screamed. “Help, me!" Nevertheless, no one came to her rescue as her abductor took her deeper into the alley and through a door his companion opened. The room was dark. It smelled of gunpowder, and when she was lowered to a soft mattress, she bucked, trying to scramble away. "Oh, no, you don't,” he laughed, grabbing her ankle and dragging her beneath him. He pinned her down with his heavier weight between her legs, his fingers tight around her wrists as he pressed her hands to either side of her head. “I just want a kiss. Nothing more. You taste so good." Once more, his mouth covered hers, his tongue sweeping over her closed lips. The second man struck a match and the smell of sulfur filled the air. She

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blinked against the harsh intrusion of light that hurt her night-adapted eyes as he put the flame to an oil lantern. Golden light filled the small room. "Ah, she is exquisite, Reese,” the man above her said in a soft, awed voice. His eyes roamed over her face. "What difference does that make? She's a cunt to be used so use her." "No,” the man staring down at her said. “She is an angel to be cherished." For a long moment, she stared at her attacker. It was a handsome, boyish face with a deep cleft in the chin, and smiling lips that she beheld. His teeth were white and even, his nose straight. Long, thick lashes fanned over dark eyes that were filled with merriment. Broad shoulders bracketed a stronglooking neck. He did not bear the common traits of a Tarryn trooper. This man was nobility. She tried appealing to that nobility. "Please, milord, I am not a whore,” she said, her bottom lip quaking. He let go of her left wrist and laid his palm to her cheek, caressing her tenderly. “I am sure you are not, tarrishagh,” he whispered. “And I am no rapist. I just want a few moments of your time to ease my loneliness.” He tilted his head to one side. “Is that too much to ask?" She was mesmerized by the sheer male beauty of his face and the press of his heavy body was doing strange things to hers. There was a clenching in her belly as he smiled gently at her, stroking the backs of his fingertips down the side of her face, sweeping the pad of his thumb over her lips. "So beautiful,” he said. “The most beautiful woman I've seen in years." He lowered his head to claim her lips once more and this time he coaxed her into opening her mouth to him. His warm tongue slid between her lips to stroke hers. The feel of it was so heady she felt the breath leaving her lungs on a long sigh. "Give yourself to me, tarrishagh,” he whispered against her lips. “Let me give you pleasure." She knew the Tarryn word he spoke meant beloved and its meaning went a long way in unlocking the hold she had on her control and to dissolving the fear running through her blood. His voice was so soft, so gentle, his eyes filled with tenderness. His mouth was sinful as he brushed his lips over hers in a silent plea to succumb. And his face! His face was that of a god, and she felt as though she was being pulled down into the heat of his dark eyes.

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"You feel it, too, don't you? I don't know why but I want you as I've never wanted another woman,” he told her, his lower body rubbing over the juncture of her thighs. Beneath her gown, her body oozed with heat, her juices flowing for the first time in her young life. "Get on with it,” the other man hissed with irritation. “We haven't got all night." "Give yourself to me, dearling,” the handsome one said again. He trailed his hand to her bodice to cup her breast. She arched her back—thrusting her breast into the strong, warm hard— and groaned. Nineteen years old and never been kissed, never touched or held, or even had a sensual look aimed her way all combined to make her ache for something she didn't understand. It was being offered to her from those beautiful dark, beseeching eyes that would not look away. That looked into her very soul. That made her willpower dissolve. That drew her like a magnet. He kneaded her flesh then dipped his head to place his hot mouth over her straining nipple through the fabric of her gown. "Oh!” she cried out, her free hand going to the thick ebony of his hair. She held him against her as heat flooded her lower body and her belly clenched once more. "I want you,” he said huskily and his hand moved down to the skirt of her gown, inching it up until his palm was against her inner thigh. “I need you. Please don't deny me." She moaned. The calloused hand caressing her thigh—moving up until the fingers touched the leg band of her undergarment—made her tremble, her breath catch. Instinctively she lifted her hips in invitation to that questing hand, and she heard him growl low in his throat. Before she could take another breath his fingers slid beneath the leg band and across the heat of her core. "Milord!” she gasped. His mouth was on her breast again, suckling her nipple through the fabric. His fingers were stroking the folds of her secret place, causing tremors to vibrate down her spine. She writhed beneath his touch. It was setting her aflame with a need she had not known existed. "I want you.” He pressed the tip of his finger inside her warm core. And she was lost.

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"Aye!” she said. She would have given him anything at that moment for he was sending unbelievable waves of sheer ecstasy through her entire body. "Do you want me?” he asked. "Aye!” she repeated and pressed his mouth hard to her bosom. "You're sure? I won't take you against your will." "Please, milord!" "You heard her. Fuck her and get it over with, man!” his companion snapped. Her lover removed his fingers and tugged at her undergarment. “Help me here, sweeting. Lift your hips,” he ordered. All she wanted was that heavy body to work its magic with hers to soothe the ache he had started. She arched her hips for him to pull the undergarment down her hips. She lifted her leg at his nudging. She squirmed as he hiked her gown up higher, pushing it above her hips so the cool air fanned over her heated center. His fingers were brushing at his own clothing and the moment she felt the hard prod of him, the weeping wetness of his cock probing at her sheath, a semblance of sanity returned. For just a second she tried to form the word ‘no', but he was gliding his shaft along her folds and she instinctively lifted her hips in offering even as he clamped down lightly on her nipple through the fabric with his mouth. "That's it, tarrishagh,” he said through clenched teeth. “Give us both what we need." The vibration of his voice as he held her nipple between his teeth sent waves of pleasure down her sides. He was pushing against her, stretching her. The tip of him was inside her and the heat, the slickness quickened her breath. He released her nipple and moved up, slid his left hand beneath her rump to better position himself, his teeth now nipping her chin before he slanted his lips over hers and pushed his cock to the hilt inside her. The unexpected pain between her legs shocked her and she pushed against his shoulders, tearing her mouth free to scream. "Shite,” he said. “She was a...." The other man moved to clamp his hand over her mouth to cut off the next scream. The man atop her had stilled and was staring down at her with a look of intense guilt. She wriggled under him, trying to get free of the

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ungodly agony piercing her. The moment she did that, she knew she'd done the wrong thing. He began to move inside her, pumping quickly, going deep, stretching her unmercifully, filling her until she felt something jerk inside her several times before he shuddered and went still again, his head down. He rolled from her and once more she heard him cursing. "The gods damn it!” he said, coming to his feet as he stuffed his manhood back into his pants. “I didn't know. I didn't know!" She clawed at the hand of the man hunkered above her, and he gathered one wrist in his free hand and ground the bones together, hurting her. When she tried to pry that hand from hers, he easily snared it as well in his huge paw, slamming both her hands down to her chest to pin them there. "Get out of here before the guards are called,” his companion said. “Do it!" Her lover turned around, his face a mask of remorse as he looked down at her. “I...." "Get out of here! You can't afford to be caught!” the other man snarled. "I didn't mean to ... If I'd known...." "Get out!" The last sight she had of her lover was of him opening the door and exiting into the night. The next thing she heard was his companion's low grunt then the words that chilled her to the marrow of her bones— "Now it's my turn." **** Maire sat straight up in bed with a gasp. It was the same old dream she'd had most every night for the last ten years but this time it seemed more vivid, more real, the images clearer in her mind, the details more solid. She was shivering from the feel of that other man's rough, pitiless hands bruising her, hurting her, doing things to her no woman should ever be made to endure. He had brutalized her for over an hour—splitting her lip, blackening her eye—before the first man returned, no doubt wondering what was taking his companion so long. "What have you done, Reese?” she remembered the handsome one shouting, fury darting from his dark eyes like crossbow bolts.

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"She's just a Vardarian whore,” his companion replied with a laugh. He thrust his fingers inside her torn vagina so cruelly she screamed with agony. "Leave her alone! Get off her!" The handsome one had pulled the brute from her and while they were fighting—fists crashing into jaws with sickening thuds—she scrambled to her feet and ran. Battered, broken, bleeding in a dozen places, she staggered blindly down the alley until she ran into protective arms that swept her up and carried her to safety. **** Scrubbing her hands over her face to wipe away the memories of that savage night in Ghraih, she swung her legs from the bed to start another long, lonely day. It was the last week of March and the weather was colder than normal. For the next several hours, she drew water from the well, heated it and washed her clothing and the extra set of bed linens. She swept the floor, dusted, mopped, and set about making her meager supper. When the soup was cooking, she sat in her rocker and began mending a shirt, working straight through the morning and into the late afternoon with only a few breaks—to stir the soup and to bring in the wash. By five, her shoulders were aching, her neck stiff, and her fingers nearly numb from plying the needle. She stood, stretched with her hands to her aching back and decided to get a last breath of fresh air. The moment she stepped outside, she knew evil was only a few miles away. Shading her blue eyes against the glare of the winter sky above Mount Kaule she stared at the smoke being blown at a steep angle by the crisp northern wind. There was no doubt in her mind that the village of Unita had been set aflame by the marauding hoard. Even from the distance of four miles she thought she could hear the clash of battle ringing through the valley. She knew Yn Baase and his murderous troop had struck the peaceful community a killing blow. It had been only a matter of time before his warriors came to her part of Vardar. The tell-tale smoke bore mute evidence that they were here. "May the Wind be at your back,” she whispered to the defenders of Unita. She feared they would most likely all be dead, dying or in chains, the women beaten, raped, and taken for slaves, the children left orphaned and gathered together to be taken to institutions where they would grow up hating all things Tarryn. That was what came of fighting back when the invaders rolled their juggernaut through your country. She was uneasy for she feared the Tarryn troops would take the Spansiel Road south to the seaside city of Norvus where their warships were docked. That would lead them within a hundred yards of her isolated hut. Until now— at least as far as she knew—no Tarryn scout had come across her humble

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abode. Perhaps they would pass her by, believing the rugged hut not worth their time. She looked at the lone goat that had been providing milk for her. The chickens were long gone. Her supply of vegetables, which she had canned from her summer garden, would just barely hold her through the long winter but if her foodstuffs and the scrawny goat were requisitioned by the troop, she would surely starve. Hurrying into the sparse interior of her home, she quickly donned a coat that had long since seen better days, stuck her feet into a pair of her deceased husband's old work boots and ventured out to the small corral, slipping the tether from the rail to loop it around Jenny's neck. "Come on, girl,” she said, patting the skittish animal. “You don't want to wind up in the belly of a Tarryn warrior." Leading the trembling animal away from the cottage and into the thick copse of trees beyond, she pushed aside brambles that scratched her hands, tugging the goat through the greensward to the small hidden cave where she kept all her most precious belongings. Pushing aside a curtain of dead branches interwoven with moss, she led the skinny animal deep into the cave. A natural vent in the stone gave her enough light to see so she could secure the goat beside a small pool of water that had formed from the runoff of snow from Mount Kaule trickling through the vent. A small bale of straw she had dragged into the cave a month before would feed the goat until the danger of the Tarryn army had passed. "You'll be comfortable enough, girl,” she told the goat. “You've got rags to lie on." When she left, the little beast was happily munching straw. Carefully placing the barrier across the cave opening once more, Maire made her way back to the cottage. It was freezing cold, the wind whipping down from the mountain, and she was shivering—her lips blue—by the time she reached the warmth of her fireplace. Peeling out of the old coat, kicking off Phillip's oversized boots, she held her hands to the crackling flames to warm them, frowning at the bramble scratches across the backs of her work-reddened hands. Her fingers were stiff with the cold—her gloves having disintegrated long ago. One look told her she needed to bring more wood in before the snows came again, but she hated to go back outside. The light was rapidly fading. The wind skirled like a banshee—rattling the door and single window—and pushed savagely against the rafters. She could feel it seeping up through the warped floorboards as it whirled under the rickety old place. She used her apron to reach for the ladle to stir the vegetable soup that bubbled in a cast iron pot slung over the flames. The thin mixture of potatoes, parsnips, beets, carrots, onions, turnips, leeks, and cabbage

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seasoned with garlic, salt and pepper would be her one daily meal for the next several days. She had a single loaf of stale bread left before she'd need to make the trek into Norvus to barter for a couple more. With any luck, she'd be able to bring home a few eggs, a tin of butter, and a small bag of tea. As it was, all she'd be having with her meal for the next few days would be water from the well. She padded over to the creaky old rocker and sat down, reaching once more for the sewing that kept her in stable goods, she would otherwise have no way to obtain. Since her husband's death, her only means of support came from the sewing she took in—the mending of clothing and the occasional construction of a new shirt or gown. On occasion she knitted and crocheted, quilted and embroidered as well but those were frivolous things that were rarely requested of her nowadays. Paid in foodstuffs instead of coin, it was a hard life but an honest one. It left no room for non-essential things, for extravagances or luxuries like sugar or spices, but she managed to make do. At least she had not been reduced to bringing men to her bed in order to survive as some women had been forced to do. Her nimble fingers moving with care and precision to make tiny, almost invisible stitches in the mending, she hummed to herself to ward off the sense of impending doom, she sensed marching her way. With her fertile imagination, she could almost hear the tramp of their heavy boots, the rattle of harness and the creaking of war wagons. "Stop brooding on it,” she mumbled. “You're borrowing trouble, Maire." A small plinking sound against the window told her it had begun to snow. She cast her gaze to the doorway to make sure she'd brought the shovel in for she knew by morning she would be forced to dig her way out of the drift that would pile up at her door. Sighing, she wished she could journey to the balmier lands where snow was only a word spoken in passing instead of a way of life. She longed to see the sun shining all year long and feel the warm wind wafting over her upturned face. Once—when she was but a child—she had tasted a small rosy fruit from the distant lands of Tarryn. A merchant ship laden with all manner of tropical fruits had sailed into Norvus Harbor and the townspeople had been given samples of coconut milk, papaya, guava, and mango. Maire's eyes had rolled as she chewed the bright orange flesh of that rosy fruit, the juice dripping down her chin. "More, Papa. More!” she'd begged her father and laughingly, he had purchased two mangoes for his only child. Happier times, Maire thought as she paused in her stitching. A mist of sadness filmed her eyes—blurring her vision—but she lowered her head and

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swept the sleeve of her worn blouse over the tell-tale moisture. It was not good to remember happier times. It hurt far too much. For over an hour she kept at her sewing until she could no longer ignore the protests of her empty stomach. Sighing, she laid the shirt aside and stood. It was getting darker than the fireplace light could dispel, anyway, and would be time to light the single candle she allowed herself each evening. If not for the need to see the stitching, she would have made do with just the light from the fire for candles were a precious commodity and not to be wasted. Though she had lamps, there was no oil with which to fill them. Going over to the low table that served as her kitchen counter, she took down a wooden bowl and spoon and carried it back to the fire. Using her apron as a potholder, she ladled the piping hot soup into the bowl then set it aside while she went back for a small slice of bread and a glass of water from the pitcher. Taking those to the rocker, she sat, lowered her head to thank the gods for her skimpy meal, and then picked up the bowl. Chewing methodically, she stared into the shadows of her little cottage. There wasn't much to look at—no pictures on the rough-hewn walls, no curtain on the lone window, no rug on the uneven floorboards. The furnishings consisted of her rocker, a cast iron single bed with a cornhusk mattress, a small table that set between the rocker and the bed, the low table in what was the kitchen part of the one-room building, and a small tin tub for bathing. Beneath the bed was a chamber pot. A trunk held Maire's small amount of clothing. That was all that had been left to her when the home she'd shared with Phillip had been sold to satisfy the undertaker's bill. "What's wrong with you tonight? Stop thinking such morbid thoughts!” she said aloud. Dredging the thin slice of bread through the soup, she felt tears prickling at her eyes again. It was rare she felt sorry for herself. There was no good purpose to be served by feeling such things. It only made her want what was no longer available to her. At twenty-nine she was too old for any middleaged man to want as his wife and the young men of her country were away fighting the accursed war. All that was left were those males not fit for genteel female company—the drunks and bullies, the desperately insane and those slowly becoming that way. Sometimes, she thought as she finished that one bowl of soup she allowed herself to eat, she wished she could go to sleep beneath the worn coverlet, snuggle down in the thin cotton sheets, and never wake. Death had to be preferable to the miserable existence that had become her lot in life. Heaving another self-pitying sigh, she got up to take her bowl to the table and the basin of water she would use to wash it. As she did, she stared at the snow that had accumulated against the window pane. Beyond the glass, the

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sky was a deep purple. Snow swirled in thick bands to blanket the land, but it did not muffle the sound of harness and hoof coming down the road. She stilled with the dishrag in her hand, listening as the sound of men's voices could be heard over the noise of their mounts. "Over there!” she heard one yell. “There's a cabin!" Her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach, she backed away from the table, pressing her back against the wall as though by doing so she could meld into the very wood and hide. The dripping rag she held to her chest as though it was a war-shield to protect her soaked her blouse. Shuddering violently, she whimpered as the thud of heavy boots rapped on the porch floor. She whimpered as the door was kicked in—a rush of harsh wind swirling into the room. He filled the doorway almost completely—broad shoulders blocking out what little sky glow there was beyond. A black great cape swirled around his long legs, whipped by the fierce wind. Snow caked the broad brim of his black cavalier's hat minus its plume. "It's empty!” he pronounced. The tramp of more feet rocked Maire's porch as two more brawny men entered carrying between then a fourth man. Blood dripped from the man's body as they took him to the bed and laid him down. "There's some kind of soup in the pot. Pour it out and fill it with...." "No!” Maire protested, coming away from the wall with her hand out in pleading. “Please, don't! It's all I have!" The man in the cavalier's hat spun around to pierce her with a steely gaze that might well have terrified the demon Yn Baase, himself. His hand had gone to the dagger at his thigh, and it was obvious her presence stunned him for he'd not seen her when he entered. He took a step toward her, sweeping off his hat to reveal a countenance so filled with fury it terrified her. "I've a wounded man here, wench. He needs seeing to. You can always make more gods-be-damned soup!" "No,” she said. “Please, milord. I have so little as it is." "From the looks of things, that is most likely the way of it, Jules,” one of the other men spoke up. "We need to heat water,” the one called Jules grated as he shrugged out of his great cape. “We need that pot, Guy!"

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"I've another!” Maire was quick to tell him. She scrambled away from the wall and to the table, pushing aside two wooden baskets of vegetables to get the smaller pot. "Give it here,” Guy said. “I'll fill it at your well. Where is that, lass?" Maire told him. "I need clean rags and a basin,” Jules told her. These were Tarryn troops and she hated to do anything to give aid and comfort to the enemy of her people but from the look on the leader's face, he'd as soon run her through with the black-handled blade strapped to his thigh as glower at her. Clenching her jaw, she hurried to provide the items for which he'd asked. "Do you have any spirits, wench?” the third man asked. He was younger than the other two with a lopsided grin that spoke well of his disposition. "I do not,” she answered. “The strongest thing I have is lye with which I make my soap." "Figures,” Jules growled. “I have some brandy left in my flask. It's in my saddlebags. Go fetch them, Andrew, and Dek's as well." "Aye, Captain,” the young man said and had the decency to close the battered door behind him as he left. Maire's eyes widened as she slowly shifted her gaze to the man on the bed. He was sprawled there with his face turned away from her. She prayed with all her heart that he bore only the same name as the demon laird of Tarryn and wasn't the beast, himself. "Help me get his clothing off,” Jules ordered, leaning over to shove his dagger into the coals of the fire. He thrust the fireplace poker into the coals, as well. Despite her fear of the speaker, the last thing she wanted to do was touch the male on the bed. If he was, indeed, Deklyn Yn Baase, she would just as soon skewer him as lay hands to any part of his loathsome body. "Woman, don't make me tell you twice!” Jules thundered, reaching out to grab her arm and propel her savagely to the bed. “Get his gods-be-damned boots off!" Shaken as though he was a terrier and she his prey, Maire stumbled against the bed, hands out to keep from falling. She grabbed hold of the

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wounded man's knee, heard him draw in a ragged gasp as pain no doubt rocketed through him. "Bitch!” Jules roared, drawing back his hand to hit her. "Don't do it,” came the weak command from the bed. Realizing she was a breath away from being mauled by the irate warrior, she hastened to draw off the muddy boots that had stained the soft white chenille of her bedspread. Groaning as she took in the mess, she knew the spread was ruined anyway for there was a large bloodstain spreading out from beneath the wounded warrior, but the sight of the mud only served to add insult to injury. Rather than drop mud all over her clean floor she moved to set each boot down carefully beside the hearth. Apparently not moving as fast as the one named Jules thought she should, he hissed at her, eyes blazing. "Woman, you are sorely trying what little patience I have left,” he warned her. He was carefully peeling away the wool great coat that covered his patient, folding it back to reveal a thick gray wool sweater that bore a brokenoff quarrel shaft, the point obviously still buried inside the wounded man's shoulder. Staring openmouthed at the blood-soaked sweater, Maire jumped when the angry warrior ordered her to give him a pair of scissors to cut open the garment. "Are you feeble minded or just stupid?” he snarled, snatching the implement from her hand. "Jules, stop insulting her,” the man on the bed muttered. “I mean it." The door opened and closed and the two men who had left came in again. One carried the cast iron pot filled with well water while the other had several flasks in his hand. "I've enough booze to get four men drunk as skunks,” he told Jules. "We only need enough to get one man drunk,” came the brusque reply. “Get those pants off him, Andy. He'll be more comfortable." Maire stepped back, thankful her services would no longer be required. She moved to the other side of the small room, so she didn't have to see what was happening. The arrogant bastard was running the shears up the middle of the sweater and when he gently peeled the two sides away from the protruding shafts, she heard him curse.

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"The gods-be-damn it, Dek. What a mess you've made for me to clean up this time!” he complained. "You should feel it from my side,” the man he was tending quipped. "Just shut the hell up!" Guy had unhooked the soup pot from the fireplace crane to hang the pot of water there to boil. “Where do you want this, lass?” he asked. "On the table,” she mumbled, hating to talk to the bastards but afraid not to answer. "Smells good,” he complimented her. “Could do with a shank of meat, though." She wanted to tell him that, on account of men such as him, she'd not had any meat in over a year but wisely kept her words to herself. From the look on the face of the man in charge she might be spitting out a few teeth if she dared to criticize them. "We need to lift you so I can take your coat off,” Jules said. "Then do it,” was the weak reply. "Easy, now,” Jules said. “Guy, take his left arm and gently bring him up." Maire hoped the action would be agony for the wounded man. If, indeed, it was Yn Baase, he and his father and grandfather before him had caused so much pain and suffering over the last twenty years, he deserved to know some of it firsthand. She took a step or two to the side, so she could see his face when they levered him to a sitting position. With the sweater laid back, the wound was livid against the warrior's tanned flesh, and it pulsed dark blood as he was hefted upright. As the men quickly worked to rid him of his clothing, she could see the toll it was taking on him for he was shuddering violently. His face was turned down, forehead slick with sweat and jaws clamped so tightly together a white line had formed around his lips. His raven-black hair where it had come undone from its queue was plastered in thick waves to his forehead and cheek. "Gods!” he hissed as Jules pulled the sweater from the jagged shaft of the quarrel. He lifted his head and when he did, she gasped, staring into piercing green eyes that seemed to look right through her to her very soul. She was grateful when they rolled back in his head a few seconds before his chin dropped to his chest, dark hair swaying. "It is,” she whispered. “It is him!"

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She could hear the blood suddenly pounding through her ears as she stared at the handsome face she'd seen once before—ten years earlier in a dirty storeroom in Ghraih. She shook her head to rid herself of the illusion that the man she'd dreamt about only that morning was laying now in her bed. "He's out,” Andrew informed them. "Get that knife! Quickly, man!” Jules ordered Andrew who took a rag and grabbed the red-hot weapon. They eased him to the blood-soaked mattress and set out to pull the quarrel from his shoulder, no doubt moving as fast as they could in the hopes he wouldn't regain consciousness. That was not to be.

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Chapter Two

Though Deklyn Yn Baase had been tripped up by the pain and had plunged into some dark, hideously brutal place in an attempt to avoid it, he carried with him the image of the one face for which he had been searching for ten long years. In every village, every town, every settlement, he and his troops entered, he ordered the women brought before him and looked closely at each of them. Every time he had been disappointed, his hopes dashed, his fears escalating that she was dead, lying in her grave all those years. Even so, now he had found her and in the blink of an eye, the same dream he'd had repeatedly during the years rose up to ensnare him. He had beaten Reese Fontyne nearly to death that night. When his best friend did not join him at the rendezvous point within the hour, he had grown worried and went back to look for him. Never would he have imagined Reese would be engaged in the savage act in which he'd caught him. When he'd seen what had been done to the Vardarian woman, Deklyn had unleashed the beast hidden within him. The true Black Baron of legend rose to the surface and lashed out with brutal vengeance. When Reese lay unconscious, Dek had gone in search of the girl, fearing she'd been hurt so badly she might not survive it. He had gotten only a glimpse of her battered face, but it would be enough to haunt his nightmares for years to come. Until dawn he searched for her but there was no trace. He'd gone back to his regiment and when they attacked the city, he had begun searching every female's face searching for hers but she had not been among the captives. Infuriated, terrified he'd never find her again, he'd sent his men through every building, hut, and hovel within a ten mile radius, yet she was nowhere to be found. No one knew her name, or else they were keeping it from him when he described her to the informants. For over two weeks he had his men searching, but it was all in vain. By the time the troop set sail for Tarryn, he had only her memory to take with him. "You have to stop dreaming of her,” Jules had insisted. “She's gone, Dek. Let it be." But he could not. He always looked for her everywhere he went. Pain his subconscious mind could not hold at bay suddenly seared him, jerking him away from his memories. His eyes fluttered open and he drew in a harsh gasp. "You couldn't stay out, could you?” Jules snapped. “You always have to do things the hard way, don't you?" 18

"You want a swig of liquor, Commander?” Guy asked. "Aye. Give me the whole fucking bottle.” He was staring at Maire, relieved that she was still there, that he hadn't dreamt her. “I never thought to see you again." Jules’ head pivoted toward her. “You know him?" Maire was so surprised that the Black Baron still remembered her that she couldn't speak. It wasn't until the man named Jules repeated his question with a menacing growl that she cleared her throat and answered. “He is the Laird of Drogh-gheay." "Aye, he is your Overlaird,” Jules answered. "Not mine,” she said beneath her breath. "Aye, yours!” the horrid man snapped at her. “And every other Vardarian's!" Clenching her hands into fists, she dug her nails into her palms, reveling in the pain as little half-moons cut into her flesh. The Black Baron's eyes were fused with hers as he greedily drank from the flask held to his lips. Though there were feverish sparks in that demon-green gaze, she also thought she saw a hint of laughter and raised her chin, consigning him to the deepest pit beneath the slime of the Abyss. He was so happy to see her after all this time he wanted to throw back his head and howl with relief, laugh until he cried. “Don't worry. I'll get there yet, lass,” he said as his man took the flask away. Maire's eyes widened, sure now he could intercept her thoughts. "What?” Jules demanded. “Get where?" "Hell,” Deklyn muttered and once again his head rolled downward as the loss of blood and the pain overtook him, plunging him once more into unconsciousness. "What's wrong with his eyes?” Andy asked, his forehead creased. "They're closed, you moron!” Jules hissed at him. "Drag the sweater sleeves off his arms while he's out,” Guy advised and between them, he and Andy did just that. When they had the sweater off the injured man, they stepped back.

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Jules reached for the protruding shaft, pulled on it but it would not come free of the Baron's shoulder. He twisted it in an attempt to work it free and the result was his patient coming awake with a yelp that startled everyone. "Fuck!” Dek spat, his entire body trembling from the pain. "Had to be done,” Jules said in a callous tone though Maire saw what it was costing him to hurt his overlaird. The man armed sweat from his own brow. “The point is a broadhead with mec blades, Dek." "What does that mean?” Andrew asked but Jules ignored him. "The blades are retracted close to the ferrule before the shot. Upon impact, the blades snap open as they penetrate with the cutting edges facing the entrance wound, making it impossible to pull out without doing real damage,” Guy explained. Jules hissed a truly vulgar curse. “There could be only two blades but most likely there are three. Hell, there may even be four. I've got to make a wide incision to work around the blades. It'll take time to work the point free." "Booze,” the injured man whispered. “Gimme all you got. Hell, give me the entire distillery before you do that to me again!" "If you don't shut up, I'll brain you one, and you won't have to worry about the fucking booze,” Jules grumbled. Once more, Andrew held his commander's head until he'd consumed all the liquor the young man had been able to find. She knew it wouldn't be enough. As much as she hated him, hated what he stood for, his suffering was having a strange effect on her. She should be happy he was in pain but oddly enough she wasn't. Then there was the guilt she hadn't expected to be feeling, too. She owed him for saving her life all those years ago for she knew without doubt his friend would have eventually crippled her or—worse yet— killed her had he not returned and intervened. "I have some tenerse if that would help,” she said. Jules whipped his head around. “Why the fuck didn't you tell me that before now?” he demanded. "I just thought of it, you insufferable bastard!” she snapped, surprising him for a moment, then he took a step toward her, fist clenched. "We would appreciate it, lass,” Guy said, stepping quickly between her and Jules.

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Without looking at Jules, she went to her small cupboard and retrieved a bottle of purple liquid, bringing it back to hand over to Guy. She shrugged. “There's not much left, but it will help to deaden the pain." "Every little bit will help,” Guy told her. He administered the tenerse to his commander. "Ugh,” Deklyn scowled as the taste of the drug exploded on his tongue, instantly numbing his mouth if not his shoulder. “That tastes like moldy shite." "Been swilling down moldy shite, have you?” Jules asked with a snort. "Have another drink,” Guy said but his overlaird shook his head in denial. "Just finish it,” the Black Baron said through clenched teeth and grimaced as he lay down again. "We need to make it so he can't struggle like he just did,” Guy said. “One false move and you could sever a muscle or artery in his shoulder making the arm useless. If you nick the main artery, he'll bleed out." "You think I don't know that?” Jules bellowed. “You want to do this, Guyland?" "I think we should get some of the men in here to hold him down is what I want,” Guy said without batting an eyelash. “Make it where he can't jackknife as he did a few minutes ago." "Go,” Jules ordered Andrew, waving his fingers at the younger man. “Get Giles and Rupert and be quick about it." Andrew hurried out, casting Maire a worried look as he went. There was a loud, piercing whistle beyond the door, the shouting of two names and then the sound of boots crunching over the snow. "We need you to help us hold him down,” she heard Andy say. As the men tramped into the cottage, Maire felt dwarfed by their massive size. Towering over the bed, they bent over to aid Guy and Andrew in holding down the extremities of their wounded leader. She saw Yn Baase grab handfuls of her spread, twisting them as Jules retrieved the knife again. "You ready, Dek?"

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She saw him nod, watched him close his eyes in anticipation of the pain. As soon as the blade was put to him, he shrieked, twisting so violently the men were hard-pressed to restrain him. His cries of pain made the hair stand up on her arms, and she crossed them around her, trembling as he continued to bellow. The men struggled with him, begging their overlaird to pass out. His cries were so loud she had to slap her hands to her ears to filter the unnerving sound. "Wench, get the hell over here!” Jules ordered. Having to bite her tongue not to curse him Maire shook her head in denial of his order then gasped as Jules shot away from the bed, grabbed her arm in a punishing grip and dragged her to the bed. "I'm going to wind up beating your ass yet, bitch!” he thundered, whipping her around so she was flung up against the bedside table. "Watch what you do, Jules,” Guy warned in a hard voice, “or I'll beat your ass!" Jules snarled then pointed a finger at Maire. “Sit down at the top and hold his head in your lap." "I will not!” she said, eyes flashing. One moment she was breathing, the next she was struggling to draw air into her lungs for Jules had his powerful sword hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing the life from her. She scratched at his hands with her nails—drew blood—but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were pinpoints of fury, lips drawn back as he squeezed her neck between his thumb and index finger. "Do you have a death wish, bitch?” he snarled in her face, spittle hitting her cheeks. "Jules, let her go.” It was Deklyn's weak voice giving the order as he struggled to sit up. “If you hurt her...." "I could snap your gods-be-damned neck like a twig!” Jules threatened. Maire's vision was beginning to blacken, and she was seeing stars. Though she clawed at his hand until she drew a stream of blood, he kept his brutal grip on her throat until Guy stepped over to him to slam the edge of his hand on the crook of Jule's arm, breaking the hold. "Stop it! He said to let her go!” Guy told him. “We don't have time for your melodramatics!"

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"The bitch...." Maire didn't hear what else he said for she was rubbing her injured neck, struggling to drag air into her depleted lungs. Her ears were pounding, all sound dulled, her head suddenly throbbing from the lack of air. She wasn't even aware of the hard hand gripping her upper arm. She was forced onto the mattress beside the Tarryn laird and when his men lowered him, his sweat-dampened head was heavy on her lap. She looked down to see him staring up at her, guilt and pain turning his eyes dark green. "I'm sorry for what happened,” he said and the words stunned her, so she couldn't speak. “I should have stayed. I will regret not doing so on my deathbed, tarrishagh." "What?” Guy asked, brows drawn together. He stared at Maire. "Let's do this,” Jules snapped, obviously not liking the undercurrents flowing between his commander and the woman. He took up the red-hot knife, wrapping its handle in the shirt Maire had been mending to keep from burning his hand. “He's as numb as he's going to get." The other four men bent over once again, bracing their hard, calloused hands on the legs and feet, shoulders and arms of their overlaird. The moment the hot blade was applied, the injured one stiffened, his back coming off the mattress. Maire didn't have time to consider what she was doing. She put her hands to each side of his head to hold it. He was gasping for breath, his eyes wild as he tried to break free of the men restraining him. He cursed, spat like a cornered snake, but they kept him down until the point came free. Before his scream was cut off in mid-vibrato, Jules applied the poker to the gaping wound to close it. Maire had to clap her hands over her ears again for the scream that came this time was many decimals higher and louder. She heard the glass in the window break and turned wide eyes to the destruction. "Thank the gods, he passed out,” she heard Andrew say and looked back around. Jules was sweating profusely, his breathing ragged as he stared down at his overlaird. The big man was trembling violently. "Put that poker in the fire and sit your ass down in that rocker before you fucking hit the floor!” Guy ordered. Jules didn't question the command but stumbled to the rocker, the poker still clutched in his hand when he crashed to the seat. His teeth were clicking together, his eyes mirroring the guilt of having caused such agony. Guy

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stepped over to take the poker from him and when he did, Jules looked up with tears in his eyes. "I really hurt him, Guy,” he said, voice breaking. "Had to be done,” Guy reminded him in his own words. He looked around at Maire. “The water is hot enough. Will you bathe him down for us, lass? I think he needs a woman's touch just now." It was on the tip of her tongue to say no but five sets of war-hardened eyes were staring at her. She dared not deny them. She nodded and eased the unconscious man's head from her lap. Andrew went over to the fireplace to dip water into the basin for her. "You have our gratitude, wench,” the young man said as he placed the basin on the table by the bed. “His life is dear to us." She didn't reply but set out to do as she'd been asked. With the Tarryn overlaird naked except for the buckskin breechclout covering his loins, she felt her face flame as she plied the warm rag to his blood-streaked arm. It had been four years since she'd been near so much bare male skin and never had she seen such thickly corded muscles or as many battle scars. His chest was crisscrossed with fine white lines she was sure had been made by passing blades. There were two other puncture-type wounds and one puckered scar on his right thigh that looked as though it might be a burn. However, his face, despite the thickening growth of a few days beard, did not show any scarring. There was mud streaked on his chin and forehead— extending up into his thick shock of ebony hair—but no trace of the hard living that had peppered his body with the tell-tale signs of brutal battle. As she ran the rag over the mud on his forehead, she studied his face, thinking his was not the countenance of the demon people were told it was. Certainly, he did not look as though he could turn milk sour with such a handsome visage. He was just as handsome—if not more so—than the first time she'd seen him. His features were patrician, signifying his high birth. The nose was finely chiseled with just a slight tilt downward at the end to give it a boyish cast. The curve of his lips was appealing for the lower was thicker than the upper, which had a definitive bow shape to it. Long, thick eyelashes swept over cheekbones that were high, slanting down boldly to a lantern jaw and strong cleft chin. Both ears were pierced though he wore no jewelry save a medal slung around his thickly corded neck and a gold signet ring on the index finger of his right hand. His eyelids fluttered and opened for a fraction of a second—just long enough for her to see that green glow staring back at her before the lids closed again. "They are green. I thought they were black,” she said without thinking.

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"Beg pardon?” Guy asked behind her. "Nothing,” she said and forcibly looked away from that devastatingly beautiful male face, moving her rag down the Tarryn overlaird's side before ringing it out in the water. "Were you speaking of his eyes, lass?” Guy asked. “The color of his eyes?" She shrugged. “Aye,” she mumbled. “I remember them as being black." "I knew there was something wrong with his eyes,” Andy said. “They're green now!" "I was too busy to notice,” Jules grumbled. "He let her see the true color of his gaze?” one of the other two men inquired with awe. Jules flung out a dismissive hand. The rocker creaked. “It would seem so, Rupert." With all but their overlaird staring at her she straightened. Even the bastard who had taken up residence in her beloved rocker was looking back at her with something akin to puzzlement. "What of it?” she demanded, the wet rag dripping into the basin. "His eyes were black,” Guy said. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable. "Like his soul,” Jules said on a sigh as he laid his head on the back of the rocker. “Isn't that what you Vardarians say about him?" "I speak not of him at all,” she said as she set back to bathing the blood and mud from the man on the bed. “I think even less of him." Jules raised his head. “You're going to open that pretty little mouth of yours one time too many, and I'm going to snip that vicious tongue out of there for you." "She's entitled to her opinion,” Guy reminded him. "No call for her to be badmouthing the commander, though,” one of the two men whose name she didn't know spoke up. "Was she doing that?” Guy asked. “I heard no insult, Giles." "It was implied,” Giles stated. “She said she didn't think much of him."

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"She said she thought even less of him, Giles,” Guy corrected. “I take that to mean she doesn't give him any thought at all.” He locked eyes with Maire. “Isn't that right, lass?" Maire had no trouble reading between the lines. He was deftly warning her to be careful what she said around the overlaird's men. "Aye,” she said, looking away. “That is what I meant.” She moved the rag to her patient's leg. Jules snorted but kept his thoughts to himself. Guy walked to the other side of the bed and laid a hand to his commander's cheek. “He's got a fever,” he reported. "I'd be surprised as hell if he didn't,” Jules said. He pushed up wearily from the chair, coming to stand beside Maire. He, too, laid a hand to the unconscious man's face. “We're going to need a poultice for the wound.” He sighed then turned to Maire. “I don't suppose you have any medicines in this hovel of yours." "My home is not a hovel,” she snapped, her eyes flashing up at him. "Do you or do you not have....?” Jules barked. "I used charcoal paste on my husband, and it cured a knife wound to his arm,” she said. "Where's your husband now?” Guy asked. "He's dead." "Figures,” Jules snapped. “She probably killed him with one of her homemade remedies." "He was killed by a Tarryn trooper!” she hissed. "My granny used charcoal paste on me once,” Andrew said, drawing Jules’ glower to him. “It did work, Captain." "What do you need to make the poultice, lass?” Guy inquired. "Ash from the fire and boiled water,” she said, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. "Scoop out some of the ash, Andy,” Guy instructed.

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"The hod is empty,” Maire told the young man. “Just drop them in there. I'll make the paste when it's cool enough to handle.” She moved past Jules— straining not to touch the odious warrior—so she could go around to the other side of the bed. "I don't have coozies, bitch,” Jules growled at her. "Never prove it by me,” she said under her breath. She didn't think anyone had heard her but Guy winked at her, his lips twitching as he stepped back to give her room. "You've got spunk, lass,” he said. “I like that." Even though the man was a Tarryn, Maire was finding it hard to maintain a dislike of him. Both he and the young Andrew had been as pleasant to her as was possible under the circumstances. "If we aren't needed no more,” Rupert said, “we'll see to the men, Captain. I'm supposing we won't be going nowhere for a day or two." "Most likely not,” Jules groused as he raked a hand through his long brown hair. “We can't take a chance of his wound opening up on the trek to Norvus. That's what? Thirty miles away?" "Closer to forty,” Guy replied. “Bivouac under the trees behind the cottage. That will give us some shelter from the snow." "Aye, Captain,” Rupert said with a half-hearted salute. "You're a captain, as well?” Maire asked, curious about Guy's rank. "Co-captain with that scowling jackanapes over there,” Guy replied. “He's in charge of infantry, and I handle the cavalry units.” He folded his arms over his broad chest. “When Dek was wounded, we struck out for the nearest settlement.” He cocked a shoulder. “All of us together." "To protect our overlaird,” Andrew said “If I scare us up some game, do you think you could make a good rich broth for the commander, wench?" "If you find any game around here, you're welcome to try to bag it,” she said with a pursing of her lips. “Your warriors have all but depleted the countryside of anything that flies, hops, or runs. It wouldn't surprise me if even the slithering things had been harvested." "What have you been living off, then?” Guy questioned then turned his gaze to the pot of soup of which she'd been so protective. “Just root vegetables?"

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"And what I can barter from the village,” she said. She had finished washing the injured man's arms and legs and was now concentrating on cleaning the blood around the wound in his chest, carefully not to touch the charred flesh where it'd been cauterized. "You've no kin to see to you?” the warrior asked her. "They're all gone, now, except for my sister-in-law, and I rarely see her,” she said, unable to control the tremor to her bottom lip. “I make do taking in mending, bartering for what little I need. There's not much left in the city, so we all work together to survive." "And I suppose that's our fault?” Jules snapped. "Who else's fault would it be?” she countered. “You are the invaders. You are the ones destroying everything in your path as you pass!" "Stop baiting her, Jules. She has ample reason to hate me." Maire jumped as her patient spoke. She paused in cleaning the blood from his abdomen to look up into his eyes. There was a febrile glow in them that did not bode well for the man surviving. "You want some water?” Guy asked, trading places with Maire. "Aye. A lake of it,” was the answer. "I'll get it,” Andrew said and went to the pitcher to pour a cup. "No!” Maire said. “Not straight from there. The water needs to be boiled first before you give it to him to drink." "That water is hot!” Jules said. "Then take a pan out and gather snow to cool it,” she argued. “Bring it in and put the cup in it until it cools. You give him unsterile well water you might as well go dig his grave while you're at it!" "She has a point,” Guy told him. Andrew didn't question her statement. He opened the door and went outside. "At least two of you have some sense,” she mumbled. "That's debatable, tarrishagh” Deklyn said.

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She glanced at him—avoiding his eyes—then away, lifting the pan of bloody water from the table. "Here, let me have that,” Guy said, taking it from her. He went to the door just as Andrew opened it again. "Ladle two cups of water from the pot, Andy,” Maire said. “Bring one to me so I can make the poultices.” She snatched up a few clean rags from the stack she'd first handed Jules as well as the scissors. "Soon as I do this, I'll go to look for that game,” Andrew said to her as he went about the task she'd set for him. "Before you do that I need you to send one of your men to the next cottage south,” she said. “Tell him to inform the old lady who lives there that I need a dozen eggs if she has them.” She shook her finger at him. “Don't you be tempted to wring the neck of one of her setters. All she has to barter with is the eggs her hens lay. Pay her well for those eggs and ask if she has any bloodwort root. That will be needed to bring his fever down, too. Best not let her know who it is I'm helping here else she might send poison instead of bloodwort." "Where do you get off giving orders to my men?” Jules demanded. "Keep quiet, Jules,” Guy said. “She's trying to help." "I'll go myself. I know what bloodwort looks like and smells like,” Andy said and started for the door. While Maire made the poultices for the overlaird's wound, Guy took a cup of cooled water to him, braced his head and helped him to drink. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the look Guy exchanged with Jules. From their worried expressions, she knew their patient's fever was soaring. When he began mumbling incoherently, she knew that was, indeed, the case. "Wench, where's those poultices?” Jules grated. She brought the rags she'd cut into small squares and the charcoal paste to the bed. "Give her room,” Guy suggested and Jules reluctantly stepped aside. As she placed the poultice, her patient passed out again. Seemingly even the minute pressure of the cloth on his wound caused such pain it pushed him over the edge. Once the poultices were in place, she took advantage of the men talking in low voices on the other side of the room to take a seat in her rocker. She

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was tired, had a nasty headache, and was worried about her future. Once the warriors left and provided their leader didn't succumb to his injuries, perhaps they'd leave her untouched. So far they hadn't made any ravaging overtones toward her, and she prayed it stayed that way. Even so, after they left was another matter. As though Guy had intercepted her thoughts, he came over to hunker down in front of her. "What will happen to you when we leave?” he asked. She lifted her chin. “They'll either hang me for aiding and abetting the enemy, or else they'll shun me. Either way, my life here is over,” she answered. "So they shun you,” Jules said with a snort. “So what?" "They'll not let her barter for food,” Guy said gently. He looked to her sewing box where a shirt lay folded on top. “There will be no more taking in mending." "No,” she said, lips trembling. Her gaze fell to the shirt she'd been mending that was now scorched from the heat of the poker's handle. “There will be no more taking in mending." "So leave the bitch a bag of coins,” Jules stated. "Won't do her much good if they won't take the coins,” Guy reminded him. “I'm sure by now the entire town of Norvus knows we're here. They'll know she helped us whether that help was consensual or not." "Then what do you suggest, Guyland?” Jules demanded. Guy drew in a long breath then let it out slowly, his gaze fused with Maire's. “We've no choice but to take her with us when we leave." "To Tarryn?” she asked, eyes wide in disbelief. "We'll not let you starve here, lass, for what you've done for Dek. I'll not hear of it and neither would he.” He fused his gaze with hers. “He wouldn't allow us to leave you, anyway, and I believe you know why." Jules snorted as though he wanted to make sure she knew he wasn't included in that sentiment. "But what would I do there?” she asked, fearful of his answer. "I'm sure we can find work for you."

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"If she can spread her legs, she'll have all the coin she'll need,” Jules scoffed. Guy shot to his feet, lashing out to grab his fellow captain by the neck. “If you don't stop with your fucking insults, you'll be the one without a tongue, Yn Baase! Do I make myself clear?" Maire blinked. The odious bastard was kin to the infamous overlaird? No wonder he took such liberties. Her fingers curled around the rocker's arms for the man in question shot her a murderous look before knocking Guy's hands away. "You want her, take her, Guyland, and stop pussyfooting around about it!” Jules sneered. “This defending the chit is growing wearisome." "Get out!” Guy ordered. “Take a walk before I break your nose again!" Jules cursed under his breath but took the other man's advice, slamming the door rudely behind his exit. "He's cousin to the Baron?” she asked, knowing the overlaird was an only child. "Unfortunately so and even more unfortunately, he's my twin brother,” he answered. "But you look nothing alike!” she protested. “You are nothing alike!" "Thank the gods for small favors, eh?” Guy said as he plopped down on the corner of the hearth. “We're fraternal twins and I had the dubious distinction of being born two minutes before him. He's never forgiven me for it." Maire made a clucking sound. “As though you had any say in the matter." Guy grinned. “He thinks I pushed him aside to make it out of our blessed mother's womb first,” he said with a chuckle. “That's how asinine some of his thinking can be. The man's retarded at the best of times." "Yet you defer to him,” she said, beginning to like this warrior despite who he was. Guy shrugged. “That's because he's infantry and I'm cavalry. In the grand scheme of things, the bastard outranks me.” He laced his hands together between his spread knees and hunched over, strain showing at the corners of his eyes, his shoulders slumping. “He never lets me forget it, either."

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"Are you hungry, Captain?” she asked. “The soup isn't much, but it is hearty and has a good flavor." "I would love a bowl, lass. I've a wicked headache from not having eaten all day,” he said. “And the name is Guy." She blushed and pushed up from the chair, motioning him to remain seated, pleased his mother had taught him gentlemanly manners. "I'll heat a ladle of the soup over the fire,” she told him as she plucked the ladle from the pot of boiling water, careful to take up the handle with the tail of her apron. “There's bread but it's stale." "Unless it's wearing a fuzzy green coat, I'll still eat it. I've had much worse, believe me. Those slithery things you spoke of are still squirming around in my belly,” he replied. “Plunge that bread in the soup and it's as good as fresh anyway." "My way of thinking as well,” she agreed as she came back with the ladle of soup, her wooden bowl and spoon, and the small loaf of bread. He surprised her again by taking the ladle from her hands. "You sit. I can do this,” he said. “I imagine we'll all be up and about all night with him." "When Andrew returns with the eggs, I'll soak some more rags in egg whites, place them on the soles of his feet then put his socks back on." Guy cocked his head to one side. “Egg whites? What does that do?" "They draw the fever down from the brain,” she says. “I know it sounds strange, but it truly works. Sliced onions, too, but I don't imagine he'd like the smell." "Neither would I,” Guy said. "A tea made from the root of the bloodwort will also help in lowering his temperature,” she told him. They fell silent as he ate the soup, complimenting her on the taste. He drained the bowl, sopping the last morsel of it up with the bread. When asked if he wanted more, he declined, telling her to save it for Andrew and Jules. "Will it matter if I add some purgative to his bowl?” she asked of Jules. "I'd just as soon you not, lass,” he said, lips twitching. “I've no reason to want to smell his farts all night. They can be deadly."

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"Don't!" The shout made them both jump. Their attention went to the bed where the wounded overlaird was flailing, his head whipping from side to side. "He'll open his wound if that keeps up,” Guy snapped. “Call Jules and tell him to bring Giles and Rupert with him." Maire hastened to do as he bid although Jules’ name on her tongue tasted bitter and burned her mouth. The men came running so it was a good thing she had once more retreated to the wall beside her kitchen table. "He's starting to hallucinate,” Guy told the men. "Well, you had to know that would happen,” Jules asserted. For the next hour, Maire watched the four men struggling once again with their overlaird. He was calling out for someone named Reece, groaning unmercifully from the pain shifting through his sweat-slick body. No one asked her to help this time as they bathed him in cold water that had been brought in from the well, careful not to get any on the poultices she'd made. "Why the hell doesn't he pass out again?” Jules complained. "What have you done?” Deklyn yelled. “Reese! Leave her be!" Guy looked around. “Maire, his fever is raging. Do you think it would help if we filled the tub and laid him in it?” When she didn't answer, he called her name again. Maire shook herself, unable to look away from the delirious warrior for she had suddenly remembered the name of the man who had brutalized her all those years before. It was his name—Reece—the Black Baron was speaking. That single name had brought all the memories back into clarity. "Lass?” Guy asked. “Would it help?" She tore her gaze from Deklyn. “It most likely wouldn't hurt,” she said. “Not the well, water, though. The snow perhaps?" "Aye, the snow,” Guy said and swung his head toward Rupert. “Take the basin and start filling the tub with clean snow." "I'll help him,” Giles said. "No, you stay to help us keep him down,” Jules argued.

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"Let him go. I'll help,” Maire said, coming to stand beside Guy. She took Rupert's place pressing Deklyn's legs to the mattress. "Reese, stop. Don't hurt her!” The sound was plaintive and so filled with grief it tore at her heart. "He's referring to a man who used to be his best friend, Lord Reese Fontyne” Guy replied. “He died at the Battle of Montrose three years back." Maire had hoped to never hear that vile name again. Now, tonight she'd heard it twice. Each time it cut into her heart with the force of a sharp blade. She was glad the possessor of that name had met his fate. She only hoped it had been a gruesome one. "Used to be his friend?” she asked. Guy lifted one shoulder. “Something happened between them. Whatever it was, Dek never forgave him. They were estranged for over seven years before Reese died. On his death bed, he asked forgiveness for whatever caused the rift between them but Dek would not give it.” He gave her a long, steady look. “I think you might well know what happened between them, don't you?" "Aye,” she said quietly. "He searched for you that night,” Guy said, “and many a day and night afterward." She looked at the Baron, her gaze softening. Perhaps he did feel guilt over what had happened and—in his way—had sought justice for her. That his friendship with the other man had ended that night made her look at Deklyn Yn Baase in a different light. As Giles and Rupert tracked in time and again with basins and buckets of snow, the cold air swept through the small room. A man she hadn't seen before brought in cords of wood for the fire. When Andrew returned, he not only had the eggs and bloodwort Maire had sent him to fetch but a brace of hares. "I'll skin these for you, wench,” the young man said. “Do you have a pan I can put them in?" Maire told him there were pans in the root cellar, pointing to a section of floor under the kitchen table. “Be careful,” she warned. “The ceiling is low." "I wondered where you kept your vittles,” Guy commented. "I'm more curious where she keeps the goat,” Jules said.

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Maire looked across the bed at him. “Who says I have a goat?" "Shite littering the little pen out back. I could smell it even through the snow,” Jules said with a smirk. “Not to mention the bale of straw, the pan of frozen water, and the lean-to with the old blanket." "And the fresh scratches on your hands that says you were in the brambles recently,” Andy observed. She sniffed. “There was a goat,” she said. "Were you afraid we'd butcher him, Maire?” Guy inquired and when she didn't reply he nudged her playfully with his hip. “Tarryns are prohibited by religious tenet to eat sheep, goats, or pigs." "Truly?” she asked. "Would I lie to you, lass?” he asked. She shrugged. “I don't know you well enough to say whether you would or not." "Something tells me you're going to get to know him very well,” Jules mumbled. "It would suit me just fine if that was the case,” Guy said softly. His gaze roamed gently over Maire. Maire's cheeks flamed and she ducked her head. The last thing she'd ever considered had been any man appearing to court her. With the looks Guy was sending her way it seemed he might have thoughts along that line. "Tub's filled,” Rupert reported. She looked away as Jules removed the breechclout from his patient. She had no desire to see the man completely naked. Thankfully, he was unconscious again as they lifted him from the bloody mattress and into the tub, placing him gently in the soft snow. His body was so fiercely radiating heat the snow began to melt immediately. "By the gods he's burning up!” Giles said. "I'll brew the bloodwort root,” Maire told them. “That should help." "Get those bloody covers off the bed,” Jules ordered. “Wench, where are your other linens?"

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"In the basket there by the door,” she said. “I haven't had time to iron them yet." Jules sighed like a man being sorely tested and ordered Andrew to fetch some blankets from the baggage train. As the men worked to try to bring down their commander's high fever, Maire made the egg white poultices and brewed a strong tea from the bloodwort root. While the tea steeped, she set about putting together a large pot of stew for the rabbits. By the time Andrew brought the cleaned and washed animals to her, the pot was already hanging on the fireplace crane. She added the chunks of meat to the pot then turned to see if the Baron was awake again. Seeing he was, she brought a cup of the bitter tea to the tub. "He needs to drink it all,” she said, deliberately keeping her gaze from lowering to his naked hips. "How do we know you didn't put poison in the cup?” Jules snapped. "You don't,” she said, chin up. “But the poison would be for you, not him!" "Give me the cup, lass,” Guy told her with a chuckle. "I like tea,” she heard their overlaird mumble. "I doubt you're going to like this, but you need to drink it. All of it, Dek,” Guy said, hunkering down so he could place the rim of the cup to his commander's lips. Maire moved back to her rocker and sat. She was tired, sleepy and with all the confusion and drama of the day, her nerves were on edge. With her head resting on the rocker's tall back, she rocked gently as Guy coaxed the Baron to drain the cup. His grimace of disgust at the taste almost made her smile. She remained where she was when they finally lifted him out of what was now lukewarm water and carried him back to the bed, drying him off when they laid him down on the clean sheets that had been pulled over the wool blankets Andrew had fetched. "I'll see to the poultices. Tell me what to do, lass,” Guy said. "The rags with the egg whites are on the table,” she told Guy. “You need to plaster them to the soles of his feet then put his socks on him." "Old witchery shite,” Jules stated. "What does it matter if it works?” Guy inquired. He made for the table and the fever poultices.

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Two hours later—their bellies less empty after a small bowl of the rabbit stew—Giles, Rupert and Andrew left, making for the tent they shared with a fourth man. The snow was coming down so hard it was hard to see two feet beyond the door. Only the glow from the campfires lit the night. After finishing his bowl of stew, Jules settled down on the floor with his back against the wall, knees drawn up and wrists resting upon them and tried to doze. Having no desire for the stew, Guy sat on the hearth near Maire who had fallen asleep, and whittled on a figurine he had taken from his pocket, the wood shavings falling into an old washbasin he'd discovered in the root cellar. The Baron alternated between muttering to himself and snoring lightly. His fever was down a bit when Guy checked him around midnight. Beginning to nod off himself, Guy finally stretched out between the rocker and the bed and tried to get comfortable on the hard, cold floor.

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Chapter Three

Just before the clock struck two, Deklyn Yn Baase opened his eyes and stared at the rough ceiling. Every bone in his body hurt. Every muscle, every inch of sinew ached with nearly intolerable agony. His head was a throbbing band of tight pressure and his chest felt as though someone had laid hot coals upon it. He tasted iron in his mouth and realized he had a high fever as sweat trickled down his temples. "Fool,” he muttered as memory came rushing back. “You were a gods-bedamned fool, Yn Baase." And now he was paying the price for having been so. Too caught up with meeting head on the horseman bearing down on him during the battle, he had failed to see the danger of the archer whose crossbow was aimed right at him. Not until he felt the sharp explosion of pain in his shoulder did he realize his inattention had most likely cost him his life as he fell to the ground. Luckily, Guy had pulled him out of the way of the speeding stallion only seconds before the Vardarian guardsman came thundering past. "Wounded,” he mumbled. He tried to move his right arm, but it hurt too much. “I'm fucking wounded." He remembered being slung onto Jules’ horse, jostled into oblivion as his cousin held him tightly and raced to get him to a Healer. The deafening tramp of hoof beats behind them told him his entire troop was following. Had they won the battle? Been defeated? He tried to ask but no words would come from his mouth, and he doubted he could be heard over the rush of wind anyway. "You're not going to die on me, Dek,” Jules had yelled. “I won't allow it!" He remembered Guy yelling, the horse changing course, Jules lowering him into waiting arms, the pain exploding to drive him into darkness. When he woke, there was a smell of wood burning, a lumpy—but thankfully stationery—surface under his back. He'd heard a feminine voice and it drove through him like an iron spike. They'd lifted him and he'd looked into eyes the color of a summer's sky. It was the face of the woman he'd dreamt of every night for the past ten years.

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It took a bit of effort, but he turned his head toward heat radiating on the right side of his body. He caught a glimpse of leaping flame before his gaze settled on a young woman sitting slumped in a rocker beside him. "Tarrishagh,” he called softly, and she stirred, turning her face toward him though she slept on. "How do you feel?" Jules’ face swam into view a second before Guy's joined it. "Pallet,” he whispered. "What?” Jules asked. He glanced at Guy. “What did he say?" Guy shrugged. “I don't know.” He leaned closer. “What do you need, Dek?" "Pallet,” Deklyn repeated. His throat felt raw, his words grating from his battered body. “For her. A pallet for my lady." Maire had awakened as soon as the horrid Jules bumped into her leg to get to the bed. Her view of the Baron was blocked by Guy's brawny body but she heard his words clearly enough. "There's no need,” she said. "Pallet,” Deklyn said again, this time in a firmer voice. "Consider it done,” Guy said. He turned and pushed past Jules to head for the door. "I am fine, Guy. Really, I am,” she called out to him, but he was already out the door. She switched her gaze to the bed. The injured man was looking straight at her and the force of that mesmerizing green gaze made her stomach clench. "Maire, isn't it?” he asked. His Tarryn brogue was thick as the ‘r’ rolled off his tongue. "Aye,” she said and got out of the rocker. She needed to put distance between her and that devastating stare. “Would you like some broth?" "Not really,” the Baron answered. “My head still hurts.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Your eyes are green now,” Jules said with a trace of wonder.

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"I figured as much,” Deklyn replied. "She's the one you've been searching for?” The question was asked with rancor. "She is." "Shite,” Jules said with a snort then seemed to shake off his frustration. “What the hell do you know? You've also got a terrible fever. You want some water?" "Aye." "I'll go out and get some snow." "Take your time,” Deklyn said and the tone of his voice made it more an order than a suggestion. When they were alone, Maire would not look at him. Her face was turned toward the fire, her hands like vises on the rocking chair's arms. "Do you hate me so much you can't bear to look at me?” he asked gently. “If you do, I understand. I have hated myself every day for the last ten years." She stiffened but did not look around. “You took what you wanted,” she said. “Why should you hate yourself?" "I asked if you wanted me,” he reminded her. She slowly turned her head to stare at him. “Aye, that you did, milord. You asked an inexperienced girl about something of which she had absolutely no idea." His face tinged with color. “I thought you were a loose woman. They were all over the streets of Ghraih,” he defended his actions. “I thought you were only pretending to be what I was sure you weren't because I was a Tarryn." "Did it matter?” she grated. "Aye, it did,” he replied. “I should have checked for a maidenhead. If finding out you had been a virgin hadn't thrown me off kilter so badly, I would not have left you alone. I swear it on my mother's grave." Maire sighed deeply and looked away from him again. “It makes no difference now. The damage was done long ago. You ruined me and your friend nearly killed me."

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He flinched. “And he paid for that crime. If he had not been of noble birth, I would have seen him hanged for what he did to you. As it was, all I could do was have him demoted in rank and then turn my back on him." "I'm sure that was a very exacting punishment,” she sneered. "More than you know,” he stated. She shook her head. “As I said, it makes no difference now." "Where did you go?” he asked. “I searched the rest of the night trying to find you. I sent my men everywhere, but they learned nothing." "Two monks found me,” she said. “They took me to the monastery.” She looked down at her hands. “I was in bad shape." He flinched, her words causing his eyes to narrow with what appeared to be remorse. “The monastery,” he repeated. “That was the last place I would have thought to look." "The brothers believed as much,” she said, “and at any rate, should your troopers have come to the gate, they would have been turned away." "Had I known you were behind those gates, I would have knocked them down to get to you." She turned back to face him. “Why?" "Because I wanted to beg your forgiveness for what I allowed to happen,” he said. “I wanted to take you back to Tarryn with me." His words stunned her. “For what purpose?" It was his turn to look away. “You would not believe me if I told you." "Try me." He smiled at her brusque order. No woman other than his wife would dare demand he explain himself to her. He took a deep breath, exhaled then looked at her. "The moment I walked out of that store room, I knew,” he said. “I refused to admit it. I fought it every step of the way. I went to the rendezvous point and paced like a caged tiger—every drop of liquor in my system quickly evaporating until I was stone cold sober. The more I fought it, the deeper it sank its hooks into me. I stumbled over a broken mirror. I was terrified to pick it up but when I did, I saw my eyes had changed. Even as I stared at

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them, they changed back again but that was the telling point. I had to go back. I had to find you. I had to make sure." Maire's forehead creased. “I don't know what you're talking about." "Like my mother before me I am sheekagh,” he said. “A very powerful mind reader.” He scowled. “When I'm not three sheets to the wind and my abilities dulled by the drink. If I hadn't been intoxicated that night, I would have picked up on what Reese intended." "I would prefer we not mention him again,” she said. Once more, that name cut through her. He caught the thought and nodded. “I'll never say his name again in your hearing." The door opened and Jules started in. "Out!” Deklyn snapped. “She'll let you know when you can come back." "But Guy has the blankets for her...." "Get out, Jules!” The order allowed no argument and the door closed quickly. "That man has the manners of a swine herder,” she commented. "My sentiments exactly,” he mumbled. "Go on with your story,” she said, reaching for the mending by her chair to occupy her hands for she realized they were shaking. “What does being a mind reader have to do with that evening and why should your eyes have changed color?" "I feel things normal people cannot. I sense things." "I see,” she said although she truly didn't. "Do you know what the word Cochianglt means in the Tarryn tongue?” he asked. She shook her head as she concentrated on making tiny, almost-invisible stitches in the shirt's tear. "It means joined,” he said. Her brows drew together. “I thought that was Jovnal."

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"No, Jovnal means Joining, the act of marrying. Cochianglt is different. You can wed a mate but that doesn't mean he or she is your true bond-mate, your Cochianglt. A Cochianglt is the other half of you, the one who completes your being. I am married to Ynez, but she is not my Cochianglt.” He released another long breath. “You are." Maire's head came up and she turned a startled face to him. “Excuse me?" "I realized it, as soon as I was only a few feet from the door of that storage room,” he said. “I felt the pull, the bond between us, but I refused to accept it. I thought you were a woman of easy morals, unworthy of the heir of the WindWarrior clan. I thought the pull would go away. It never has." She narrowed her eyes at him. “I may not have been of noble birth, Baron Yn Baase, but I was not a whore!" "Nor did I call you one,” he said. "You might as well have,” she said. “Isn't that what a woman of loose morals is?" "I'm sorry I took you for a woman like that, but at the time I was drunk and.... “He had the grace to look ashamed of what he'd thought. “Just one more thing to beg you to forgive." Maire tore her gaze from his and returned it to the garment in her lap. “If it's forgiveness you seek, I give it, and we'll let it go at that." He was silent for a moment and when he spoke, she heard the weariness in his voice. “It's a bit more complicated than that." "I don't see that it is,” she said, aware her heart was beating much too fast and much harder than it should. “I have said I forgive you. That should be that." "No, it isn't." She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why not?" "Because now that I've found you again, I won't allow you to get away. I can't. You know my eyes changed color and this time they'll stay green." She scowled. “You keep saying that. What difference does it make what color they are?” She lowered the sewing to her lap. “And how is it even possible that they could change?" He half-smiled at her exasperated tone. “When a male sheekagh finds his true bond-mate, his eye color changes from black to green. Black is a magic

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color. It is the color of solitude. Green is a power color. It is the color of beginnings, of togetherness. It signifies our lives together are just beginning." Her hands stilled. She lifted her head to stare across the room. “And that means what exactly?” she asked in a small voice. "When we leave, you will leave with us,” he stated. "Guy said as much." "It wasn't Guy's decision to make,” he snapped, and she could hear a tinge of jealousy in his tone. "It matters not whose decision it was. My life here is over. Because I gave you aid, the villagers would shun me or worse,” she said, lowering her eyes to the shirt once more, taking a small stitch. “Guy said he would find work for me in Tarryn." "You'll not work in Tarryn,” he told her and when she looked at him with eyebrows elevated, he shook his head. “I'll provide whatever you need—a house, clothing, food, an allowance." Her lovely face turned hard. “And just what will your lady wife think of that, milord?" "Ynez doesn't give a gods-be-damned warthog's ass what I do, tarrishagh,” he replied. “Our marriage is in name only. Once a cycle I go to her bed to do my duty, but I don't enjoy it and neither does she. It is a chore, an obligation that must be fulfilled. In the eight years since our Jovnal, she's not conceived, and it doesn't appear she ever will. If after ten years there has been no heir, I can set her aside and take another wife. She's looking forward to that tenth year as eagerly as I. She knows she'll be provided for the rest of her life. Let her irritate the hell out of some other man from that day forward. I don't care. I will be rid of her." "If you did not love her, why did you marry her?” she asked. "I wasn't given a say in the matter,” he answered. “Our marriage was contracted between our parents when she and I were little more than babes in swaddling. It has always been so—the melding of two great houses for political purposes." She had heard of such things with the nobility. It must be a frustrating way to live one's life, she thought. "What of you?” he asked. “You married." "I did and he was a good man. Ours was a happy Joining."

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Apparently, that wasn't what he wanted to hear for a muscle flexed in his clenched jaw. “Where did you meet him?” he asked. Maire looked into his glowing green eyes and realized the man was jealous. He wasn't even trying to hide his feelings from her. Though his face was pale from blood loss, two bright red fever patches stained his cheeks. He was looking at her with such intensity it was as though he had a hand to her shoulder. "I was a nurse's assistant at the field hospital in Ghraih,” she said. “He was a patient I helped nurse back to health." "Something you seem good at doing,” he commented dryly. "We became close during his stay and when he was being discharged, he asked me to marry him.” Her voice lowered. “He knew what had happened to me and did not hold it against me as most men would have." Deklyn winced at the reminder. “I looked for you, Maire. As the gods are my witness, I searched everywhere for you,” he reminded her. “For weeks. I delayed my troops leaving Ghraih in the hopes of finding you. Why would those monks keep you hidden from me?" She shot him a surprised look. “Don't you think they knew who it was that was searching for me, milord? I am sure they thought you wanted to silence me. For the heir to the throne of Drogh-gheay to be searching for a lowly goat herder's daughter for any purpose other than to make sure she did not tell of the ravishment his...." "I did not ravish you,” he interrupted. “I asked you if you wanted me." "Call it what you will,” she said, chin up. “I did not venture into that alley on my own steam. I was pulled there. I did not willingly accompany you into that storeroom. You carried me into it. Aye, I said I wanted you, but it was coercion pure and simple. You were an experienced man, and I was an untried maiden. I had no idea such pleasure could be found in the arms of a man. No one had ever told me!" His eyebrows shot up into the tousled hair hanging over his forehead. “Your mother did not tell you the facts of life? I find that hard to believe— especially with you working in a hospital!" "Such things are not discussed in a field hospital, milord,” she said. “We tend sick, wounded, and dying warriors. We do not discuss their sexual lives!" "But your mother...."

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"Died when I was but two years of age and my father would never, never have brought up a subject such as what happens between a man and woman! He had a hard enough time explaining about my menstrual cycle when it began. I was sure I was bleeding to death and didn't understand what I'd done to cause it. He said it was a curse bestowed by the gods upon all women for having been born such. As for relaying the facts of life, he did not." "Didn't you have female relatives, friends who discussed such things?" She waved a dismissive hand. “I knew the rudiments of sex, aye, from watching the goats but the feelings?” Her eyes bored into his. “How was I to know of the feelings? How was I to know of the pleasure a man's hands and body could wreak?” She blushed. “That you gave me." "I know that feeling well. It was a pleasure I've never experienced with any other woman,” he admitted. She gave him a look that said she did not believe him. "Not like I had that night with you,” he clarified. He tried to lift a hand to emphasize his words, but he was too weak and pain shown on his sweat-slick face. “My hand to the gods could I raise it.” When still she looked unconvinced, he tried to scoot up in the bed, speaking as he did. “Tarrishagh, the passion between bond-mates is...." She saw pure agony whip across his suddenly very pale face. In horror, she watched the wound in his shoulder open and blood begin to trickle from it. "No!” she said, tossing the sewing aside and springing to her feet. Grabbing a rag, she pressed it to the wound. "Oops,” she heard him mumble. "Foolish man,” she said. “Now look what you've done!” Blood was quickly soaking the cloth. She leaned over him, plucked his left hand from the bed and slapped it over the injury. “Hold this!” Before he could reply, she was running to the door, jerking it open and calling for Jules. Jules, Guy and Andrew came tearing into the room, the men coming up short as they saw the blood. "What did you do?” Jules snarled at her, shoving her to the side in his haste to get to the bed. Maire stumbled into the wall. "She did nothing. I did it,” Deklyn said. His jaws were clamped together, and he was shivering.

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"He tried to sit up,” Maire told Guy. “He broke open the wound." "Obviously!” Jules hissed. He moved Deklyn's hand from over the cloth and peeled the material away, wincing when he saw the gaping flesh. “This has to be sewn." "I will do it,” Maire said. “Your hands are too big." "Can't wait to hurt him, can you?” Jules countered. Maire's limit on just how much she could take had been reached. She came to stand toe to toe with the much larger man—her head barely reaching beneath his jutting chin. If he hit her, so be it, but she had cowered before him for the last time. She shook a finger in his surprised face. "Leave off, Jules Yn Baase!” she berated him. “I have lost my patience with you this night! One more word out of your nasty mouth and I promise you that you will regret it!" "Good for you, lass,” Guy said, chuckling. He glanced at Deklyn and saw his overlaird grinning despite teeth clamped tightly together. "Now, move!” she ordered, pushing him roughly aside as she bent to retrieve her sewing basket. She looked around. “Andy, was there any liquor left?" "A bit,” Andrew replied. "Pour some in a saucer to soak this length of silk thread in it,” she said, unrolling a long length of thread then nipping it with her teeth to break it. She thrust the thread expertly through the eye of a needle, tied the ends together in a quick knot, then handed it to him. "Jules, pour out that basin of water and get some more from the pot. I've only one clean rag left so I suggest you take the used ones, wash them then drop them in the pot to boil before we use them again." Guy was standing at the foot of the bed with his arms folded over his chest, his left eyebrow crooked with amusement. When her gaze fell on him, the smile slipped from his face. He cleared his throat. “What can I do, lass?” he questioned. "Clean the Baron's wound when Jules moves his lard-ass to do as I told him,” she snapped. “I need a few cups of that hot water before it is befouled to make more tea and to have some on hand for you to cool with the snow. Andrew? I need more water from the well." "Aye, milady!” Andrew replied.

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"Before you go was there any tenerse left?" "A tad." "Give it to him." Andrew hastened to do her bidding despite the heavy scowl on his commander's face. "That stuff tastes like bull piss,” Deklyn stated. "I thought it tasted like moldy shite,” she said and when he looked up at her with surprise, she shrugged. “Doesn't matter what it tastes like. You'll drink it all this time." With the men doing as she said, Maire prepared another infusion of bloodwort root tea and set it aside to cool before she gathered what she would need to suture Deklyn's wound. She was surprised her hands were no longer shaking, and that she had had the nerve to dare speak so to the Tarryn warriors. Ordering them about felt good, though, and she was unaware there was a slight smile on her face as she came to the bed. "Authority suits you, Maire,” Deklyn said, rolling the r. "I want you to lie still while I sew you,” she says. “Use some of that infamous Black Baron bravado." "I am yours to command, tarrishagh,” he said, smiling at her. For some reason the tenerse had done more than numb his tongue this time. His entire body felt as though it was floating a foot above the bed, and he was wrapped in a nice downy comforter. "His fever doesn't seem as high,” Guy commented. "We'll change the poultices on his feet when I finish here,” she said, taking the chimney from the oil lamp on the bedside table. “Jules, bring me the saucer with the needle." Though he mumbled dire threats in his native language, the warrior brought the saucer to her and stood rather meekly holding it as she plucked the needle from the liquor then ran it over the flame of the lamp. "Now you lie still, remember?” she asked Deklyn. "I'll be a good little boy,” Deklyn mumbled. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open. "It'll be the first time, then,” Jules observed.

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The Baron flinched each time she stuck the needle through his hot flesh, but he didn't make a sound. He was looking up at her with such a dreamy, childish expression it made her want to laugh. "You are so pretty, Maire,” he said, words slurring. “Always were." She worked quickly to whip the stitches together, careful to close the flesh just tightly enough for it to fuse together without overlapping and to allow the wound to seep if there was need. "You're very good at that,” Jules begrudgingly complimented her. “I'd never have been able to do as well." "I've had much practice,” she said, concentrating on her work. "Practice makes perfect,” Deklyn asserted then promptly fell asleep. "The tenerse seems to have had a better effect on him this time ‘round,” Guy said to no one in particular. "The bloodwort helped,” Jules told him. He gave Maire a speculative look. “But I think it was the lady's expertise in the matter that saw him through it. I'd have given odds he would fidget like a whore in church while she was closing that hole, but he barely moved." "Aye, well, she told him not to,” Guy reminded him. “A man always does what his lady says." Maire snorted, casting him a sardonic look. “I'll put another poultice on the wound,” Maire said, cutting the thread after she'd made the last stitch. She dropped the remaining thread and its needle into the bowl Jules was still holding. “You can set that down, now, Jules." He nodded. Guy followed Maire over to the kitchen work table. “I notice you did not correct me, lass." She didn't respond, but began cracking eggs to filter the whites for the poultices. "When I said you were his lady,” he clarified and when she still made no comment to his remark, he turned to lean his hip on the edge of the table, observing her as she worked. “Jules told me Dek said you were the one." "So I'm told,” she said, mouth tight.

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"He's dreamt of you every night since I can remember,” he told her. “In every village or town we stop, he has the women gathered while he looks for you." She stopped, staring out the window at the snow, not glancing his way. “I always heard he was searching for bed partners when he did that.” She resumed her work. “Women to ravish." "He was searching for you,” Guy said. At her quick glance, he shrugged. “Aye, he took some of the pretty ones as bed partners if they were willing but only if they were willing. What man wouldn't? After all, he is still a man despite Ynez telling him he's a poor excuse for one." "I take it there is no love lost between them,” she said. "Never has been; never will be. Even when they were children they hated one another. Not a good start for a marriage." She wiped her sticky hands on a towel. “Are you married, Guy?" "By the gods, no!” he said, horrified at the suggestion. “A wife is the last thing this warrior needs!" She laughed at his expression then yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. “I'm sorry, but this is late for me,” she apologized. "I'll put the poultices on for you. Take the pallet I spread. You need to rest. I'll wake you if we need your help again." With longing, she looked over at the pallet he had spread to the left of the hearth. "Go on,” he said. “I've got this covered." She yawned again then nodded tiredly. “I believe I will.” She started toward the pallet then turned to look at him. “You'll call me if he needs me?" "Aye, lass,” Guy replied. “I will call you." After an evaluating look at her sleeping patient, she knelt down on the pallet, adjusted the pillow and rough wool blanket then crawled into its warmth. Guy had piled enough blankets on the floor that she barely felt the hardness of the wood or the cold air wafting up through the cracks in the boards. Turning to her side, she was asleep before her head had settled into the pillow.

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Chapter Four

Deklyn drifted for a bit on the warm current of air beneath him without a thought in his mind. He was comfortable where he was—wherever he was— and disinclined to leave. However, as it is with his kind, his psychic senses were alerted the moment the other part of his soul entered the dream world with him, and he slowly opened his eyes and turned his head to see her floating close enough to reach out and touch. "Tarrishagh?” he whispered and smiled when her eyelids fluttered open. Maire drew a deep breath of air into her lungs then sighed. “Where are we?" "My people call it cheer ny h-oie,” he answered. “Dreamland." "How can we be here together?” she asked although for years he had been in all her dreams—and nightmares, alike. "Because we are two halves of the same whole,” he said. “Joined at last.” He stretched out his hand to take hers, sitting up as if there was no wound in his chest. "Be careful!” she cautioned, sitting up with him as they floated through a beautiful starry night where twinkling lights pulsed in the black satin of the sky. "Here, I have no injury,” he said. “See?" She leaned closer to examine his chest, her fingers tensing around his. “Aye, I do see." Content to hold hands and move slowly through the midnight heavens, they were soon side by side, her head resting against his shoulders, their fingers entwined between them. "It is so peaceful here,” she said. "Aye, with not a care in the world,” he replied. “I could stay here forever." "No war. No death or destruction.” She sighed deeply. “No bitter cold or blazing heat." "I like the heat,” he said. “The cold? Not so much."

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"I will keep you warm,” she said, surprising herself. She lifted her head from his shoulder and turned to face him. “Why did I say such a thing?" He reached out his other hand to cup her cheek. “Because it is what you want?" "Do I?” she countered. "Perhaps you have been searching for me while I was searching for you,” he suggested. "No,” she said. “I don't think so but...." "But?" She returned her head to his shoulder. After all, it was but a dream and in dreams you can do and say things you would never do when awake. "But now that I've found you, I will keep you warm." He unlaced their fingers and slung that arm around her shoulder, drawing her to him and for awhile they continued floating as their hearts beat in tandem, the rhythm pulsing in synchronicity. "Deklyn?” she asked in a soft voice. "Aye, tarrishagh?" Timidly she looked up at him. This was a dream—only a dream. She screwed up her courage, took a deep breath and said, “Make love to me." "With the greatest of pleasure,” he responded, eyes dancing with delight. One moment they were clothed and the next they were not. They stretched out on their fleecy platforms and he rolled atop her, spreading her naked thighs with his knees as he settled between her legs. He lowered his mouth to her breast to draw a nipple between his lips. She threaded her fingers through his unbound hair. "Such a glorious feeling,” she said. “It has been so long." He looked up at her. “Did he not give you such glorious feelings?" Maire had loved Phillip as much as she had been capable of loving any man after what she had been through at the hands of the Baron's savage friend. Her husband had been a good, loving partner, a patient man, but his approach to lovemaking had left much to be desired. She had never felt with

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him the overpowering wash of sheer ecstasy she had known that one and only time with Deklyn Yn Baase. "No,” she said honestly. “He tried but it was not to be." "Then I will make up for every time he tried and did not pleasure you,” he said and lowered his head to her breast. Maire closed her eyes to the supreme bliss that pulsed through her. His mouth was hot against her breast. His tongue was a potent weapon flicking over her swollen nipple. As he moved his lips from her breast to her belly, she opened her eyes. "What are you doing?” she asked, shocked as he went lower to kiss the wiry curls at the juncture of her thighs. "Did he never taste your sweetness, tarrishagh?” he asked. A hard blush stole over her cheeks. “No!” she whispered. "Then I will be the first to savor your nectar." She drew in a quick breath as his breath touched the core of her only a fraction of a second before his tongue swept along her folds. She quivered like a leaf in the wind—her belly clenching tightly. Pure delight raced through Maire as his tongue and lips did lethal things to her libido. He nibbled upon that special spot only he seemed able to find. He aroused her as he had on that long ago night when he'd taken her from childhood into womanhood. The heat of his breath, the flick of his tongue, the pressure of his lips as he suckled that most intimate part of her all combined to turn her inside out with delicious desire. Her hands cupped his head and when he thrust a wicked finger into her sheath as he nipped at that special spot, she cried out as wave after wave of intense pleasure rippled through her. "Aye, milady,” he whispered against her wet core. “That is what your man needed to hear." Writhing as the last pulses of delight trembled deep within her he slid his beautiful body up hers and positioned his steely cock at her entrance. "Lift your hips, tarrishagh,” he whispered, his lips at the base of her throat. She welcomed him with an arch of her back. She slipped her arms around his neck and gave herself willingly. His cock slid into her—filled her, stretched—as Phillip's never had. He touched her very depths.

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"I love you, Dek,” she said for—after all—it was but a dream and in dreams anything was permissible. "I have loved you for a decade,” he told her, beginning the firm, slow rhythm that she had so longed to experience again. Deep and shallow, gliding along her slick channel to moisten her even more, she could feel his shaft pressing against her womb with each long penetration. She squeezed his neck, nipping at his chin, licking his throat before he lowered his head to capture her mouth with his. In perfect synchronization with his thrusts, his tongue slid in and out between her lips— tasting deep, brushing her bottom lip, flicking at the corners of her mouth. "Deklyn,” she whispered, increasing her hold on him. His thrusts came a bit faster, his hips rotating as he pulled back, twisted again as he drove into her. He ran his hands under her to lift her higher, and she brought her legs up to circle his waist—something she always wanted to do with Phillip but which her husband would not allow. "Isn't ladylike, Maire,” he'd said in a prudish voice. “Not t'all." Her lover increased his thrusts until he was pumping into her with abandon. His long black hair fell over his forehead and brushed at his cheeks. Sweat glistened on his forehead and upper lip. His hands tightened on her ass as he began to slam into her fiercely, his jaw clenched as he locked gazes with her, his green eyes glowing with possession. She became lost in that gaze. It made her understand she was his. It shouted to her that no other man would ever lay hands to her again as long as he drew breath. His words to her proved as much— "Mine, Maire. You are mine and mine you will stay! I have found you at last, and I will never let you go!" The thrusting came faster still until he was ramming himself into her velvety slickness. He rocked her body back and forth as he drove deep. The slap of their flesh meeting, the weight of his lower body pressing down on hers—the force of it—and the building itch gathering deep inside her made Maire clamp her legs tighter around him. Their combined passions exploded at the exact same moment. He poured his heated juices into her, and she clenched around him like a silken glove to squeeze every last drop of cum from his pulsing cock. His growl of ownership as he spilled his seed to brand her his sent shivers of happiness cascading through her. Her soft cry of release tightened his arms around her as he dug his fingers into her rump.

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"Mine,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Forever mine." "Aye,” she replied, cherishing the heavy weight of him as he collapsed atop her. She spiked her fingers through his hair to hold his head to her breast. His heart was beating wildly—throbbing against hers—and his breath came in exhausted gasps. “Sleep,” she told him. “Sleep, my dear love." His body was warm over hers as they floated deeper and deeper into the black velvet of space where diamonds sparkled upon the fabric of the heavens. Silent, peaceful, serene—this place where they dwelt, this dreamland—welcomed them with protective arms. Here there were no combatants, no battles, no dying. Here there was no censure, no scorn, and no contempt. Here there were no enemies. Here there was only love and passion and two very satiated people who fell asleep in one another's arms. **** Maire woke and for a moment was disoriented. She had no idea why she was laying on the floor looking at the back of her rocking chair. With a start, she sat up, the unfamiliar blanket falling away. There were two men staring at her and her eyes widened for a moment before memory returned. "Good morn, lass,” Guy said quietly then put a finger to his lips before pointing to her bed. She relaxed though her heart was still slamming against her breastbone. She raked a hand through her blond hair, wincing as she realized her hair was still in the tight bun in which she normally wore it—though now it was loose at the nape of her neck. Getting stiffly to her feet, she realized one of the men had made coffee, and she drew in a long inhalation of the delicious smelling brew. It had been months since she had been able to barter for even a cup of the precious commodity. "Would you like coffee?” Jules asked and for once his voice did not sound bitter or angry. "How do I know you didn't put poison in the cup?” she teased, paraphrasing his words from the evening before. Jules’ lips twitched. “You don't.” He glanced at Guy then turned to pour her a cup. "Where is the horrible warrior from yesterday?” she asked Guy when she came over to retrieve the cup, drawing in another long whiff of the steam coming from the coffee.

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"Jules and I had a long talk around five of the clock,” Guy told her. “He promised he would hold off on the insults and gnashing of teeth." "I said I would try to hold off on the insults and gnashing of teeth,” Jules mumbled. He shrugged. “I truly don't know if it is possible. Especially, when she looks at me as though I am an ogre intent on ravaging her." Maire blinked. “I have not looked at you in that manner!” she protested. "You looked at all of us in that manner,” Guy disagreed. “At least at first you did, and it was there again when you woke until you recognized us.” His brows drew together. “Did some man abuse you, wench?" "Mind your own business, Guyland." They turned to see Deklyn watching them. His face was flushed with fever but his voice was stronger. "How are you this morn?” Guy inquired. "Exactly how many baggage trains ran over me before you split me open with that ax?” Deklyn countered. "Only four,” Jules replied with a chuckle. “You must be feeling better if you're up to joking." "I feel like shite warmed over,” Deklyn told him. "What comes of offering your chest as a bull's-eye for a Vardarian warrior's crossbow,” Jules drawled as he walked past his brother and Maire. The Baron's gaze had not left Maire since he'd opened his eyes and now those eyes were smiling. “Did you sleep well, tarrishagh?” he asked. “Did your dreams give you pleasure?" Maire's eyes widened. He knew! She thought. He knew of what she'd dreamt. Her face burned brightly as she turned away, unaware that both Guy and Jules had seen the blush staining her cheeks. "Using your dreamwalker abilities again, Dek?” Jules inquired. “Shame on you." A small squeak of embarrassment came from Maire before she snatched up Phillip's old pair of boots and sat down on the hearth to draw them on. "Where do you think you're going?” Jules asked her. “It's freezing out there, woman."

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"I have to ... I need to ... I must.... “She couldn't look at any of them as she sprang up and dragged her coat from the hook where someone had hung it. "You'll pee icicles if you go outside,” Jules informed her. “And where will you go that the men won't see you? Besides, there must be two feet of snow on the ground. You'll freeze your rumpy, wench." "You two leave,” Deklyn said. "I was afraid he was going to say that,” Guy said with a sigh. He sat his coffee cup on the hearth. “Come on, Jules." "You'll still be here,” Jules argued. "I'll close my eyes and bury my face in the pillow,” Deklyn said. Maire was mortified that the men were privy to what she needed to do, but she suddenly had to go so badly that her teeth ached. She put the coffee down without having tasted the pungent brew. She couldn't look at the Baron as she ducked down beside the bed to pull out the chamber pot. "I won't look,” he told her. Biting her lip to keep from moaning, she took the pot across the room and put it on the floor behind the tub then squatted over it. As soon as she started to go, the sound seemed so unnaturally loud in the room she cringed. "I have some land situated on a bluff on the southern coast of Tarryn,” she heard him say and peeked over the tub to see he had his left arm flung over his eyes. “There are a lot of fruit trees, and it has an astounding view of the ocean. It stays cool year ‘round instead of muggy and humid like it is at the capitol. There is even a little stream that runs through the property." Her brows knitted together as she wondered why he was telling her this. "The sailor who sold me the land built a fieldstone cottage there for his retirement years then decided he didn't like the solitude. Actually, I think he simply missed the sea and being landlocked made him uneasy. What if I was to deed the land to you?" Maire was so surprised by his question that she stopped peeing. “Why would you do that?” she asked. "Well, you need a place to live, and it is small enough for you to take care of on your own yet large enough that it would be comfortable for when I can come to visit.” He paused. “That is unless you would prefer to have servants. If you do then...."

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"No,” she was quick to say. “I've no need of servants. I will do my own work." "I thought as much. You're rather the independent sort,” he said, a touch of humor in his tone. "By necessity I have been forced to be independent, milord,” she snapped, annoyed that she had forgotten to pick up something with which to wipe herself. She looked about and wanted to groan when she found nothing she could use. "Dek,” he said. "I couldn't possibly call you...." "You called me that in our dream,” he reminded her. Once more, she peeked over the tub, this time with her eyes narrowed. “Did you plant that dream in my mind? If you did, if you orchestrated what I ... What we.... “She hissed. “You know what I mean!" He laughed and that set her teeth on edge. “Aye, tarrishagh. I know exactly what you mean but no, I did not orchestrate our mutual dream. The gods, Themselves, did that. It is the way of Cochianglts to merge into one another's dreams. It is your soul calling to mine and mine to yours.” His voice went deep and husky. “Your body needing mine and mine needing yours." Once more, her face burned bright red as she got to her feet and smoothed her gown. She needed—no, she desperately wanted—a bath but that would be impossible with him lying only a few feet away. At the very least, she needed to change her gown and underwear and comb her hair out. The bun had slipped further down her neck with loose strands of hair tickling the side of her face. "I have no choice but to go with you,” she began. “And I'll have to live somewhere." "That goes without saying,” he stated. "But that does not mean I will become your.... “She winced as the word was said. “Your mistress." "You are my Cochianglt, Maire, not my mistress. There is a deep bond between us that nothing can break. That is something a man doesn't share with his mistress or even a wife if she is not his true bond-mate.” He must have heard her moving about for he let his arm fall to the pillow then wedged it beneath his head to prop it up, so he could see her better. He saw her washing her hands.

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She ignored him as she went to the hearth. “You need to eat some broth from the stew,” she said. “I fear the vegetables have turned to mush, but at least you will get nourishment from them." "I'm not hungry." "Nevertheless, you need to eat else you'll take the longer to get your strength back,” she insisted, business-like and efficient as she set about ladling a bowl of the stew for him. “You need the food to help you mend." He pressed his lips together with amusement. “Aye, milady. I am yours to command." Maire shot him a look that told him she doubted it. He tried pushing up in the bed but pain creased his face, and he desisted, giving her an apologetic look. “Can't do it,” he said. "Here,” she told him. “I'll help you." Setting the bowl aside, she leaned over and allowed him to lace his arms around her neck, so she could heft him higher in the bed. The heat from his body was still high as she put her hands on his waist and helped to scoot him up to a sitting position. She heard him sigh deeply. "Gods, but that took every ounce of energy.” He tried to lift an arm, but it fell limply back to the mattress. “I'm sorry, tarrishagh. I just don't have it in me. I feel weak as a kitten." "You need the food to help you mend,” she said again. Trying not to think about what she was doing, she sat on the edge of the bed and dredged the spoon into the bowl. She spoon-fed him a small helping of the stew, catching a wayward drop as it dribbled down his bewhiskered chin. "That's good,” he said, licking his lips. "I am a good cook,” she said with pride. "That you are,” he agreed and opened his mouth for another taste. The bowl was nearly empty when Guy opened the door and stuck his head in. “Can we come in now?” he inquired. "Aye,” Maire answered. She got up from the bed to carry the bowl into the kitchen area to be washed. Jules followed closely on his brother's heels, going over to the hearth. “It is colder than a witch's...."

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"It's cold,” Guy interrupted. He raked a hand through his hair. “The roads are becoming impassable and looks like more snow will be coming. I sent a couple of men into Norvus. We've complete control of the town but Captain Indys is worried the ships are going to get ice-locked in the harbor if we don't leave soon." "So we've been thinking,” Jules said. "The gods help me,” Dek stated, winking at Maire, who looked around at that moment. "If we put together a travois, pile as many blankets around you as possible, do you think you could make the journey without too much pain?” Jules continued. He was briskly rubbing his hands together at the fireplace. "I've no desire to get stranded here,” Dek replied. “Make your travois. Maire, do you ride?" Maire shook her head. “Not well,” she replied. "Then make two travois,” Dek ordered. “Tarrishagh, put together what you want to take with you." "Only the absolute necessities,” Jules amended. "Whatever you want to take with you,” Dek countered. “Leave nothing behind that is dear to you." "Jenny,” Maire said. “I'll not leave my goat." "Goat?” Dek questioned with a blink. "The gods help us!” Jules complained then looked pained as he turned a pleading face to his overlaird. “Must we be saddled with a goat? Isn't the female enough of a hindrance?" "I'll not leave my Jenny!” Maire stated with a childish stomp of her foot. "Aye, we must take the goat,” Dek told him. “What else, Maire?" "I don't have that many possessions I care about,” Maire answered. “I've a few things in the cave where I hid Jenny and.... “She pointed at the rocking chair. “That was my grandmother's. It means a lot to me and my sewing supplies." "Then we'll throw the rocker on the back of a packhorse,” Dek said. “Jules, see to it."

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"'Jules, see to it',” Jules complained with a lift of his lip. "Tell me where the cave is and I'll fetch the goat,” Guy said. "I'll need to go along so I can pick a few of the items,” she said. "Bring it all,” Dek said. When both she and Jules would have protested, he told them if what had been hidden had warranted hiding, it was important enough to Maire for it to be brought along. "Thank you, milord,” she said, tears in her eyes. "Be about gathering your things, lass,” Guy said. “Now where is that cave?" **** In a little less than an hour three travois had been constructed from beech saplings slung together with rope. It had been Andy's idea to make the third to hold Maire's belongings—including the rocking chair—and now the travois were strapped to the horses, ready for use. One of the two-pole travois was a simple wedge-shape while the other two had a third pole at the blunt end to stabilize the conveyance. Maire's old cornhusk mattress would be laid atop one of the three-pole travois, strapped down then cushioned with blankets for Dek. The one upon which Maire would ride would be less comfortable but it was believed warm enough to make the forty-mile trip to the harbor town. "We'll have to leave the wagons behind,” Guy told Dek as he and Jules helped him dress. “Getting to the coast is more important than the rations." "Leave the rations to the villagers,” Dek said. He was sweating profusely as he sat on the edge of the bed. Just having Jules tugging on his boots sent waves of pain rippling through his body. "But not the weapons,” Guy said. “The weapons and ammo go with us." "What about the prisoners?” Maire asked. She had gone out earlier to add her favorite cooking pot to the pile of belongings on the third travois and counted forty men in all—including the Baron, the officers, soldiers and prisoners. Upon seeing the five shackled prisoners huddled miserably together beside one of the wagons, her heart had gone out to her countrymen. Guy had kept her from going over to the men who were glaring at her. "They'd just as soon cut your throat as not, wench,” Guy warned. “Best you leave them be." "What will become of them?” she asked.

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"They will be coming with us,” Jules said. “To stand trial." Knowing the men would be forced to march through the nearly waist-high snow did not set well with Maire but she knew nothing she said would free them. All she could hope for was that they be treated humanely. "They will be,” Dek said, turning his head to give her a steady look. She nodded, just as unnerved in the light of day by his reading her thoughts as she'd been in the darkness of night. She thrust her arms into the old coat Andy held for her, feeling absurd in Phillip's old boots and oversized coat. "Have you no gloves, lass?” Guy asked and when she replied she didn't, he pulled his own from the pocket of his coat and held them out to her. “I've another pair in my saddlebags." "All right, now that we're fashionably dressed,” Jules said as he got to his feet after seeing to Dek's boots. “If you're ready, we are." "He will never be able to walk,” Maire said, her cheeks flaming when the four men looked at her. "He won't have to,” Guy said. He walked to the bed and slid his arms under Dek's legs and behind his back. “Easy does it now." Maire saw the effort it took for Dek not to cry out as he was lifted from the bed. His face blanched as white as the snow outside, his jaws clenched tightly together. Sweat popped out on his face and she saw his eyes roll back in his head. "He's out,” Guy said, feeling his cousin go limp in his arms. “Get that mattress off, Jules, and let's get him to the ship before he starts bleeding again." Carrying the unconscious man into the bitter cold, Guy held him while the cornhusk mattress was brought out and secured upside down to the travois. Very gently he lowered Dek to the travois, piling as many blankets as they could around and over him then strapping him down with rope. "His fever seems to have lessened, lass,” Guy told Maire as she crawled onto the second travois. "That's good to hear,” she replied. Though there was no mattress to protect her from the vertical passes of rope strung between the two poles, there was adequate give beneath the piled blankets and Maire was comfortable enough as she dragged more blankets atop her. “Did you take every blanket available from your soldiers?” she asked.

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Guy nodded. “They'll not need them while we're traveling." "Let's hope it doesn't get so nasty that they will,” Jules mumbled. He turned his face up to the dark gray sky. “I don't like the looks of those clouds." "Doesn't bode well for safe travel, that's for sure,” Guy agreed. He motioned for his horse, grabbing the pommel and swinging into the saddle with ease. “I suggest we make haste.” He drummed his heels into his mount's flanks then rode forward. The pull of the horse jerked Maire's head but the glide over the snow did not prove to be as bumpy as she thought it would be. There was a loud din in the still morning air as the cavalry units mounted and the infantry adjusted their packs and weapons as they fell into a marching line behind the three travois. Glancing around, she saw the wagons of provisions sitting to one side of her barn and knew the villagers would be glad of whatever rations had been left behind. "Ever been on a ship, lass?” Guy asked as he dropped back so he could ride beside her. "Once,” she answered. Her nose was so cold it stung so she burrowed the lower half of her face into the thick wool scarf she had wound around her neck. “A short trip from Norvus to Bohstedt and back." "And how did you fare?” he inquired. Maire shrugged. “I did well enough. I didn't get sick although my father did." "Then you shouldn't get sick this time out unless the sea begins to churn,” Guy told her. “Let's hope it remains calm." "How long will it take to get to Tarryn?” she asked. "In good weather?” he queried, reaching up to scratch his cheek. “About three days. In bad weather, another day, perhaps." "Unless the wind's behind us and if that's the case, we could make it in two days," Jules said. Maire turned to see him riding on the other side of her travois. “But that wouldn't be good." Jules shook his head. “No, wench, that wouldn't be good.” He clucked his tongue to urge his horse forward, calling out to the point men to gain their attention.

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"My brother is a worrywart,” Guy said, chuckling. “If there's nothing to worry about, he'll invent something.” He stood in the saddle so he could get a better view of Dek. “You need anything, Dek?” he asked. "A new body,” came the muffled reply. “One preferably without holes in it." Guy winked at Maire. “I told you to stop using it for a target, didn't I? Did you listen? No." "He needs to drink plenty of water,” Maire said. “And he should eat. There is a cottage about two miles up the road. The man who lives there makes cheese. He should have a loaf or two of bread and a jug of milk you can get for your overlaird." "He's your overlaird, too, lass,” Guy reminded her gently. "The man's name is Hawkins,” she said, ignoring Guy's words. “Perhaps you can send Andy to fetch the foodstuff." "Andy?” Guy called out, twisting around in his saddle to find the young warrior. When Andy came galloping up, Guy told him what was needed then reached into his pocket to extract a purse of coins. “Take Rupert with you and get a hoop or two of cheese if he has it to spare and as many loaves of bread as he can sell us. If he doesn't have all that much just get enough for Dek and the lady. Buy as many jugs of milk as the two of you can carry. Be sure to pay the man a decent sum." "I don't need any food, Guy,” Maire said. “I'm used to eating only one meal a day." "That will change,” came a strong declaration from the other travois. Guy grinned and nudged his horse level with Dek's travois. “You want a swig or two of water?” he asked as he unhooked the canteen from his saddle then dangled it by the strap for Dek to reach. “How you feeling?" "Like shite,” Dek mumbled. He took a long drink of water then wiped the back of his hand over his lips. "Keep it,” Guy said, referring to the canteen, “and put your arms under the covers.” He fell back until he was beside Maire again. “He's got some color other than fever spots in his cheeks." "That's an encouraging sign,” she replied. For the next half-hour the troops and horses plodded wearily through the thick snow. The going was slow but the weather held until the travelers were

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ten miles into the journey and the snow began to fall again—the wind whipping out of the north with a vengeance. "This is all we didn't need,” Jules said as he rode back to his brother. “How's Dek?" "Dek is fine,” the Black Baron snapped. “You just worry about getting us to the harbor before we freeze to death." "Are you cold?” Guy inquired, frowning. "No, Yn Baase,” Dek growled. “I'm laying here getting a fucking tan!" "We need more blankets,” Guy stated. “Maire, how far are we from the next homestead?" "A mile or two,” she said. She tucked her lower lip between her teeth. “Shouldn't Andy have returned by now?" "I was just thinking the same thing,” Jules said. “Giles!" The warrior thundered up to the travois from halfway down the column, saluting smartly. “Aye, Cap'n?" "Take three men and head back the way Andy and Rupert were headed. Keep a careful watch. They could have been ambushed,” Jules ordered. "Aye, sir!” Giles answered and wheeled his horse around, lashing it lightly with his reins, drumming his heels into the mount's sides. "What kind of person is it at the next homestead?” Jules demanded. "It's a widow lady and her three children,” Maire answered, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth. “She hates all things Tarryn." "So she'll give us shite about taking a few extra blankets?” he asked. "I doubt she has any she could give you,” she told him. “But if you could fill some of my cast iron pans with coals from her fire and wrap them in blankets you could put them to either side of him to warm him." Jules shot her an admiring look. “That's the best advice I've heard all week, lass." "How are you?” Guy asked. “Are you warm enough?" "I can make do,” she said. “I'm accustomed to the cold. He's not and he lost a great deal of blood. He's bound to be colder than me."

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The sky seemed to open and the snow began to fall in thick, fat flakes, the cascade of them driven sideways by the onslaught of the fierce wind. "This is whiteout weather,” Guy said. "Aye,” Jules agreed. “Maire, which way do we go to reach the widow's house?" "Will there be any place for the men to shelter?” Guy asked. "The widow's house is very small but she has a fair size barn. We could take shelter there,” Maire answered him. “She won't like it but the next closest cottage is another three miles or so up the road if you want to try for that." "We'll pay her for...” Jules began. "She wouldn't take it even if she and her boys were starving,” she said. “Trust me. She vehemently hates the Tarryns." "What about the next place? Would they be any friendlier?” Guy questioned. "Not by much if at all,” Maire answered truthfully. "And we could get lost if there is a whiteout,” Guy said on a long sigh. "Then the widow woman will have to suck up her anger,” Jules snapped. “If she's got a warm fire, Dek will be laid beside it." "That wouldn't be wise,” Maire said. “I know this woman. She will not take kindly to having Tarryns in her husband's house. She...." "Won't be given a choice!” Jules bellowed, eyes flaring with outrage. "Why does she hate us so intensely, tarrishagh?” Dek asked. "You hanged her husband,” she replied then after a slight pause. “And her eldest son." There was a longer pause then, “We'll make do with her barn,” Dek said. "Deklyn!” Jules hissed. “You...." "Her barn,” Dek repeated. "With a vigilant group of guards watching her and her sons,” Jules put in.

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"That would be wise,” Maire agreed. As the snow increased in volume, the visibility lowered drastically. The wind became a howling banshee plucking at the clothing and stinging the eyes, pebbling unprotected cheeks with withering blasts of ice. Plodding with heads lowered into the storm, great capes whipping, the travelers were hard pressed to stay on the road. Had Maire not known what landmarks to search for, the warriors would have been lost in the glare of the blinding snow. As it was, many of the cairns and signs had been covered over, making the trip take longer while the troop stopped to look for them. By the time the feeble light of Widow Barnes’ farm was seen flickering close by, the weather had become an unbearable and unforgiving torment.

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Chapter Five

"No!" Widow Barnes screeched. “I'll not have that murdering bastard in any dwelling my Jacob built!" The woman was struggling between two Tarryn warriors who were valiantly trying to keep her still while striving not to hurt her. Her teenaged sons were as equally vocal and belligerent but their words carried much less venom and more vulgarity. Elsbeth Barnes turned tearful, enraged eyes to Maire. “How could you lead them here?” she screamed. “How could you, Maire?" "She was given no choice in the matter,” Guy told the woman who was writhing and twisting in the grip of his men. "Once a whore, always a whore!” Elsbeth hurled at Maire. “Jacob warned Phillip about the likes of you! See where it got him?" "Take that termagant back into her house and tie her to a chair if you must,” Jules ordered. “Her brats, as well. If she won't shut that trap of hers, stuff it with a sock!" "Jules, no,” Maire said, putting out a pleading hand though she was trembling with cold and the confrontational words flung her way. “Don't abuse her." "We should have tarred and feathered you long ‘ere now, you slut!” Elsbeth snarled. “How many Tarryn cocks did you ride last eve?" "Shut that bitch up or I'll slit her throat myself,” Dek told the men who were laying him on a pile of hay in the depths of the barn. "Aye, milord!” one of the soldiers acknowledged with a clenched jaw. "And get my woman in out of the cold!” Dek called out. Elsbeth heard the words and her eyes flared wild as she was being dragged back toward her house. Craning her head around, she cackled insanely. “You're the Black Baron's whore?” she hissed then turned her head to spit. “I should have known!" Maire's eyes filled with tears that turned to crystals on her cheeks as they fell. Her lips were quivering already and the slight whimper of sound that came from her was pitiful—coming in a sudden lull in the howling gusts of wind. Both Jules and Guy heard the sound and both moved to her as one.

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"Don't, lass,” Guy said, taking her forearm in a firm grip to pull her toward the barn. “She's not worth one of your tears." Head hanging in abject misery, Maire allowed him to lead her into the shelter of the barn and to the blanket covered mound where Dek was laying. She sank to her knees beside him and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook then her sobs came—loud and heart wrenching. "I'll cut out that witch's tongue!” Jules barked and turned to make good on his threat. Guy caught his arm. "Let it go,” Guy told him. "The bitch insulted our Maire!” Jules hissed as he tried to pry his big brother's fingers from his arm. "You can't go around relieving women of their tongues, Jules,” Dek said with a long sigh. "Watch me!” Jules barked. Dek shook his head. “I said no.” He used almost all the energy he had to reach out to Maire, to put a hand on her hip for that was all he could reach. “Tarrishagh, don't cry." "You see what that harpy has done?” Jules demanded. “If you won't let me slice out her tongue, I'll fill her mouth with hot coals instead!" "You'll do no such thing,” Guy said then shook his brother even harder. “Knock it off! I'm in no mood for your dramatics!" "But.... “Jules sputtered. The sound of Maire's sobbing was having a curious effect on the warrior and he looked beseechingly at Dek. "I'll see to her,” Dek said. “You see to our men." "But...." "Come on,” Guy growled, jerking Jules along with him. “Do as your overlaird decrees!" Scooting his body closer to the woman beside him, Dek drew in a sharp breath as the wound in his chest reminded him he was an invalid still. Maire lifted her head and turned to look at him. The expression of pain crinkling his face brought her hand to his. “Lay still,” she said, tears running down her cheek. “You'll pull the stitches open."

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"Don't cry,” he said, trying to lift his hand to her face but she wouldn't allow it, moving back from his touch. He let his hand fall to the straw. “It breaks my heart to hear you cry. That woman isn't worth one tear." "I'm not crying for her you silly man,” she said in between hitches of breath. “I'm crying for me!” She pulled her borrowed gloves off to rub her free hand over her face. “For me!" "All right,” he said in a soft voice. “But it still breaks my heart." Her shoulders slumped and she moaned. “What am I going to do?” she cried. "You're going with us to Tarryn,” he said. “You're going to a place where you don't have to worry about where the next meal is going to come from or if the roof is going to fall down atop your head." A bewildered, impatient, and protesting baa sounded from the front of the barn. That baa became an elongated wail of a baa as Jenny caught its mistress’ scent. "Baaaa!” Jenny screeched. "I'm here, girl,” Maire said and was rewarded with one hundred pounds of wet goat fur bearing down on her as the animal broke free of its keeper's hold on the tether. Jenny rammed into Maire with enough force to knock her flat to her back but the comedy of the moment was not lost on the crying woman. Maire laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes before burying her face in the musky fur. "Baaa?” Jenny inquired. "I'm okay,” Maire said. She stroked the goat's shaggy winter coat. “We're both okay." "That thing smells to high heaven,” Dek complained, nose crinkled. Jenny tossed its head, butted Maire once more—seemingly to be very careful with her horns—then lowered its mouth to the straw to begin munching. "Strom, take this thing, will ya?” Dek asked, face puckered with distaste at the wet smell of goat fur. The warrior mumbled an apology and stooped down to pick up the tether, tugging the once-more protesting goat away from its mistress.

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"'Tis a good thing we don't eat goats,” Dek said, looking up at Maire. “Were you never tempted to slaughter her." A smile hovered on her face as she ran the sleeve of her bulky coat over her tearful face. “Jenny is my baby,” she said, “and no. No matter how hungry I've been, it would never have occurred to me to do such a thing. I've always hated breeding her because I had to barter away her kids. I have milked her and made cheese from the milk after I bred her. I have also made yarns from her fur." "A versatile companion,” he observed. "She's been there to talk to when no one else has,” she told him. "We'll need to build a pen for her,” he said. “We wouldn't want her wandering off although any Tarryn who found her would return her to you." Maire gave him a long look. “You are so sure they will not hate me." "Why would they?” he asked. He reached for her hand and this time she let him take it. “You are not their enemy, tarrishagh." "My husband was,” she reminded him. "My people don't view yours in the same light that yours view us,” he said. “I am not the ogre I am made out to be and my men aren't the minions of Raphian, though I have my doubts about Jules on occasion." She smiled, the last of her tears fading away. “He's not as bad as he likes to pretend he is." Dek smiled and that smile took her breath away for it made his handsome face even more so. “You've seen through him, have you?” he questioned, unaware that he was rubbing his thumb over hers as he held her hand. “Don't tell him. He'll sulk for sure. He likes playing the badass." Uncomfortable with the look he was giving her, his touch, and their nearness, Maire eased her hand from his and laced her fingers together in her lap. She was trying not to shiver for the cold was seeping through her coat. She glanced up at Strom and another man as they manhandled a large cast iron pot over to where she and Dek were. "We'll get a fire going in here straight away, milady,” Strom said. He peeled off his own great coat and even as she protested, flung it around her shoulders. “I'm from Virago. I go swimming in this kind of weather,” he told her.

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"He does,” Dek agreed. “I've watched him do it.” He thanked his warrior as Strom and the other man piled straw in amongst the wood shavings and kindling already nestled in the cook pot. Striking a flint, Strom blew on the curling fire until the flames caught. “Andy and the others were spotted a quarter of a click back,” he told his overlaird. “They've got the food with them. They were helping the farmer get his cows in after the snow caved in his fence. That's why they were late getting back." "Thank the goddess!” Maire said. “I was worried about them." "Once the horses are seen to, I want the men in here,” Dek said. “I know it will be a tight squeeze but we don't need any sick warriors. At least they can share body heat." "I'll tell the captains, milord. They're putting up lean-tos as best they can to protect the mounts but Captain Guy is making sure no one wanders too far in this muck. You can't see five feet in front of you,” Strom reported. "Captain Jules wanted to house them mounts in the widow's cottage,” the other man said, lips twitching with humor, “but Captain Guy told him no." Dek laughed, wincing only a little as his stitches reminded him they were still there. “That sounds like the Jules we know and love." "As if all the horses would fit in that little hut,” Strom said with a snort. "If he could get away with it, he'd stack them horses one atop the other from one side of that cottage to another just to piss off.... “The other man blushed and ducked his head. “I beg your pardon, milady, that weren't the right language." "No it weren't,” Dek said sternly but his eyes were dancing with laughter. “Captain Jules would do it to annoy the widow, is that what you meant?" "Right, milord,” the other man agreed, bobbing his head. “That he would!" "Come on, Talbert,” Strom said. “We need to fetch more kindling to keep the fire going." As the two warriors walked away, Maire held her hands out to the warmth. “How are you feeling, milord?” she asked. "Like I had my chest ripped open and my lungs pulled out,” he said, “but I think the fever's gone.” He shifted his legs. “Can we take whatever it is you have plastered to the bottom of my feet off now?” He made a face. “It feels awful."

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"It helped, though,” she said. "I'm sure it did and I will be eternally grateful to you for what you did, but it feels awful, tarrishagh,” he told her. He watched her as she moved to his feet to begin tugging off his boots. “You don't have to do that. One of the men can." "It's not a problem, milord,” she said as she pulled off one boot then peeled down the heavy wool sock to remove the poultice, wrinkling her nose at the smell. "It's Dek and my feet have never stunk like that,” he made the effort to lift his head. “That's terrible." "I'll have one of the men fetch me some warm water and I'll wash away the odor." "You don't have to do that,” he repeated. “You're not my servant, tarrishagh." She looked up at him as she pulled the other boot from his foot. “No, but I will earn my keep, milord. I have no desire to be your kept woman.” When he opened his mouth to protest her words, she held up her hand. “I will take in mending, do needlework, and if you would loan me the money to purchase a few head of goats to keep my Jenny company I'll make cheese and sell milk, perhaps spin yarn to make sweaters for the soldiers. It will either be that way or not at all and I will pay you back whatever you invest in me." He laced his hands under his head so he could keep it elevated, looking at her with a half-smile. “You're a tough business woman, Maire." "I'm a practical woman who has no desire to be labeled your whore,” she said. The smile slipped from his face. “Anyone stupid enough to call you that will not live long after I hear of it,” he said. Maire looked around, saw a couple of men milling near the entrance, keeping watch over the prisoners, and beckoned one over, asking him in a soft voice if he would do her a favor. "Anything for you, milady!” the soldier vowed. "I need warm water and soap for your overlaird. He needs fresh clothing, as well, for after his bath. Has Andy arrived yet?" "Just a minute or so ago. He'll be bringing the food in shortly,” was the answer.

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"I'm sure the Baron would be more comfortable eating after his bath so bring the water as quickly as you can and ask Andy to join us. I know he's fair frozen in this weather." "Aye, milady!” the soldier agreed and hurried away, signaling a companion to accompany him. "I should make you a captain,” Dek said. “They'd do whatever you asked without question.” He nudged her with his foot. “You gonna bathe me, Maire?" The rolling of the r in her name sent shivers of pleasure through her but she shook her head. “I think not. Only a wife should see her husband naked." "Or his Cochianglt,” he reminded her. “You are my Cochianglt even though you won't admit it." She stared at him for a long, long time until Dek grew uncomfortable with her steady gaze. He shifted on the straw, vertical lines forming between his eyes. "Say something, tarrishagh,” he said. "On most men those lines would be very unattractive,” she said as she studied the creases over his nose, “but on you, they are very endearing,” she said in a whispery voice. "Lines?” he questioned, deepening them. "Between your eyes,” she said. “I find them very endearing." The lines smoothed out as he smiled. “Does that mean you are beginning to accept that you are my Cochianglt?" "It means when your divorce is final between you and your lady-wife, we will talk seriously about it then,” she said. Dek's heart did a funny little squeeze in his chest. “Do you mean it?" She nodded, lowered her head then half-smiled. “You have a way of growing on a person, milord." "Maire?” he asked and when she looked up, he held out his hand to her, surprised when she took it. "Aye, milord?"

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"I really did search for you all those years,” he said. “In every town, every village, every settlement and at every homestead we passed. I had almost given up hope that I would ever see you again.” He tightened his hold on her hand. “I swear to you before the gods I will do nothing to cause you the first moment of pain from this day forward and I promise you I will never let anything or anyone ever hurt you again." Her gaze softened. “I believe you,” she said. "If I had known he was going to...." "Shush,” she told him, shaking her head. “All I would ask is that you never mention what happened that night to me ever again. I have tried to put it behind me. Let us start fresh and become friends. That is the first step and a hard one for I have spent my entire life hating your people. It will not be an easy thing for me." Andy took that moment to come hurrying in with two sets of saddlebags slung over his shoulders. “Sorry to have taken so long, milord. It was rough going out there, and then we had to round up a bunch of unruly bovines...." "He needs a bath, Andy,” Maire said. “I've got men bringing in water. Could you ask Guy or Jules if they will see the bathing?" "I will, milady,” Andy replied. He helped her to her feet then handed her the saddlebags. “One has the bread and the other has the makings for biscuits. Rupert will be bringing in the two hoops of cheese we procured." Maire blinked. “He sold you all that?" Andy grinned. “After I gave him an entire bag of coins. Threw in four sacks of apples to boot and helped him corral his beasties." "Well done, Andrew,” Dek said. “Perhaps I should make you Provisions Master instead of Wallace." "I thank you, but no thank you, milord,” Andy said with a laugh. “I'm content to be a grunt." "Lieutenant Grunt from here on out,” Dek said. Andy's eyes widened. “That's not necessary, milord!" "It is to me,” Dek told him. "Go find Guy,” Maire said, seeing the grateful tears forming in the young warrior's eyes. “We need to get some food into your overlaird's belly."

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Andy ducked his head, unable to speak. They watched him walk away with his head held high. "That was a kind thing you did,” Maire remarked. She sat down beside him and rummaged in the saddlebag for one of the four loaves of bread nestled inside. She tore off a chunk and gave it to him. "He earned it,” Dek replied. He bit into the bread and sighed for his belly was cramping with hunger. Maire pinched a small piece for herself to nibble on, picking tiny pieces off that small chunk. At Dek's arched brow, she told him she was used to making do on very little. “If I gobble it like I want to, I'd have a belly ache for sure." The young warriors she had sent to get the bath water came in, shaking snow from their heads. Between them they carried another wash pot full of water they'd heated over the Widow Barnes hearth fire. "Is she still cursing you?” Maire asked. The men exchanged looks and one blushed as he replied, “Ah, no, milady. She said not a word to us." Maire's suspicions were alerted by a second exchange of looks. “What did Jules do?” she asked, exasperation thick in her voice. "Weren't Captain Jules, ma'am,” the young man said. “'T'was Captain Guy what gagged her. Said he was tired of her cursing." "He gagged her?” She held out her hand. “Help me up." "Maire.... “Dek began, but she waved away his objection, and as soon as she was on her feet, marched toward the barn entrance. "Should I go after her, milord?” the young man inquired. "Nay, let her be. You don't get between a woman and her mission, Ronan,” Dek replied. He frowned as Jules came into the barn. “Where's Guy?" "In the hut with the witch,” Jules said. “Maire, the terrier, just shot past me with the glint of battle in her eyes.” He took off his great cape and rolled up his sleeves. “Let's get you that bath before she comes back with Guy's liver on a spit." "Did he really gag the widow?” Dek queried. "Better his way than mine,” Jules grumbled as he hunkered down beside Dek. “I'd have soon skewered the termagant as not. Let Maire deal with her."

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As soon as Maire entered Elsbeth's cottage, the woman went wild struggling against the bonds that lashed her to a chair. Fury shot from the widow's eyes. "Guy, what have you done?” Maire asked the man who was standing with an arm braced on the mantle. “Remove that gag immediately!" "No,” Guy said. Across the room the widow's teenage sons let out howls from behind gags of their own. “And I suggest you don't, either." Lips pursed, body stiff, Maire marched over to Elsbeth to untie the gag. “You are not helping things, Guy,” she said. "Don't say I didn't warn you,” Guy drawled, not bothering to look around as the gag came off the widow's mouth. "Whore! Strumpet! Abomination in the eyes of the gods!” Elsbeth spat at Maire. “Did you spread your filthy thighs for the lot of them? What evil disease have you brought into my home?" Maire was taken aback by the venom pouring from the woman's lips. She stared at her. "It's a good thing you're leaving with that raping hoard else you'd not live the week out here, you diseased slut!" "I told you,” Guy said on a long sigh then turned around, striding over to Elsbeth's sons. Before Maire could gainsay him, he drew his blade and put it to the throat of the younger boy, his eyes locked on the widow. “One more word out of you and I'll cut him ear to ear." Elsbeth sucked in a strangled gasp—eyes flaring, mouth dropped open in shock. Tears filled her eyes as she clamped her lips together. Those eyes shot to Maire with pleading. "Guy, please,” Maire said. “You're only reinforcing their low opinion of you." "I'll not have that crazed old bat insulting you, Maire. You've done nothing to warrant it and to have her dare to threaten your life is more than I am willing to take,” Guy said. Maire went to him and put her hand over his, drawing the razor-sharp blade from the boy's neck. “Put it away,” she said. “Elsbeth is finished with her curses, aren't you, Elsbeth?"

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The widow nodded quickly, running her tongue over her upper lip. She was breathing heavily, fear for her sons bringing caution and wisdom where there had been none. "The Baron's men will do no harm to you and yours,” Maire said. “They'll not damage the barn or steal your rations. All I ask is that you say no more to anger them. Will you agree to that, Elsbeth?" Once more, the woman nodded then let out a relieved breath when the warrior finally sheathed his weapon and walked away from her boys. Although she glared at him all the way to the door where he unhooked his great cape from a peg on the wall, she kept silent. "The same goes for the three of you,” Maire said as she went to the boys to remove their gags. “Angering a Tarryn warrior is not a healthy thing to do. I can only protect you so far. You must meet me halfway." The boys cut their eyes to their mother who gave a curt nod. When their gags were taken away, they kept as still and quiet as their mother did even as they glowered their defiance. "Thank you,” Maire said softly. She walked to the door where Guy awaited her. Turning back, she met Elsbeth's eyes. “I am truly sorry you choose to see what isn't there, ‘Beth. We were friends once and I will mourn the loss of that friendship." Elsbeth turned her head and spat, leaving no doubt in Maire's mind how she felt. Maire drew in a long breath and when Guy opened the door, walked outside without a backward look. She was vaguely aware of the two men guarding the only door in the one room cottage. They were huddled around a barrel leaping with warming flames. "That woman is not worthy of your friendship, lass,” Guy told her as he flung his great cape around her shoulders but Maire made no reply. They walked in silence through the cascading snow but when he would have escorted her to the barn door, she shook her head. “I can't believe you were ever friends with her." "Our husbands were brothers,” she said listlessly. "That hag is your sister-in-law?” he asked, mouth agape. "She was. I had no idea she felt as she does about me. I thought I knew her. I didn't.” She slowed her pace. “Guy, I need to.... “She just couldn't say it.

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"Oh,” he replied, realizing what she meant. He stood where he was while she went down the side of the barn and to its back. Making sure there were no men hanging about to interrupt her, he called one of the soldiers over to ask if everything had been taken care of. "The horses are corralled, and we've put up lean-tos to protect them from the worst of the storm, Captain,” the man said. “Everyone save the two of us and the guards at the cottage are inside the barn." "Change guards every hour,” Guy said. “It's too cold to leave the men out here for very long. The burn barrel will help, but I still want the guard changed hourly." "I'll see to it, Captain." Stomping his feet to keep warm, slapping his arms around him, Guy waited for Maire to return. When the time dragged on, he grew worried and went around the side of the building, calling her name. "Maire? Are you all right?” When she didn't immediately answer, he walked further along the side of the barn. “Maire?" "Coming,” he heard her answer and breathed a sigh of relief. As soon as he saw her walking out of the snow with her nose and eyes red, he knew she'd been crying again. He opened his arms and she walked into them, pressing her cheek to his broad chest. "Don't let it bother you, dearling,” he said, patting her back clumsily. “The old biddy isn't worth it." "I didn't do anything to deserve her spite, Guy,” she said, struggling not to start crying again. "Nay, you did not, but there are those who see only what they want to see or aren't willing to accept it any other way. Nothing either you or I could say would change that woman's mind. Best you forget about her and move on,” he advised. Sniffing, she looked up at him. “I know you're right. I'm sorry I'm such a ninny,” she said. Guy crooked his finger under her chin, smiling gently at her. “Dearling, you're not a ninny. You are.... “He searched her eyes then cocked a shoulder, apparently not seeing what he had hoped to see in her gaze. He stepped back, tugging the front of his great cape more tightly around her. “You are freezing. Let's get inside before we turn into icicles."

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With a hand to the small of her back, he escorted her into the barn. Every male there turned to look at her—even the prisoners who were sitting together now at the rear of the structure. "So did you whup ass and take names, then, wench?” Jules inquired dryly. He was sitting huddled in his great cape with his back against the wall of a stall, booted ankles crossed, arms folded over his massive chest. Rubbing his ass, Guy said, “I'll not be sitting for an entire week.” The men—including the prisoners—laughed at his remark then laughed again when she playfully swatted his shoulder. "Come and have some cheese, tarrishagh,” Dek said and Maire was happy to see he had more color in his cheeks. He looked up at Guy. “How's the snow?" "Still coming down in sheets,” Guy responded. “I doubt we'll be leaving here today." Handing his garment back to Guy, Maire took the old coat Andy held out to her, poking her arms through the too-long sleeves then dropped down beside the Baron. "You can't leave Elsbeth and her sons tied up all day,” she told Dek. "I can,” Jules growled. "You won't,” Maire stated firmly. “Besides, we will all need at least a decent supper meal." "Hells bells, wench, the bitch would poison whatever she cooked for us!” Jules protested, a dark scowl twisting his face. "I planned on making the meal, Jules,” she said. “That is if Andy can bag me a few more hares or the like. I brought a satchel of vegetables with me." "Why?” Dek asked, those wicked lines appearing between his green eyes again. "I just did,” she said in a defensive tone. “We won't need to use any of Elsbeth's store of vegetables but mayhap she could spare a pinch or two of spices, since she and her boys will be sharing in the supper. I'll make the biscuits and what's leftover will go with us tomorrow for our noon meal.” She scooted over so she, too, could lean against the wall opposite Jules. "We'll be at the ship with any luck by sundown tomorrow,” Guy suggested. “I'll send Giles on ahead to have the ship's cook prepare a hearty repast for our supper."

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"I'll go in Andy's stead if that's all right with you, milady,” Strom spoke up. “Andy's feeling a bit peevish." "Andy?” Maire said, craning her head around so she could see past Guy who was sitting tailor fashion at Dek's feet. “Where are you?" "Here, milady,” Andy said. “'Tis just a cold starting, nothing more." "You come here right now, Andrew!” she insisted and once again the men laughed. Grunting as he got to his feet, Andy shuffled over to where she was sitting. “Ain't nothing but a cold, milady,” he said, running his coat sleeve under his nose. “Just a bit of the sniffles." "You sit by the fire until you're warm, and then we'll see about whether or not I'll allow you to go back over there,” she told him. "Aye, milady,” Andy said on a long sigh. He sat beside Jules who glared at the young soldier. "You sneeze on me at your own peril, boy,” Jules warned. **** The snow did not stop until just before four in the afternoon. At least six inches had fallen to obscure the roadway. Though it was a pristine sight that greeted Maire as she left the barn to wade through the snow to Elsbeth's cottage to begin the supper meal, she knew it would make for treacherous travel the next morning. "You should send someone out right after first light to mark the way, Guy. Maybe take the travois with the goods to clear a light path,” she told him as he walked with her. “I can write down what landmarks he should look for." "I will do that,” Guy said. He had already been over to the cottage around noon to have a long talk with the widow and her sons. He made it clear to the Barnes family that they were to keep their mouths shut while Maire was in attendance, driving it home to them, it was only because of Maire's intervention that they were free of gags and bonds. One false move, one hateful word to Maire and they would all four spend a very miserable night trussed up like feast gooses. The two guards at the door smiled warmly at Maire and one stepped to the door to open it for her. He grinned broadly when she thanked him by name, his chest puffing out with pride that she had made note when she'd heard it and remembered.

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Elsbeth and her boys were sitting at the hearth but not a one of them looked around as Maire entered the cottage. They kept their backs to her the entire time she prepared the evening meal, even going as far as to refuse their portion of the food when it was offered to them. After serving the two guards hot bowls of stewed pork—Strom had found a wild boar and brought it down with one arrow—Maire slathered the biscuits she'd made with a bit of fried meat grease from the boar fat with a bit of butter. Piling the biscuits into a large pan into which a towel had been laid, she had Guy and Strom bring along the big kettle of stew laden with plenty of dried rosemary, parsley and sage as well as all the root vegetables in her satchel. "Mighty fine vittles,” one of the guards complimented her. With the pan clutched to her chest, Maire inclined her head. “I'm glad you like it,” she said. "By the gods, what is that?” Jules demanded as he hopped up to take the pan from her. “Is that pork?" "Aye, it is,” Guy answered, “and a stew fit for the Black Baron, himself." Dek was at last sitting up with the blankets tucked carefully around his legs. His wound had been freshly dressed again and Jules had pronounced it healing as well as could be expected. Nevertheless, when Maire brought him a tin cup of the stew, he pretended to be too weak to hold the spoon from his mess kit. "Liar,” Guy mumbled out of the corner of his mouth. "Do you want me to feed you, milord?” Maire inquired, with hands on hips. "I'm feeling poorly, tarrishagh. Fragile as a newborn sparrow,” Dek said as he put a hand to his heart. “Would you?" "Be careful how you spoil him, Maire,” Guy warned. He sat beside Jules to have his own supper. “He's been known to take advantage of a lady's generosity." "Those days are o'er. There will be no other woman save Maire for me from this day forward,” Dek pledged. “I swear it on the throne of Tarryn." Immediate silence settled over the room as every eye went to Maire. Even the prisoners seemed shocked by the vow. "Milord,” Maire whispered. “Do not say such things!"

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"'Tis true,” Dek said then raised his voice. “Let every man jack here know—I have claimed this woman as my Cochianglt and when I am able to divorce the Baroness Ynez, I will ask Maire to be my lawful bride." A shocked gasp ran through those gathered. Such declarations were not made before the common soldiers. The doings of the royalty was carried out behind closed doors with councils and lawgivers in attendance. Not until the town crier announced the news was it known by anyone outside the court. Jules and Guy had guessed already what Dek was planning so neither commented on the pronouncement. Instead, they silently ate their food while striving not to glance at one another. "Milord, please,” Maire said, imploring him with her eyes. “We said we would not speak of this until after you are free." "I want there to be no misunderstandings in their minds, tarrishagh,” he said. “My intentions toward you are honorable." "We know that, Dek,” Jules said quietly. “There is no need to mention it again." "Aye,” Guy concurred though he, like Jules, kept his attention on the tin cup in his hand. "Does that mean you haven't laid a hand to our countrywoman?” one of the prisoners demanded. “That you haven't ravished her already?" Maire swung her head toward the speaker. Her eyes bored into the man with heat. “Nay, he did not ravish me!" "But has he had you?” the man persisted. "You want to lose your tongue, Spivy?” Jules asked in a menacing tone and then swiveled his head to pin the man with a flint-hard glower. “Do not ever impugn this lady's honor again. Are we clear?" "I honor the lady, Spivy,” Dek said. “I would never do anything from this day on to cause her shame." Spivy's gaze shifted to Maire who held his stare without blinking and then he nodded slowly. “My apologies, milady,” he said, seemingly satisfied by the answer, though he kept his eyes on her. "They'll wonder how you could come to cherish her so deeply in so short a time,” Guy said quietly. He took a bite of biscuit. “They do not have our customs."

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"Our men will explain it to them,” Jules said then clarified his words. “What it means to be a Cochianglt, for they will surely ask." "Love at first sight is not something most of them will understand,” Dek said, “but that is surely what happened." Maire gave him a surprised look. She hoped only the two of them knew the truth behind it all. She knew both Jules and Guy knew there had been intimacy between them at some long ago point, but she did not think Dek would have told them what Reese Fontyne had done. "Love, milord?” she queried. "Aye, milady. It is love and has been since that first night. Why else do you think I would have searched the world over for you?” he answered. When she looked away, he reminded her that the cup of stew in her hand was growing cold. Maire dipped the spoon into the cup and ladled out a large chunk of pork. She brought it to his lips then smiled when he sighed with pleasure as he chewed the tender, succulent meat. Insisting he have another cup when that one was finished, she sat propped against the wall as the fire popped and the wind howled outside in the eaves and ate her own portion, taking small bites of biscuit in between spoonfuls of the stew. When two men got up to replace the guards at the cottage, Maire noticed Dek was sleeping, his chin on his chest. She motioned for Jules and Guy to ease him down onto the pallet, so he would be more comfortable. He mumbled as he was scooted down, but he did not wake. By the time she reclined a foot or so from him, he was lightly snoring. Smiling to herself, Maire closed her eyes and joined him in slumber.

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Chapter Six

"Here we are again,” he said, reaching for her hand to draw her to him. “How do you like this place?" Maire was astounded at the beauty of the waterfall before her. She'd never known such vivid dreaming in all her life. Everything seemed so real, so true, and when she stretched out her hand to touch the satiny surface of a vibrant green leaf, she could feel its texture, just as she could feel Dek's warm fingers lacing through hers. "Where are we?” she asked. "Montyne Cay,” he replied. “A place I found in a dream long ago.” He swept his free hand in a wide arc before them. “As far as the eye can see there is nothing but pristine beauty. We are alone on this island paradise." Jewel-colored butterflies flitted among the lush emerald foliage, winging about with breathtakingly beautiful birds of every hue of the rainbow. Reddish brown monkeys with sweeping tails swung from vine to vine above them in the high canopy of the densely growing trees—chattering to one another as they played. Scented of jasmine and gardenia, honeysuckle and sweetshrub, the air was moist and warm, a light breeze playing over the lovers with a gentle caress that brought with it a touch of the mist from the cascading waters. Feeding into a sparkling lake, the waterfall soared high above, its tumbling waters sparkling in the tropical sun as it splashed. The sound was a pleasant roar in the background. "Beautiful,” she said as Dek led her to the bank of the lake where a blanket had been spread. "Not as beautiful as you,” he said, helping her to sit. She leaned against him, inhaling the wondrous scents wafting around her. "Do you swim?" "Aye,” she said. “I...." The sudden entrance into the water with Dek floating on his back beside her made her laugh. She was as naked as the day she'd been born—as was he—and the cool waves sweeping around her bare breasts were soothing as she treaded water.

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"There is a cave behind the water,” he told her and flipped over. She watched his sure, powerful strokes as he cut through the waves like a dolphin. He plunged—his bare ass showing above the water as he dove beneath the surface. Jackknifing her body, she set out after him, sliding under the falling waters where he had disappeared. "Oh!” she whispered as she took in the shimmering walls of the cave into which she swam. Thousands of candles in brass sconces lit the murky interior where milky green stalactites and stalagmites dripped and soared in profusion from a boxwork ceiling. Around her the waters were a deep celadon green color. Dek was sitting on a wide expanse of pearly sand that swept back from the waters to form a bank. Legs bent at the knees and crossed in front of him, he had his arms wrapped around them so his manhood was hidden from her view as she waded onto the bank. "This is unreal,” she said as she knelt beside him. "I dream it and it becomes real,” he said. He leaned back until he was stretched out beside her, opening his arms to her. “Just as real as the loving I am about to give you." It was a dream, she thought. Only a dream and in dreams all things were possible. She turned, moved over him, her body covering his like a blanket as he enfolded her into his arms. One long leg hooked over hers at the bend of her knee. Idly his fingers fanned up and down her back until she relaxed atop him. Her lower body lay wedged between his legs and he crooked one knee to better accommodate their closeness. He placed a soft kiss on her brow. "What kind of flowers do you want to grow around your cottage, tarrishagh?” he asked. “Anything can grow in Tarryn." She drew in a long breath, remembering the scent of sweetshrub moving through the jungle. "Sweetshrub, sweet banana shrub, honeysuckle, lilac, lavender, and jasmine,” she said wistfully. “Wisteria, Mimosa, magnolia and gardenia." "And what kinds of fruit trees?” His hand drifted down between them to caress her breast. "Mango and orange, tangerine and fig,” she said, naming the tropical fruits she had discovered as a child. “Pear, plum, nectarine, peach, and apricot.” She lifted her head. “I could make and sell jams and jellies and

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preserves, too, if I had blueberry and gooseberry, raspberry, blackberry, cherry...." Dek laughed, his thumb sweeping wickedly over her hardening peak. “When will you have time for me if you have all those fruits to pick and process?" She smiled as she splayed her hand over the thick mat of hair on his chest. “I will always make time for you, milord,” she answered. He moved his hand to cup her chin, gazing into her beautiful eyes. “Is that a promise?” he asked in a husky tone. It's just a dream she reminded herself and lowered her lips to his, boldly thrusting her tongue past his parted lips to taste the sweet warmth of his mouth. She felt his cock leap, sending a clench through her womb. The heat of their bodies soared and with it the passion that deepened her kiss until she was grinding her mouth—and groin—against him. Growling deep in his throat he snaked his arms around her to hold her savagely to him. He rolled to his side until he was lying above her, using his knees to spread her legs apart. Molding his mouth to hers, their tongues mating, he slid a hand between them to take hold of his shaft. Maire gloried in the feel of his firm thrust into her body. He took possession of her, branded her, and claimed her in that one, sure stroke. She clung to him—burying her head against his shoulder—as he rocked their bodies together forcefully. He stretched her, filled her, pressed deep within her aching sheath until he could go no farther. The very tip of him seemed to touch her womb and the thought made her body spasm. "Deklyn!” she cried as wave after wave of pure delight rushed through her. He was pumping hard with the first squeeze of her inner muscles. The sound of their bodies meeting seemed to spur him on. In between fierce grunts, he rammed into her with such speed, such power she thought she would pass out from the sensation. On and on her orgasm went until she felt him spilling into her. A ragged cry of exultation echoed through the cave as he came. She stared up at him as he dropped his head back—the cords standing out in his neck as he strained to pour every last ounce of himself into her body. Mine, she thought as she stared at the width of his powerful shoulders, the muscles flexing in his broad chest as he strained over her. She could see the wild tattoo of his heartbeat thundering in the vein running the length of

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his throat. His breathing was labored when he lowered his head and his eyes met hers. So handsome. So virile. So completely male. He was everything any woman could want, and he was hers. "All yours,” he said, looking deep into her soul. “Always yours." Maire slid her palms up his arms and drew him down to her, his head to her breast, fingers in his hair. Stroking the black locks from his damp forehead, she loved the feel of his weight pressing her down. "I love you,” he said, warm breath fanning over her. "Aye, milord. I believe you do,” she said as she came to the undeniable realization that she was falling in love with him as well. Her arms constricted around him protectively. "We're going to be together, tarrishagh,” he said. "We'll see." Here in this magical place he had conjured for the two of them, for now, things were as she had always wanted them to be. She had a man who loved her, craved her, and would die to protect her. She was his treasure and his delight, his all. Nothing and no one else in the world mattered. At least for this short span of precious time, life could be sweet and loving. There would be time aplenty for the real world to intrude. For now, she had all she needed in the body of the Black Baron of Drogh-gheay. **** The harbor was blocked a mile from shore with a line of Tarryn warships and the docks crowded with their country's vessels. The first sight Maire had of the Tarryn flagship that would be taking her to her new life widened her eyes in awe. It was the largest ship she'd ever seen in the Norvus harbor. It was jet black from ratline to keel, from mast to sheeting, from stem to stern. In the glare of the harsh winter day, against the backdrop of the gray ocean littered with floating islands of ice, it was a sight to behold. On the black teakwood decks, black-clad sailors in heavy wool coats were making ready for departure, the noise of their laughter making it clear they were happy to be going home. In the crow's nest, a young boy called down a welcome to Jules. "Get your scrawny ass down from there, Seannie!” Jules shouted up to the boy. “Now!" "His son,” Guy mumbled to Maire. “One of five."

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Maire turned her surprised gaze to Jules. She would not have pegged him as a family man. "All from different women,” Guy added as he helped her from the travois. “Not a wife among them." "What of you, Guy?” she asked. “Do you have a son aboard this beautiful ship?" Guy shook his head. “I'm careful where and when I sow my seed, lass. Five nephews and three nieces are enough for me." "A potent man is our Jules,” Dek said. He winced for Rupert and Strom were removing the ropes that had secured him to the travois and must have disturbed his wound. He held up a hand before Maire could inquire. “Just a twinge, tarrishagh. Nothing more." "Captain Yn Zell has your cabin all ready for you,” Guy told his overlaird, “so don't be thinking you're going to be up and at the helm as is your custom when we leave a port." Maire looked down at Dek. “You are a multi-talented man, are you not, milord?" "He's a showoff,” Jules grumbled, waving Strom and Rupert to hurry with their task. “And it pisses Yn Zell off when he commandeers the man's ship and risks staving in the hull as he's taking her out to sea." Dek sniffed. “Not much chance of that happening. Besides, it's my ship and if I want to sail her, I can.” The Baron held out his hand to take Maire's. “I christened her the Céirseach,” He told her as she walked beside the litter upon which Strom and Rupert were carrying him up the gangplank. “It means blackbird in Tarryn." "It is a very impressive ship, milord,” she said, looking about her as they came aboard. She was aware of the furtive looks she was getting but none of the eyes inspecting her were filled with anger or suspicion. It was curiosity coming her way as every sailor flicked a glance to her now and again. "You will be having the cabin Jules and I normally share,” Guy said and when she would have protested, he shook his head. “There's no argument, lass. We have grown accustomed to the hard ground during this latest campaign so a hammock slung between two beams will seem like heaven to us." "That is a surety,” Jules agreed. His rigid face broke into a grin as the lad from the crow's nest came running toward him. Reaching out, he gave the

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boy a quick embrace then tousled his windblown red hair. “You been toeing the line, son?" The young boy nodded eagerly, puffing out his scrawny chest. “Cap'n says I'm the best cabin boy he's had since he's been sailing the nine seas." "Um,” Jules drawled. He took the slim shoulders of the lad between his huge hands and turned him, so he was facing Maire. “This is Lady Maire. You be on your very best behavior when you're around her. You catch my drift, boy?" Seannie tucked one arm at his waist and the other at his back and bowed very elegantly, very maturely to Maire. “At your service, milady,” he said in a deeper voice than he'd used in speaking to his father. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sean,” Maire said, holding out her hand. She was surprised when the boy took it and very expertly gave it a respectful kiss. "The pleasure is all mine, milady,” he replied in a grave tone. Releasing her hand, he stepped back. He jabbed a thumb to his chest. “Whatever you need, I'm your man." "What she needs is a nice hot bath,” Dek said. “Think you can take care of that, Seannie?" "Aye, Your Grace!” the boy said. "We'll take your things to the cabin, milady,” Andy said. "Thank you, Andy,” Maire said. Strom and Rupert had reached the hatchway and were maneuvering themselves into position to carry the litter down the steep steps. The strain of carrying their overlaird was beginning to show on their broad faces. They were breathing heavily as they made their way carefully down the steps. "I'm sorry, men,” Dek apologized. "Don't mention it, milord,” Rupert said. “You'd do the same for us if it was needed." Maire followed behind, holding up the hem of the great cape to keep from stepping on it as she descended the ladder. Her thoughts were on the loyalty of the Baron's men and how he'd been respectfully greeted with the doffing of watch caps or bowing as he'd been carried past. None of the sailors had spoken to him unless first spoken to by their overlaird but they all had ready smiles for him and looks of concern in their gazes. She wondered how many

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commanders of her country's militia and navy could say the same of his men. From her stint in the field hospital, she knew the count would be low. "Into having your men cart you about now like a pasha, are you, Your Grace?" The booming voice startled Maire, and she jumped, turning her head quickly to see a big, brawny male in the uniform of a ship's captain bearing down on them from the companionway. His shoulders were so wide they nearly spanned the width of the corridor. "I was a bit tired, Larson,” Dek said. “Didn't want to wear myself out." "Um, that's not the way I heard it,” the captain said. He walked to the litter and looked down at his overlaird, shook his head and clucked his tongue. “Stopping arrows with your body is not the way it's done, you know.” He glanced at Strom. “Shoving this oversized ox in the way of it is what you should have done." "I'll try to remember that next time,” Dek said. “Maire?" She moved toward them, drawing the captain's notice for the first time. A hesitant smile tugged at her lips as she clutched her nervous fingers before her. "Larson, this is Lady Maire,” Dek introduced her. “The lady for whom I've been searching all these many years." The captain's face lit up. “Well, glory be to the gods and goddess! At last!” He reached out a beefy hand to take Maire's, bringing it to his mouth where a large walrus moustache twitched above equally large lips. “It is a pleasure, milady!” His kiss was firm against the back of her hand and his warm bluegreen eyes shone with pleasure as he looked up at her through the wild bushes of his eyebrows. He made her laugh when he winked at her. "You, sir, are a flirt,” she accused as he released her hand. "I, madam, surely am,” he agreed with another wink. “If you tire of this one, I am at your service.” He clicked his heels with military precision. "Don't let him fool you, tarrishagh,” Dek said. “Larson has been happily married to his lady-wife Inga for twenty-three years, and they have seven beautiful daughters and four handsome sons to their credit with the twelfth on the way any day now." "Oh, my!” Maire said. “You have my deepest respect, Captain. Twentythree years of marriage in this day and time is, indeed, an accomplishment of note."

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Larson shrugged. “What can I say? No other woman would have me but my Inga, and I do my best to make sure she never strays." "Keeping the poor woman pregnant will certainly do the trick,” Jules mumbled as he and Guy joined them. "Inga is our sister,” Guy informed Maire. "Our oldest sister,” Jules amended. "Get the door, willya, brat?” Larson snapped at Jules. “These men are getting tired of holding up our errant leader." Jules muttered under his breath then moved to open a door a few feet away. He stepped back to allow Strom and Rupert to maneuver the litter into the cabin. "Our cabin is just next door,” Guy said, taking Maire's arm to lead her that way. “While they are getting him settled in, tucked into bed, you can refresh yourself." "Seannie is heating water for a bath for her,” Jules said. “Take your time, wench, and rest. We'll come to get you when ‘tis time for supper." Maire would have preferred to stay with Dek, to see he was made comfortable, but she allowed Guy to escort her to the cabin he shared with his brother onboard the Céirseach. When he opened the door, she was amazed at how neat and clean was the quarters. "I can't abide clutter,” Guy told her as he helped her off with the greatcoat. “Jules, on the other hand, would drop his clothes where he stood and kick them aside as they piled up. When we share a bunk, he has to adhere to my rules." The cabin was toasty warm with a big copper tub wedged in one corner. Already the tub had a couple of buckets of steaming water in the bottom. "That,” Guy said, pointing to the tub, “belongs to Dek. He's the only one on board who uses the gods-be-damned thing. The rest of us make do with a bucket and a sponge bath if we need it. He would, too, except the tub is good for his back." Maire looked around, her brows drawn together. “His back?" Guy nodded. He hung the great coat on a hook beside the door. “It troubles him something fierce at times. We take turns rubbing it for him then he soaks in the tub to help ease the pain."

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"I didn't know he had such an ailment." "That fight I mentioned he had with his boyhood friend, Lord Reese Fontyne? It was during the fight that Reese picked up a length of wood and hit Dek square in the back with it, done some damage I guess. Deklyn has had problems with his lower back ever since." Guilt spread through Maire and she had to turn away. It had been over her the two men had fought and Dek had not come away unscathed. It made her heart ache to think of him suffering on her account. "Do you use liniment when you rub?” she asked, taking a seat on one of the bunks. “There is a brew I was taught to make at the field hospital that gave relief to injuries of the spine." "Horse liniment,” Guy said. “That's all we knew to use and it stinks to high heaven and back again. He hates it something fierce. If you've got something that smells better, I'm all for it, lass." "I do and rosemary tea is good for the pain,” she said. “Hot towels laid across his back while he's lying on his stomach would be better than the tub since his muscles are cramped while sitting. I'll give you a list of what I need for the liniment. When will we be leaving port?" "Within the hour,” he answered. “There's time for me to send someone to the apothecary." "All right,” she said. “I'll need sonth, sweet soda, black salt, and the rosemary to make two different teas for him. For the liniment, I'll need...." Guy grabbed a sheet of paper from a desk built into the cabin wall and hastily jotted down the different herbs, spices, and essential oils she wanted along with strips of unbleached muslin and rubbing alcohol for the liniment. "I'll also need a couple of glass jars in which to store the liniment. It takes a little over a week for the brew to cure so let's hope he won't need it before then,” she concluded. "I'll get right on it,” Guy said, turning to the door. "And Guy?" Hand on the door, he swung his head around. “Aye?" "Does he favor any special kind of candy?” she asked. “Something that would be a treat?"

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"Lemon drops,” Guy said. “He's been known to eat a pound of ‘em at a sitting." "Then by all means get a pound for him. I imagine he will start to chaff at the bit with having to stay abed so we will need something to distract him." Guy grinned. “Do you by any chance play chess, lass?" **** Once underway, the Céirseach churned its way through the ice floating on the surface of Norvus Bay. The waters were rough with the wind howling and snapping the sheets. Maire had been warned it was most likely going to be a hard sail to Tarryn when she took her seat at the captain's table with Larson, Guy and Jules. Pleased to know a tray had been sent to their patient, she settled in her chair with a contented sigh. Bathed, her hair freshly washed though not entirely dry, she was wearing her best gown—at least one that had seen the less wear and tear among her sparse wardrobe—she stared at the array of mouthwatering, aromatic dishes on a nearby rolling cart. "I've not seen so much food in many a year,” she said in awe, her mouth flooding with anticipatory juices. “Truth to tell, I don't think I've ever seen so much food at one sitting!" "Aye, well, before you ask,” Jules said in a sour tone, “the prisoners are being fed with beans, biscuits, and a good-size slice of fatback, so they're not starving down in the hole.” He sniffed. “And an apple for munching on later." Maire gave him a considering look. “Thank you for telling me, milord. I, indeed, would have asked." "It never crossed my mind that you wouldn't,” Jules muttered, flinging her a sidelong glance. The captain cleared his throat then rose to his feet, wineglass in hand. “To Lady Maire,” he said, holding the glass aloft. “We are pleased to have you with us at long last." "Here, here!” Guy said, lifting his own glass. "Aye,” Jules agreed in a gruff tone. "Thank you, gentlemen,” she said, toasting them in return. Taking a small sip of a beverage that had only rarely touched her lips she was surprised at the sweet taste and smiled appreciatively.

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"Chrystallusian plum wine,” Guy told her. “Dek's favorite." "It could well become mine if I was a drinking woman,” she said. "We don't stand on formalities here, milady,” Larson said. He glanced over at Seannie who stood off to one side. “Dish it up." Jules’ son hastened to the task, serving Maire first as he'd been instructed to by the ship's cook. He smiled shyly at her and beamed when she thanked him sweetly. “My pleasure, milady,” he declared. Throughout the meal, the conversation was lively with everyone joining in though Jules was his normal acerbic self, making sour comments now and again. He wouldn't have been Jules, otherwise. He kept reaching up to rub his throat and when asked what ailed him, begrudgingly replied his throat was beginning to bother him. "It's this blasted weather,” Larson said, leaning back after polishing off a large slice of sweet potato pie. “The wind is enough to drive you to your knees and the cold drives straight through you. I'm all for the balmy climes of Tarryn." "Me, too,” Jules stated. He wiped his mouth on his napkin then turned to Maire. “By your leave, wench, I'll be turning in.” His voice was becoming gruff, and he winced as he swallowed. "I am sorry you are feeling ill, Jules,” she said. “Sleep well." He nodded, got to his feet and left without another word. "When he's sick he's like a mean old bear awakened too early from hibernation,” Guy complained with a grimace. “He'll be a real joy for a few days." Maire reached out to touch Seannie's arm as he was clearing away the dishes. “Sean, would you ask the cook if he would heat me a pot of water, please?" "Aye, milady” Seannie replied. “Want me to bring it to your cabin?" "If you would and two tin cups as well." "Straightaway, milady!" "And extend to the cook my compliments. Tell him the food was delicious." "Aye, milady. That will surely please him!"

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She turned to Larson. “It was a delightful meal, Captain. I thoroughly enjoyed it and the excellent company but if you gentlemen will excuse me, I will leave you to your cigars and brandy." The two men shot to their feet and Larson stepped behind her chair to pull it out for her. She bid them good evening, declining Guy's offer to escort her to her cabin. Walking along the ship's hallway, she kept a hand to the wall for she'd yet to get her sea legs. Though she wasn't nauseated by the pitch and roll of the ship, she doubted she would ever be comfortable traveling upon the seas. As she arrived at the door to Dek's cabin, she knocked softly. "Enter." She opened the door and peeked around it. “How are you feeling, milord?” she inquired. "Petulant,” the Baron grumbled. “I hate laying here with nothing to do." She smiled. “I hear you play a mean game of chess. Would that help you pass the time?" Dek's answering grin made her laugh. “It surely would, tarrishagh,” he agreed. "I've a chore I need to see to before I can join you,” she told him. “Would you like a cup of tea?" He shook his head. “Just your company,” he answered. "Then I'll be back as soon as I've finished what I need to do,” she said then gently closed the door behind her. **** In the cramped cabin of the bosons’ mate where he and Guy would be sleeping, Jules was not at all happy when the knock came at his door. “What?” he shouted, wincing at the pain clawing hot agony down his throat. Seannie came in with a tin cup filled with steaming liquid. He brought it to his father. “Milady says you're to drink this down as quick like as you can.” He extended the cup. "What the devil is it?” Jules barked as he sat up, eying the cup as though it might contain a poison. "She says it's sonth, and that it will help to ease your throat."

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Jules took the cup, sniffed it. One bushy brow arched but he tipped the cup to his lips then downed the contents in two long gulps. Scowling, he shoved the cup at his son. “Tell her thank you,” he snapped before flopping back and presenting his back to Seannie. "Feel better, Da,” Seannie said, grinning at Jules’ growl. He closed the door carefully behind his exit. Jules sneezed, sneezed again then looked to the ceiling. “By the gods I hope she hasn't gone and poisoned me,” he said with a sigh.

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Chapter Seven

Maire woke early the next morning, making quick work of her ablutions even as the sun was spreading its fiery rays along the horizon. Once dressed, she left her cabin, paused at the door to Dek's but when she heard no sound within, thought he might still be asleep then went back to fetch her great coat. Shrugging into the heavy garment, she returned to the hallway and then climbed the companionway stairs, pushing open the hatch to a brisk wind that pressed against her face. The deckhands who noticed her bowed as she passed, strolling over to the rail with the coat wrapped securely around her. She loved the early morning, and though it was cold with the wind whipping around her, she deeply inhaled the saltwater smell of the ocean as she leaned against the rail. "You're an early riser, milady." She turned as Larson came toward her. “I love the quietness of this time of day nearly as much as I love twilight." "Aye,” he agreed. “It is a peaceful time of the day.” He extended his arm. “Would you join me for breakfast, then?" She hooked her arm through his. “I would love a hot cup of coffee,” she said. "That we have plenty of,” the captain assured her. “Do you like omelets?" "I love eggs but never mastered the art of making omelets,” she replied as she ventured down the companionway. "I'm told it takes a special knack,” Larson acknowledged as he led her to the dining cabin and opened the door for her. He helped her off with her coat then slung it over the back of an empty chair at the table that ordinarily seated eight diners. After helping her to her seat, he took his own rightful place at the head of the table. Though Maire was unaccustomed to eating breakfast, she gave in to the captain's coaxing and ate a cheese omelet, two strips of crispy bacon and a piece of toast with boysenberry jam. By the time Guy and Jules joined them, they were nearly finished with their meal. "Good morn, lass,” Guy said. “Did you sleep well?" "Very well, thank you,” she replied then looked at Jules. “Are you feeling better today, Jules?"

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Jules nodded. “My throat hurts but that tea helped." "Would you like some more?" He nodded again as he took his seat. "Don't mind him, Maire,” Guy said. “He's not a morning person." "Nor afternoon nor evening nor night,” Larson added with a chuckle. "The two of you can kiss my hairy.... “Jules began, turned red then hissed, mumbling an apology to Maire before taking a seat. "I could also make you a poultice for your throat,” Maire told him. “It always worked for my husband." Jules slowly looked up from the plate Seannie had placed before him. “Why are being nice to me, wench? I've not been all that friendly to you. Why bother with me?" "You haven't been friendly to her at all,” Guy corrected as he dove into the food on his plate. “She should just let you suffer but that isn't her way." "You can win friends with kindness far better than with abuse,” Maire said softly. She took a sip of coffee, looking at Jules over the rim. Jules drew in a long breath then exhaled loudly. “You make it gods-bedamned hard not to like you, wench,” he groused then picked up his knife and fork to begin cutting up his omelet. "I surely hope so,” Maire agreed. A sound at the door made them all look that way and there was protest from each of them as they saw Dek standing there. He held his hand up to still their complaints. "I can't spend every waking hour in that bunk,” he told them, “else I'll just get weaker and become as mad as a March hare. Trust me, I feel well enough to be up and about and besides which I'm starving.” He started around the table to sit beside Maire, holding onto the chairs as he went. When Guy would have gotten up to help him, he waved his cousin aside. “For the love of the goddess I'm not an invalid, Yn Baase. Sit your ass down." "Your color is better, milord,” Maire pronounced. "Must have been caused by the wicked dream I had last eve,” Dek said as he accepted the cup of coffee Seannie poured for him.

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Maire's cheeks blazed with color, and she found the top of the table to be a very intriguing spot to direct her gaze. She felt the brush of his boot against her foot then the double tap of his knee to hers. Shyly she turned her head to give him an admonishing look for she, too, had had a dream that had left her sighing with contentment. "Must have been a helluva dream,” Larson said with a snort. "It was,” Dek replied. He was looking directly at Maire. “And how are you this morn, tarrishagh?" "Very well, thank you,” she replied, nodding to Seannie when he offered more coffee. “I'll be sloshing when I walk but this is a very fine brew, Sean." "Made it myself, I did! The secret is in eggshells. You.... “Sean began bragging then ducked his head when his father shot him a look of reproach. He started toward the captain who waved him away. "I've got to see to my ship,” Larson said. He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He gave Maire a gentle smile. “If you get tired of His Grace's company, come up top, and I'll teach you how to steer this beauty." "I will take you up on that offer,” she said. After the captain's departure, Dek reached over to cover her hand. “You plan on getting tired of me, then?" "You need your rest,” she reminded him. “When you lay down for your afternoon nap, I'll go visiting with Larson." He squeezed her hand, released it, and then took up his utensils to dig into the large plate of food Seannie put before him. He looked across the table to his cousin. “Are you feeling poorly, Jules?" "His tonsils are bothering him again,” Guy spoke for his brother. "He's flushed,” Dek said. “Mayhap you should retire to your cabin, Jules." Jules frowned. “I've a bitch of a headache,” he stated then gave Maire a steady look. “You got something for that, too, wench?" "Stop calling her wench,” Dek said in a firm tone that drew Jules’ immediate attention. “I mean it. She's not a gods-be-damned wench and one day, she will be your Baroness." Jules flicked his gaze back to Maire. “Do you have something for the headache, milady?” he asked through clenched teeth.

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"I do,” Maire said. "Then if you wouldn't mind providing it, I would be grateful. I'll be in my cabin. Just send it to me by my boy,” he said, rising. "I'll bring it and the poultice to you personally, Jules,” she replied. "No need to go to any bother,” he grumbled. "It is never a bother to help a friend,” she told him. “You would do the same for me, wouldn't you, Jules?" He pushed his chair forward and stood there with his huge, meaty hands curled over the back. “Aye, milady. I would,” he said. He shot Dek an irritated glance then left. "You're winning him over, lass,” Guy said. “It's taking tooth and nail, but winning him over just the same.” He wiped his hands on his napkin then stood. “I'll be up top if you need me, Dek.” He hooked an arm around Seannie's neck. “Why don't you come along with me, little nephew?" With everyone else gone, Dek looked around at his lady. “How did you like revisiting the waterfall, tarrishagh?” he inquired. Maire shook her head. “You are an evil man." "I think you've labeled me such before, haven't you?” he asked. "How do you send such vivid dreams, milord?" He gave her a cocky grin. “Who says they are dreams?” He put a large forkful of omelet in his mouth and chewed with that grin still in place. Maire tucked her bottom lip between her teeth, worry showing on her pretty face. She chewed on her lip for a moment then asked him what he meant. Dek locked gazes with her. “Didn't you feel my hand on your breast, milady?” he asked in a silky voice. “Didn't you feel my body against yours?" "You know I did,” she said, heat warming her face. "And when I slid my hand between your legs? Did you not....?" "Please tell me it was only a dream,” she pleaded. “If I thought for one moment it was real...."

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"As much as I would love to have you beside me, under me, your body to mine, it will have to do that I can experience that only in my mind for now and place the sensation of it in yours,” he interrupted her. He put a hand to her neck and drew her toward him, their faces close. “But make no mistake about it, Maire. The day will come when we will sleep side by side in our own bed and there will be no dreaming involved." Maire's womb clenched as he touched his lips to hers, covered her mouth with his, and thrust his tongue gently inside. His kiss was heady, causing sensations to wander at will through her entire body to befuddle her mind. The sweet warmth of his mouth, the depth of the passion seeping into her soul from his, the raging desire to have him take her then and there was more than she could take, and she pulled away, putting a trembling hand to her lips. "Milord, you have no idea what you are doing to me,” she whispered. “We should not be engaging in such activity. You belong to another.” She shook her head. “It isn't right." Dek reluctantly straightened in his chair, removing his hand from the back of her neck. “Forgive me, tarrishagh,” he said. “I let my feelings run away with me." Her heart was pounding against her ribcage, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her entire body was alive with a tingling that made her blood race, but she pushed the building ardor aside. "One day,” she heard him say. “One day I won't stop." She nodded for she could do nothing else. She was trembling with her need for him and knew if she was a different woman, she would not have stopped him. She would not be suffering the heavy ache that had settled between her legs. She would have opened her arms and allowed him to do with her as he pleased. "I imagine we will reach Tarryn by nightfall,” he said, picking up his fork again. “I had hoped you would be able to see your cottage as we sailed past." "That would have been nice,” she said. Needing to put some distance between them, for her body was on fire with an awareness that was sending tremors through her hands, she told him she needed to see to making Jules’ poultice and tea. Dek made no move to stop her when she got up and skirted the table. He sent her a gentle smile as she looked back before going out, sighed as the door closed behind her, and then finished his meal without much enthusiasm now that the light had gone out of the room. He felt worse than he had let on and was now longing for the soft comfort of his bed. The wound in his chest

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was throbbing, itching as it healed. As soon as he crammed the last piece of toast into his mouth, he was ready for his pillow and blanket. **** Maire was not surprised that Dek had gone back to his cabin. She'd been given the information by the ship's cook, who had stopped by in order to see if the table had been cleared. Surprised to find his overlaird struggling to get to his feet, the man had hurried to help him, ushering the Baron back to his cabin with as much speed as the wounded man could handle. "He was a mite feverish if you ask me, milady,” the cook said. “You might want to look in on him seeing as how you're his lady and all." Thanking the man for his concern, Maire had, indeed, checked on Dek. Opening the door, his deep snore gave her all the information she needed to quietly close the portal again. Going back to the dining cabin to fetch her great cape, she headed for the upper deck. There was more hustle and bustle now that it was full light and the deckhands were busy with their routine jobs. She was delighted to see the prisoners—although restrained with shackles that laced them together—were being allowed the blessing of fresh air instead of being stuck in the hole all the way to Tarryn. The men gave her hard looks then pointedly turned away, leaving no doubt in her mind how they felt about her fraternizing with the enemy. Going back to the rail at which she'd stood earlier that morning, she leaned her elbows on the teak rail and looked down at the waves flowing past the keel of the ship. The air was warmer the further south the ship sailed and the wind had calmed to a bluster instead of the brisk icy snap it had been the first time she'd come atop. Above her the sun was trying to peek through scudding clouds, and she turned her face to its warmth, closing her eyes to feel the play of the wind across her cheeks. A slight spray of water shot up from the waves to surprise her. She flinched then a very vivid memory of the dream she'd had just before she'd risen came back to haunt her and make her body ache once more with need. She turned her head toward the companionway and wondered if perhaps Dek was dreaming, broadcasting his dream for her to share. "Not only evil but insidiously so,” she whispered but turned back to stare out across the heaving ocean, letting her thoughts center on the dream. He had been no gentle lover this time but a demanding, insatiable one. His hands had roamed eagerly at her breast, between her legs. His hard body had entered hers on a firm, power-filled thrust that had her writhing beneath him, locking him to her with her legs and arms tightly clamped around him. He had ridden her hard and given her more pleasure than any woman had

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the right to know, all the while calling her his love, his lady, his tarrishagh. They had climaxed together with wild cries of abandon then lain depleted in each other's arms. "I will come to you every night,” he told her. “Every night in our dreams until the day comes when it will be as it should be with us." Opening her eyes, Maire no longer saw the undulating rise and fall of the ocean over which the ship was passing. She did not smell the salt air or hear the raucous cries of the sailors as they worked. Her mind's eye was on that underground grotto behind the jungle waterfall where the scent of gardenia was thick on the humid air, on the soft sand where she had lain with her phantom lover, and on the promises he had made to her as he'd fused his body and soul with hers and knew she'd never be the same again. "I am falling in love with him,” she said and that thought filled her with anxiety. After all, he was the infamous Black Baron, the scourge of her people, the man responsible for the agonized deaths of many of her countrymen. Even so, he was also the man who had taken her maidenhead and who now claimed her for his own, who promised her a new life in a new land. There was but one major obstacle and that was the woman to whom he was legally married. A shudder ran through Maire. If she was to believe Dek, there was no love lost between him and his wife and Guy had said the same thing. It had not been a marriage either of them had wanted and both had been trapped in a loveless, childless union that supposedly made them both miserable. But was that true? Did Ynez Yn Baase hate her husband as Dek had said or was she the type of woman who would fight to hold onto him when she learned he had found someone he loved? "What if she won't let him go?” she whispered. “Out of spite or pride?" The thought didn't bear entertaining for her whole life was being wrapped up in the stuff of Deklyn Yn Baase's dreams. Not that she believed he would allow anyone to hurt her but if after these nighttime excursions into wild passion, she had nothing to look forward to.... Another shudder wracked her and she turned from the rail, wrapping her arms around her to hold at bay the chill that had suddenly descended upon her, leaning against it to watch the sailors going about their duties. Anything was better than allowing her mind to dwell on the what-ifs that were suddenly plaguing her. "You ready to try your hand at sailing her?” Larson called out to her, drawing her attention sternward.

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Maire forced a smile she did not feel to her lips and headed toward him, speaking softly to deckhands who greeted her with a tapping of their index fingers to their foreheads in salute. **** Ynez Yn Baase, the Baroness of Drogh-gheay, was in one of the foulest moods her staff had seen in many a day. Broken vases, overturned furniture, ripped curtains, and the feathers from pillows that had torn apart by the Baroness’ own hand littered Her Grace's bedchamber. The air was redolent of perfume that had spilled from bottles that had been smashed against the expensively papered moiré walls. A steady stream of unladylike language bombarded the hapless servants who stood with heads bowed, hands clenched and mouths clamped tightly shut. To so much as glance at the rampaging woman brandishing the sennett whip was to ask for the punitive instrument—eighteen inches of braided rope that had been dipped in tar to harden it—upon their backs. "I'll not have it!” Ynez shouted, snapping the whip over her head before shooting it forward to take the head off a statuette. “I will not!" Tramping upon the new gowns that had been delivered just that morning the Baroness of Evil as her servants called her behind her back, kicked one lovely concoction aside. She snapped the whip again to lay open the tufted back of a delicate velvet upholstered chair before lifting her leg and kicking it over. The older woman, who had been Ynez's governess since the Baroness’ third birthday stood watching her with crossed arms, pursed lips and an arched brow. She, alone among the staff held any sway over the impetuous, spoiled chatelaine of Drogh-gheay, but considering the rage being vented this day, Miriam Brazwellington voiced no opinions during the tantrum. "By the goddess, I loathe that man!” Ynez hissed and with a careless flick of her wrist struck one of the trembling maids across the bosom with the sennett, ignoring the young girl's cry of pain. “Why could he not have died alongside that bastard friend of his?" "If he had,” Miriam said in a reasonable voice, “you would have been none the better off for it, Your Grace. His father would have handed you into the keeping of some highly placed warrior who might not have been as lenient as the younger Baron." Ynez whipped around to point the whip at Miriam. “Do not speak to me of that monstrous old prick! I am glad he is moldering in his grave these last three years!"

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"As are we all, Your Grace,” Miriam agreed. “And remember: there are less than two years left on the marriage contract, and then you will be free of Deklyn Yn Baase." "The end will not come soon enough for me,” Ynez snarled then tossed the whip aside, ordering the servants to clean up the mess as she strode haughtily from the room. Miriam clapped her hands smartly three times. “Be quick about it,” she demanded. “Her Grace will want a nap after the noon meal, and I want this room spotless by the time she returns to it!” Tossing her head, she followed her mistress from the room. "How dare he survive still another attempt on his life!” Ynez snarled as she waited at the top of the stairs for Miriam to come abreast of her. “How dare he?" "The man has the lives of a cat,” Miriam drawled. "I would like to take a cat o'nine to him,” Ynez said, eyes narrowed. “I would cut his back to shreds, laughing the entire time!" Miriam smiled. “I would pay money to see that, Nezzie,” she said softly, reaching out to gently cup the Baroness’ cheek. Ynez leaned into the touch, closing her eyes to the soft feel of the warm hand upon her flesh. She reached up to press it tighter to her jaw. “You know how to calm me, do you not, old friend?” she asked. "I should after all these years." The Baroness opened her eyes then jerked back, swinging her head from side to side to see if they were being observed, satisfied they weren't, she hiked up her skirts and started down the long, winding staircase. Miriam followed her down the steps. "How old were you again when you first came to Sasana?” Ynez asked, referring to the Baroness’ childhood home. "Sixteen,” Miriam said. “A very innocent sixteen." "Your innocence didn't last long, though, did it?” Ynez tossed over her shoulder. "I prefer not to think of that dark time,” Miriam replied in a hollow voice.

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"I would think not. My father was almost as much of an ogre as the elder Baron of Drogh-gheay and perhaps even more of a satyr if the stories are true." "Viscount Arabach was a reprobate of the highest order,” Miriam stated. "But of higher rank than my future father-in-law,” Ynez smirked. “Why he handed me into the keeping of a family beneath us in the peerage is beyond my comprehension." "Alas, because the war has dragged on for so long, the peerage is no more so it is a moot point, Nezzie,” Miriam reminded the younger woman. “The king, his dukes and marquises, earls and viscounts are long gone on to their just rewards at the hands of assassins or upon the field of battle. Among the peerage, only the Black Baron remains, and he is, in essence, the ruling head of Tarryn now." "I shall never think of him in that light,” Ynez sniffed, swishing her skirt in vexation. “He deserves no such honor." "Nevertheless he is the ruling head of Tarryn, the heart of the country, and you are his wife, dearly loved by the populace." Ynez threw back her head and laughed with as much unladylike disdain as she had cursed. “Bah! The people hate my guts, and well you know it, Miri!” She wrapped her hands around the older woman's arms as they strolled into the library. “There is only one person who loves me, and we know who that is, don't we?" Seeing they were alone in the library, Miriam detached herself from Ynez's light hold and closed the library door, twisting the lock into place before turning. She smiled, opened her arms to embrace the younger woman. She stroked the dark silk of the Baroness’ hair as Ynez laid her head to Miriam's ample bosom. "Why couldn't he have died, Miri?” Ynez asked. “Why must he return to Drogh-gheay to do his mending? I've not seen the bastard in two years. Why must I ever see him again until the day our marriage is annulled?" "Only the goddess knows why She has put this misfortune in your path, my love,” Miriam said. “Ours is not to question Her." "I hate him." "As do I, but we will make the best of it while he is here—which I am sure will not be long. He never stays long when he comes, and I would venture to say this time will be no different. If you stay out of his way, he will stay out of yours."

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"What if...?” Ynez shuddered before she continued. “What if he wants to do it while he's here?" "He will,” Miriam said with a frown. “You know he will insist upon it, and that you must oblige him, dear. You have no other choice." Ynez stamped her foot. “Why, oh why, can the man not keep a mistress as any sensible male would? She could bear the weight of his ugly, heavy body, and I would not be forced to!" "Whether or not he has a mistress is of no matter. You must service him, Nezzie. You know that all too well." "But why must I endure his disgusting rutting?" Miriam sighed for it was a question she had heard a thousand times before and was tired of answering. She simply continued to stroke Ynez's hair until the younger woman lifted her head and looked into Miriam's eyes. Then she lowered her lips to Ynez's. **** Hair escaping the braid flung over her shoulder, her cheeks rosy from the wind and the sun that had finally melted away the clouds as the Céirseach entered the balmy waters of the Cape of Annwn, Maire lifted her skirts and skipped lightly down the steps of the companionway. Without the heavy imprisonment of the great coat, she had long since discarded as the weather turned tropical, she felt young and carefree as she rapped smartly on Dek's door. "There is no one here,” she heard him say and laughed, opening the door to find him sitting up in bed with a book. "Should I leave then?” she asked, hanging onto the edge of the portal, shooting him a teasing grin. "You forgot all about me today,” he complained, closing the book without marking his place then tossing it aside. “I've been stuck in here with nothing to do and no one to talk to." "To argue with, you mean,” she countered, coming all the way into the cabin. She went over to his desk, pulled out his chair and carried it to the bunk where she sat down primly with her legs to one side and her hands folded primly in her lap. “Are you going to be a brat, Baron Yn Baase?" "If I want,” he asserted. “I am entitled. I am a wounded warrior, milady. Take pity on me."

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She waved a dismissive hand, rolling her eyes at his woebegone expression. “You're a brat,” she decided. "How goes the voyage?” he inquired. "We're making good speed,” she said, her eyes bright and shining with excitement. “And the dolphins have been shadowing us for several knots now." Dek grinned. “Nautical miles, tarrishagh,” he said. “A knot is how fast the ship is going." "Oh,” she said and then shrugged like a little girl. “Whatever.” She looked around. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?” She looked back at him. “Can I get you anything?" "All I want is right before me,” he said in a husky voice. He held his hand out to her. She took it, searched his eyes for a brief moment then frowned before looking away. He cocked his head to one side. “What was that look?" She shrugged. “Sometimes I do too much thinking,” she said in a low voice. "And you were thinking about what just then?” he asked. Once more she shrugged but her shoulders slumped lower there at the end. "Maire?” he coaxed, drawing out her name. She inhaled deeply before lifting her gaze to his. “I was thinking of your lady-wife." He frowned. “What of her?" Her lovely face creased. “It's that I know how I would have felt if Philip had been untrue to me,” she said. “If he...." "Did you love him?” he interrupted. Maire's brows drew together as though the question somehow hurt her. “Our marriage was complicated,” she admitted. "Did. You. Love. Him?” he repeated. Her gaze lowered. “I respected him,” she hedged. “I was a good wife to him. We...."

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"But you didn't love him." She shook her head. “Not in the way you mean, no. I had feelings for him, though. He was a good man, a decent, hardworking, honest man." "Yet not the kind of man that would instill unbridled passion in a young woman's heart,” he suggested. A slight smile tugged at her lips. “No, Philip was a homely man but he was sweet with an endearing laugh and gentle spirit. He was a good husband to me." "I'm glad,” Dek said, “but Ynez has not been a good wife to me nor me a good husband to her. There has never been any love or respect or liking between us, Maire and there never will be." "But when a woman has her husband's oainjyr...." "You are neither my mistress nor my whore!” he snapped, tightening his hand around hers. He knew the Geddynian language as well as his own and found that particular word offensive. “You are my Cochianglt, the other half of my soul!" "So you have said,” she replied softly. "Do you doubt it?” he queried, his voice equally as soft but filled with hurt. "No, but...." "Ynez and I have been married for eight years, five months, and thirteen days,” he stated. “In that time she has sent over three dozen women—young and beautiful women—to my bed in the hopes I'd take one as my mistress, so I would no longer come to hers. She has brought the most highly trained courtesans, stunningly sensual harlots, and the most willing virgins into Drogh-gheay thinking they would lure me, tempt me, and many of them did. Nevertheless, not once have I slipped between the thighs of any of them more than once." Maire's face turned bright red at his callous and earthy words. She ducked her head, unable to look at him. "I'm a man, tarrishagh,” he said, his voice now filled with pleading for her to understand. “I have needs. It is not within me to remain celibate until this farce of a marriage of mine is put aside. Ynez doesn't expect it of me and sure as hell doesn't care how I spend my seed so long as it is not in her uncaring, unfeeling, unwelcome body. She'll not give you a second thought. If anything, she'll be relieved I've taken a lover."

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Maire raised her head. “But we are not true lovers, milord,” she protested. “I cannot—nay, I will not—lay with you until we are legally wedded. I have said as much and...." "And I will abide by that, Maire,” he said with exasperation. “I have said as much, myself!" She looked at him with sad eyes. “But will it be enough for you?" "It will have to be,” he answered and his words had the ring of truth to them. For a long moment, she stared into his eyes then at last took a long, hitch of breath, her decision made. "Then I will say no more of my concerns, milord,” she said. “If you tell me your lady-wife will have no objection to our friendship, then I believe you." "She won't,” he declared. Maire slipped her hand from his. “We'll speak no more of it,” she said then got up to fetch the chess set from the desk, returning to the bunk to place it on the mattress beside him. She pulled up her chair. **** It was Jules who came to get her not long before the sun set. He rapped gently upon the door, calling out to Maire that if she would like to see her new home, they would be passing it in a matter of minutes. "Go,” Dek encouraged her. Following behind Jules, she felt her heart thumping with excitement in her chest and when she reached the rail and looked to the cliff that they were approaching, she drew in a sharp breath. "That's it?” she said, eyes wide and mouth hanging open after her query. "Aye,” Jules replied with a sharp frown. “Are you disappointed then? Were you expecting a mansion, wench?" Maire barely spared him an annoyed look as she turned back to look at what Dek had told her was a cottage. To her way of thinking, it was a palatial estate. “'It is small enough for you to take care of on your own yet large enough that it would be comfortable for when I can come to visit',” she mumbled, her hands tight on the teakwood railing. “If that is his idea of small enough for me to take care of on my own, I'd hate to see what he thought I couldn't take care of on my own!"

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"Then it will do?” Jules asked. "Jules,” she said, stamping her foot. “That is not a cottage! That is a villa!" "No,” Jules said, drawing out the denial. “That is what we call a cottage in Tarryn. A villa is much larger and requires staff.” He pointed. “That is a cottage. ‘Tis only four rooms each floor, wench. You could easily clean it in a day, couldn't you?" Turning her attention back to the cottage, she felt the blood rushing to her head. It was a fieldstone treasure with four huge mullioned windows on the first floor and four more on the second but between those was an even larger expanse she knew was called a picture window. Jules leaned on the railing. “That gallery area. There are two bedrooms and bath on the other with the gallery there, though, for you can look down the landing."

big window is in what they call the on one side and the master bedroom in between. There's only half the floor into the great room and kitchen from

"Landing,” Maire repeated, shaking her head. “Gallery? Master bedroom?” She looked up over at Jules. “You said there were four rooms on the first floor?" He nodded. “Kitchen and great room are really just one big open room,” Jules said. “There is a room Tarnes built to be his tackle room, but I suppose that would be a good place for you to do your sewing.” He reached up to touch his throat. “I suppose one of the two other smaller rooms could be used for your ointment making and the like.” He shrugged. “The remaining one? For whatever you want. An office, perhaps?" "Office?” she shrieked, giving him an owlish look. "Well, I don't know what you'd want to use it for, wench,” he grumbled, straightening up and turning his back on the cottage they had now passed. “Use it for that gods-be-damned nanny goat for all I care!" Maire returned her attention to the place where she would be living. In the lowering sun, it was ablaze with color, the fieldstone a rosy hue, the last rays of light sparking off the window panes, the stone fence that enclosed the back of the property barely visible. She spied a barn and a small hut off to one side. That hut was five times larger than the one in which she had been living these past few years. "It is too much, Jules,” she said, her lips trembling, eyes filling with tears. “I don't deserve such an abode."

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"He thinks you do,” Jules said and once more touched his throat. “And so do I.” He strolled off with his hands jammed into the pockets of his pants. The sun set at that moment, plunging the cliff into total darkness, so she could no longer see her new home. "Oh, sweet merciful goddess,” she said, staring at the cottage until it disappeared from sight. “What in the world am I going to do with it?"

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Chapter Eight

Though the ship had docked in the Drogh-gheay slip in the harbor that ran in a semi-circle before the great keep, Dek had preferred to spend the night on board rather than inconvenience his people. Word had been sent that their overlaird had returned and asked no special considerations be made other than the preparation of his personal quarters at the keep. "He wants to put off having to see that termagant of a wife of his for as long as possible,” Guy whispered to Maire. "Won't she expect him to come home this evening?” Maire inquired. "No, lass,” Guy said. “She'd just as soon he never comes home." When she laid down that night, she expected there to be another seductive dream sent by her spectral lover but no such dream came. What she felt coming from him was anxiety, his soul in turmoil and that touched her heart deeply. She sensed him tossing and turning—grunting as his wound reminded him it was still there—so that by the time she finally fell asleep, she was exhausted and fell into a hard slumber. When Seannie tapped lightly at her door at first light, she was already up and re-braiding her hair. In her bare feet, she went to the door to accept the cup of coffee that was compliments of the captain. "His Grace is up and getting dressed,” Seannie reported. “He says to tell you he won't be having breakfast but for you to go ahead and take as long as you want. Sir Guy will take you on up to the cottage and His Grace will be heading for the keep." "He should eat,” she said. Seannie lifted his hands. “I don't think he has the stomach for it, milady. He just wants to get it over and done with, I suppose." "Seeing his lady-wife,” she said. "Aye,” Seannie agreed. “Seeing and having to deal with her is my guess.” He lowered his voice. “Always gives him a sour stomach, it does." She tilted her head to one side, realization setting in. “He doesn't want to see me this morning, does he?" Seannie shook his head. “I think it would hurt him too much, milady. He says he'll come by the cottage later in the day."

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She looked down at the cup in her hand, knowing now why it had been brought then turned a gentle smile to the young cabin boy. “Then I'll stay here until he's off the ship. Will you come to get me then?" "Aye, milady, that I will." **** As the carriage in which she was riding with Guy moved over the long, serpentine oyster-shell driveway toward the cottage, Maire moved constantly from one side of the bench to the other to get a view of the landscape. Beyond the silvery expanse of split rail fencing bordering each side of the wide driveway grew lush green grasses, stately willow trees, and a myriad assortment of flowering shrubs. Honeysuckle curled around the weathered wood rails of the fence to lend its delicate beauty to the early morning. Overhead, seabirds swooped across the bright blue sky where no trace of cloud hovered. "I believe Dek said there are sixty acres of land with the cottage,” Guy told her. “You can just barely see the stream flowing through the back of the property. I believe it to be the best feature since it flows all the way to the cliff then over the side in a small waterfall." Maire snapped her head toward him. “I didn't see that last eve!" "You can't see it from the water side,” he explained. “The rock sort of curls around it but you can hear it from the cottage and see it clearly from the balcony outside your bedroom window." "There is a balcony?” she asked in a breathless voice. "And a porch on the back just off the kitchen door." "Oh,” Maire said on a long note. She returned her attention to the land over which they were passing. “It is so beautiful, Guy." If Maire had thought the cottage palatial from a distance, seeing it up close made her knees weak. The nearer the carriage came to the fieldstone edifice, the more impressive it seemed. The dark cinnamon color of the rolled slate tiles basking in the warmth of the sun gave it a homey feel but the immaculately placed and expertly cared for shrubs, flowers, and evergreen plants belied the coziness. The atmosphere instilled within her a sense of having arrived at a graceful country estate. "Oh, Guy, this is too much,” she said, her voice breaking. "He wants to make you happy, Maire,” Guy told her. “What are you going to name it?"

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She gave him a blank look. “Name it?” she echoed. "Every cottage must have a name, lass,” he said with a laugh. “The sailor never got around to naming and Dek never cared to so the chore has been left up to you. What will you call it?" The carriage had come to a stop in front of the cottage where the driveway curved in a beautiful white arch before traveling on around the southern side of the building to loop back into the main part of the drive. She sat staring at the long sweep of porch that stretched across the front of the cottage, the stone steps leading up to the massive oak door, and the gleaming windows looking out across the end of the cliff to the swell of the blue-green waters of the Bay of Eannal. Guy opened the carriage door, stepped down then turned to hold out his hand to her. She took it and he helped her down the steps. A gentle breeze lightly touched her face—stirring the loose hairs of her braid—and she inhaled the scent of sea air, drawing it deeply into her lungs. "Sheidaghan,” she said softly. “I will call it Sheidaghan." "The windy place, eh?” Guy asked, translating the word. He nodded. “It suits, lass." "There should be a curving flagstone walkway from here to the steps,” she said, “with windflowers growing on either side in welcome." "I'll have a man out here to lay the stones before the sun goes down,” he told her. "No, I want to do it,” she said. "Then I'll get the stones for you,” he said, grinning. Maire wasn't really listening for she was moving across the thick grass toward the porch, her gaze sweeping from one end of the cottage to the other. “And trumpet vine growing up the porch columns so the hummingbirds will come to feed.” She lifted her skirt as she climbed the five steps up to the porch, which was bare of furniture. “And we need rocking chairs, Guy. At least four but mayhap six, one for each of us." "Each of us?” Guy repeated. "Dek and me,” she said. “You, Jules, Larson and his lady-wife or Seannie when the lad comes to visit.” She looked around at him—her eyes alight, joy filling her face. “Or Strom or Andy or Rupert or Giles or anyone else who drops by. We'll sit and look out at the ocean and feel the wind on our faces!"

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"That would be wonderful,” Guy said. He felt a catch in his throat and had to clear it. “I'm glad we'll be welcome here, and I know the men will be honored you expect them to come calling." "Always!” she insisted. She went to the door, reached for the handle but pulled her hand back, biting her lip as she looked to him to do the honors. "Allow me,” he said and moved past her to push the portal open. A cool wash of air flowed out of the empty house to waft over her. Her hands were twisted in front of her—clutching the skirt of her gown—as she moved over the threshold and into the bright interior of the cottage where it was cheerfully sunny with the yellow morning light. "Guy,” she whispered reverently as she took in the whitewashed walls, the highly polished oak flooring, and the immense fireplace that separated what she thought to be the sitting room from a kitchen with enough cabinet space and countertops to do a fine restaurant proud. "There are fireplaces in every room,” Guy told her. “It doesn't get cold that often in Tarryn but when it does here on the ocean side, it can be downright unpleasant. I'll see that you have plenty of firewood, lass." As though in a dream, moving through the sitting room into the kitchen area, Maire could not believe her eyes as she took in the beauty and functionality of the open room. A deep, oversized soapstone sink with a gleaming copper water pump sat beneath a wide window just begging for a window box of herbs to be growing there. Tall cabinets bracketed the window to either side. Ranged beneath the side was a long base cabinet with ten doors. That cabinet continued in an L along the southern wall where more wall cabinets were hung. In the center of the kitchen floor was a large table made of heavy timbers Guy explained had come from a ship upon which the former owner had sailed and bore a thick marble top. "Makes a good workspace, doesn't it?” Guy inquired. “He made it, himself, and even routered out a place to stick your knives to keep them at hand. See?” He showed her the long groove cut into the wood at the end of the table. Maire nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. She ran her fingertips lightly over the marble counters, pictured gingham curtains on a bay window that had been built into the very corner of the room. It was a spot that cried out for a table and chairs, a hanging copper chandelier overhead. "Once you have a sense of what's needed here, we'll drive into Cathair to pick out your furniture,” he told her. Maire blinked. “We're going to the capitol city?"

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"It's only a few miles down the road, lass,” Guy said with a grin. “It's not like we'll be traveling to the end of the country." She looked down at the only nice gown she had and pictured the city folk pointing and laughing at her. Her cheeks flamed and she shook her head. “No,” she said in a firm voice. “No, I'll give you a list, and you go." Guy's brows drew together. “Don't you want to choose your furnishings, lass?" She shook her head again. “No." Her companion opened his mouth to ask her why then realized she was looking at her gown. He clamped his lips together, deciding discretion was the better part of valor. Nevertheless, he would make sure to filch the gown she was wearing the first time they met from the hamper she'd brought along with her and take it with him to a seamstress when he rode into Cathair. Surely, he could find a few simple, elegant gowns that would suit her and perhaps a half-dozen day gowns that she would find fitting. Perhaps it was not his place to provide her with wearing apparel but the look on her face cut him to the quick as he watched her walk across the room and to the three doors that led to the other rooms on the ground floor. Staying where he was while she investigated them, he waited until she came back into the kitchen and moved to the door leading to the back porch before joining her. "Good place for an herb garden,” he said, pointing off to their right. "Aye, it would be,” she said, and he noticed her voice was subdued, a bit melancholy. "More rockers out here?” he inquired and at her thoughtful nod, decided to keep quiet as she moved back into the house and toward the curving oak steps that led to the second floor. In silence he followed her up the stairs where she stood gazing at the huge picture window and the spectacular vista of ocean beyond. "There should be a settee here so you can watch the sea when it storms,” she said quietly. “With two chairs to either side and tables." He said nothing—making a mental note of her thoughts. She viewed each of the smaller bedrooms, and sighed over the good-sized bath between them before turning to the double doors that led to the master suite. She stopped at the closed doors with her hands clenched into fists at her sides then reached for the handles, throwing the portals wide. "Oh, sweet goddess,” she said.

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The room was the only one in the house where the walls were any color other than whitewashed. The walls here were painted a pale blue with plush dark green carpeting underfoot. A beach scene of swaying palm trees, thatched hut, long wooden pier jutting out into turquoise waters had been painted on the wall opposite with double French doors that led onto a wide covered balcony. A pink lemonade sunset appeared on the horizon of the scene with seagulls caught in mid-flight. A lone pelican perched atop a wooden pier sticking up out of the water and after careful scrutiny, that portion of the mural was painted in such a way that it hid the door into a deep closet that ran the width of the room. However, the main focus of the painting was the full-rigged ship, listing into the wind as it made toward the viewer. "I had forgotten Tarnes dabbled in painting,” Guy said. “Damn if he isn't right good." "It is beautiful, absolutely breathtaking,” Maire said of the mural. She put out a hand to touch the spot where a conch shell lay on the sparkling white sand of the beach. “It's almost as though you are there, isn't it?" "Aye,” Guy agreed. “Almost makes you want to pitch a hammock ‘tween those two trees." She nodded thoughtfully. "What do you need for in here?” he asked. Her eyes scanned the room. “A big brass bed over there,” she said, pointing, “with a night table and lamp on each side, a desk and chair with a lamp on the other side of the balcony doors. My rocker and table on the other side of the fireplace and an armoire against that wall.” She put her thumb to her mouth to bite at the cuticle. “Is that too much, Guy? Am I asking for too much?" He shook his head. “Nay, lass, you are not. Dek wants you to have what you need, but he also wants to give you what you've never had. He's the wealthiest man in Tarryn, and he can afford a dozen such cottages—all furnished to the rafters—and still have enough left over to buy and furnish another keep as large as Drogh-gheay.” He smiled. “Don't be worried about breaking his purse, Maire. You won't." She thought about it for a moment then decided Dek would, indeed, want this house to be a true home. Drawing in a shaky breath, she told Guy they should jot down what was needed, then, starting with the upstairs. "I'd best find some paper and a pen, then,” he stated and left her to do just that.

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Alone in the spacious master bedchamber, she surveyed the room with a critical eye. The room faced east and west with the rose-colored marble fireplace on the north wall and the lovely mural on the south. Heavy curtains would be needed to cover the western windows to keep the late afternoon soon from overheating the room. She would angle the bed in the wide northwest corner, the armoire in the southwest corner and place the old trunk that had been her mother's at the foot of the new bed. "I'll make the coverlet and shams, myself,” she said, then pondered for a moment what the fabric might be that she would choose. “Something tropical, to blend with the mural." She moved to the balcony doors and opened them, luxuriating in the warm breeze that gently kissed her face as she walked onto the balcony. The black wrought iron railing was elegantly done with scrolls of palms and seahorses. Looking out over the vast back of the property, she spied the waterfall Guy mentioned and stood in awe as she observed it. At that moment she decided the house would be filled with all manner of things relating to the water, the sea, and the beach that ran along the bottom of the cliff. "Shells and sand dollars and beach glass,” she said. “It will be a true sailor's home, Mr. Tarnes.” Though she'd never met the man and wasn't likely to, she believed he would approve of what she intended for Sheidaghan. She turned to the fireplace. “And a big piece of driftwood above the mantle." "All right, I've got the paper and pen,” Guy said as he came out on the balcony with her. “Start listing, lass." "Well, besides the bed, night tables and armoire, there's the desk and chair, three lamps and a small bookcase. Out here, two comfortable rockers and a table.” Her eyes lit up. “And a swing, Guy! Aye, a swing!" As Guy went with her from room to room—jotting down her thoughts—he couldn't help but feel a growing love for this sweet woman. As he watched her sweep her gaze over each room, each window, his affection and respect for her grew. Everything she asked for was something that would fit the house and not be ostentatious. Each item was needed, practical, and carefully considered down to the color of the throw rugs. When he was finished with his list, he knew this house would not be a house for long but a home where Deklyn Yn Baase or any other man would feel comfortable and cared for. "I'll need provisions, Guy,” she said. “Dishes, linens, silverware.... “She stopped to throw her hands into the air. “It is too much, Guy. It is! Deklyn will kill me for spending so much money!" He ignored her outburst as he folded the note. “I'll be back with the bare essentials before sundown, but I'll send someone out with your noon meal since you barely touched your breakfast. I'll also have them bring enough for

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you to warm over for your supper. Come tomorrow, you can begin cooking your own meals—which I've a feeling you much prefer to do." "You're beginning to know me too well, Guy,” she said with a flush of heat to her face. Unable to refrain from doing so, he reached out to tweak her pert little nose. “You behave while I'm gone. Will you be afraid to stay here for about an hour's time or would you prefer to go back to the ship and wait?" "I'm not afraid here,” she said. “I'll just sit on the porch and stare at the sea." "There's nothing here that will harm you,” he said. “And no one who would dare. If you feel safe, then I'd best be on my way. The well water is from an artesian spring so you won't die of thirst while I'm gone." "Go,” she said, shooing him with her hands. “I will be perfectly fine until you return." He started toward the front door. “Dek might even be here before I get back,” he said. “At any rate the lady will be arriving with your meal long before then." With her arm curled around one of the porch columns, she watched him drive off in the carriage—waving to him when he threw a hand up to her in farewell. It was so peaceful and calm there on the cliff with the screech of terns diving toward the waters, she left the security of the porch and ventured into the yards surrounding the cottage—inspecting plants, deadheading some of the flowers, deciding what other plantings she would like to make. Going around to the back, she mentally laid out her kitchen garden, herb garden and where she wanted fruit trees and berry bushes planted. She walked down to the stream and watched it bubbling but didn't have quite enough courage to walk to the end where it flowed over glistening rocks and down the high cliff. There would be—she decided—time to do that when Dek was at her side. "Dek,” she said, her thoughts going to the tall, handsome, enigmatic man for whom she was developing such strong, intense feelings. Taking a seat on the steps of the back porch, she hugged her arms around her knees and stared at the blades of grass where little red ants were busily scurrying until her eyes grew weary. Laying her head on her knees, she closed her eyelids and within minutes was sound asleep. ****

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Dek had put off returning to his ancestral home for as long as he could. He had met earlier that morning with the harbormaster regarding some pirate activity along the coast, assured the man he would send out patrols to rid Tarryn waters of the scourge, then dallied in the seaside tavern with Jules and Larson until both men began exchanging worried glances. "I will get there eventually,” he snapped at them. “Stop giving me those gods-be-damned annoying looks!" "The longer you put it off, the worse it will be,” Larson said. “You know exactly how she will react." "The bitch doesn't want me there!” Dek complained. “I don't want to be there." "Nay, but she'll not take kindly to you lollygagging here then showing up on her doorstep smelling to high heaven of the rum you've been swilling down as though it was lemonade,” Larson said, then nudged his chin toward the large clock on the wall. “And here it is not even nigh ten of the clock." "Leave off, Larson,” Dek growled. “I'm a grown man. I will do as I please." "Grown men don't need to have rum running through their backbone to stiffen it a'fore they go to meet their wives,” Jules reminded him. Dek cast his cousin a sour look, but he knew the man was right. There would be hell to pay as soon as he stepped a foot inside Drogh-gheay as it was. That was a given. The longer he put it off, the angrier the Black Bitch would be when he finally made an appearance. "Fuck,” he fumed then got to his feet—none too steady on his feet since the potent rum had gone straight to his empty belly then took a wild detour back up to his head. He dug into his pocket, grabbed a few coins then slapped them on the table. “If it ain't enough, tough shite!" That said he wove his way to the door, elevating a hand to the greetings of fellow drinkers at the sticky tables. His horse had been brought from the ship and was tied at the railing outside the tavern. It took him three tries to get his boot into the stirrup, but once he was seated astride the black steed, he felt well enough to make the short ride over the drawbridge and into the keep where he had been born some thirty-odd years earlier. "Then why do I feel like I'm in my dotage?” he asked, wiping his forearm across his brow where sour sweat had gathered. His chest ached. His head hurt. His heart was as heavy as the cobblestones over which his horse plodded. Every lift and fall of the mount's hooves added to the growing pounding between his temples. He rode as slowly as the horse would allow but that clopping echoed like cannon shot in his ears. By the time he

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mumbled a greeting to the guards at the portcullis, he was in agony and knew the rum had not numbed him as he'd intended that it should but rather had started one of his infamous megrims that most likely would last the entire day if not longer. "All the fuck I need,” he grumbled as he rode into the outer bailey then under the sweeping stone archway into the inner bailey where a servant rushed forward to take his mount's reins. "Welcome home, Your Grace,” the lad greeted him. "Home is where the heart is, boy, and that ain't here,” Dek declared as he swung a leg over his horse's head. Dropping to the ground with a jolt that sent blazing pain between his temples, Dek gritted his teeth and tried to walk as steadily and straightly as he could toward the steps that led up into the keep. He hurt so badly he didn't respond to the greetings of the guards who came to attention as he came abreast of them. Wincing as one leapt to open the large black oak door leading into the keep, he felt the first wave of hot bile pushing at the back of his throat. "So, you finally decided to come home, did you?" The querulous voice was loud enough to wake the dead. He put a hand to his head where the biting words had landed to bore a scalding hole into his skull. He stumbled from the agony of it. "And drunk as usual, I see." "I'm in no mood, Ynez,” he said, not bothering to look at his wife as he started for the stairs. "Oh, you'll not get off that easy, Deklyn Yn Baase!” she snarled at him, rushing to intercept him before he could gain the stairs. Reaching out, she grabbed the front of his shirt, and as she did, her fingers clawed into his chest, raking down the wound. He yelped—jerking away from her as a bright crimson flower appeared on his shirt. Ynez's eyes nearly popped from her head. Though she had bloodied her husband's nose many a time when she'd slapped him—putting the force of her slender body behind it—she had never deliberately drawn blood. To do so now terrified her. Despite Miriam's assurances otherwise, she had no illusion of how the Tarryn people felt about her. They hated her and she had hurt their beloved Black Baron—a transgression that would be widely reported before the day was out.

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"Get the Healer!” she cried, putting out a hand to Dek who viciously batted it away with a hiss. She slunk back as he started up the stairs, a hand to his chest. “I did not mean to do that, Dek.” She put her foot on the bottom stair. “Do you hear me? I didn't mean to do it. I'm sorry!" Dek cursed beneath his breath. The pain lancing across his chest and down his side as the blood flowed freely from his wound had completely wiped the brutal pain of his headache from his thoughts. It was all he could do to put one foot ahead of the other to climb the stairs for every step was pulling at the wound. He looked down to see blood dripping to the treads and cursed again. Two male servants rushed past Ynez where she stood at the bottom of the stairs staring up at her husband. “Look to him!” she ordered needlessly, pointing at him. “Look to your overlaird!" Both men ignored her and by the time they reached the landing, put hands out to grab their overlaird, Dek was dropping to his knees. They grabbed him before he hit the floor. Ynez put a trembling hand to her open mouth. Fear rooted her to the spot as the Healer bounded past her—taking the stairs two at a time in his haste. She heard him shouting orders to the servants but the blood pounding in her ears prevented her from taking in his exact words. When she felt a firm hand grip her upper arm, she turned startled eyes to the one holding her. "Get up there and see to your husband,” Miriam ordered her. “Now!" Nodding, Ynez picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs, still feeling Miriam's hard grasp on her arm though the older woman had released her hold as soon as she'd issued her command. Racing along the landing to her husband's chambers, she had to shove a maid out of the way to enter Dek's room. "Cut that shirt off him,” the healer was demanding as he placed his satchel on the night table and removed a pair of scissors. He handed them to the shorter of the two servants then glanced around at Ynez, frowning sharply, but clamped his mouth shut as though he had caught himself just before ordering her out. "He was wounded,” Ynez said as she came to the foot of the bed to take hold of the cross-support of the footboard. “During a battle." A muscle worked furiously in Healer Daragh Frazier's pale blue eyes and one of the male servants later swore he had seen the man's coarse red hair actually bristle at the Baroness’ words.

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Dek groaned as the taller servant lifted him carefully so the shorter could run the sharp blades of the scissors up the back of his pullover shirt from tail to neckline. He groaned again as the man laid him down then gently tugged the bloodstained garment from his arms. "Mother of the Goddess, Deklyn,” the healer whispered. “You've broken open your stitches." Ynez heard one of the servants say something in a language she did not speak then blanched when the healer snapped his head around to give her a savage look. "You did this?” Daragh demanded. “For the love of the goddess, why?" "I didn't mean to!” Ynez defended. “I just reached out to him and...." "You grabbed him, not caring if you hurt him or not!” the healer interrupted. He lifted an arm. “Get out of here before I go to the Tribunal and file a complaint, woman!" Bristling at the order, it was on the tip of Ynez's tongue to berate the imperious bastard, but he was one of her husband's dearest friends—and a relative, to boot—and she knew she stood on shaky ground for having harmed one hair on the Black Baron's head. With her chin high but knees feeling like water, she lifted her chin, spun around and stormed from the room. "One of these days she's going to wind up killing you, Dek,” Daragh told his patient. Dek was beyond listening. His head was thundering and the fiery ache in his chest was taking its toll. He was gasping for breath and when the nausea from the migraine struck full force, he twisted violently to the side to put his head over the side of the bed. The mug of rum he'd drunk came back up, splashing the servant's boots. "Oh, shite,” Daragh said. “He's gotten another megrim! Get me a cup of water, quickly!” As the other servant hastened to pour the water, the healer rummaged in his satchel, brought out an amber bottle and uncorked it. Pouring a generous amount in the cup he took it from the servant, leaned over Dek and put it to his lips. “Here. Drink." Dek made a horrible face as he drank the tenerse-laced water but almost instantly the potent narcotic took effect so by the time Daragh helped him to lay back on his pillow, his mouth was numb and his head was easing off considerably. "I've got to re-stitch this wound, Dek."

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"Do it,” Dek mumbled. Between the rum already in his system and the tenerse, he was rapidly losing consciousness. The last thing he heard was Daragh ordering the servant to find Jules or Guy. **** Ynez paced the landing from one end to the other as the healer worked on her husband. Jules had come barreling up the stairs earlier, had given her a snarl that actually showed his teeth, and then had ordered guards outside his cousin's chamber door. Jabbing a finger in her direction, Jules had barked, “She is not to enter this room without His Grace's express permission. Is that understood?" "Aye, captain!” the men had agreed in unison. The healer had ignored her when he'd come out of the room. Though she pleaded with him to tell her how her husband was, he continued down the stairs, as though he'd lost his hearing. Not even the two servants who had come out of the room carrying Dek's bloody shirt and a pan of instruments would give her any information. She made a mental note to see the both of them lashed for their impertinence once Dek left Drogh-gheay once again. By the time Miriam finally came upstairs to draw Ynez from her vigil the Baroness had worked herself into a furious state of mind. "How dare they treat me in this manner?” she demanded of her old governess. "Come downstairs and go about your business as though nothing happened,” Miriam advised. “The damage has already been done. Pacing about up here only makes the servants see you as weak, and it makes you look guilty." "Won't they see me as a caring wife worried about her husband?” Ynez asked. "Nezzie, they know how you feel about the man. No, they only see you as responsible for having done him harm. Now, come away! There is something I need to tell you." Jules took that moment to exit from Dek's room but other than casting Ynez a murderous glance, he made no comment to either woman and thundered down the stairs, calling out to a maid to tell him where the healer had gone. "I hate that odious bastard almost as much as I do Deklyn,” Ynez growled.

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"There is someone who deserves your hate even more,” Miriam said. “Best you vent your spleen on her." Ynez narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean?" Miriam lowered her voice. “Your husband has at last taken a mistress." "But that is good news, isn't it?” Ynez asked. “I can go before the Tribunal earlier than planned and...." "He has declared her his Cochianglt,” Miriam informed her and nodded when Ynez gasped. “Aye, he has and you know what that means." "Cochianglt?” Ynez repeated almost in a whisper. Her eyes widened. “That's impossible!" "This is the woman for whom he's been searching all these years,” Miriam said, reminding Ynez. “You cannot divorce him now. You dare not." Ynez's face bleached of its color as realization set in. Divorce was one thing. To have her marriage declared invalid when Dek took the Cochianglt as his bride was quite another. In the doing, Ynez would lose the title of Baroness and all hope of acquiring the vast lands and yearly revenues from those lands that had been part of the bride-price her father signed over to Dek upon their Joining. "No, I cannot,” Ynez said. “Those lands are rightfully mine. The money belongs to me!" "They belong to him,” Miriam said, “and he can do with them as he wishes." Ynez grabbed her lover's arm. “Miri, we have to do something! I cannot lose all I have suffered to keep all these years!" "And you will not,” Miriam stated. “But you must remain married to him, Ynez. You must not allow him to set the marriage aside and take this harlot as his wife." "But how?” Ynez asked. “How can we do that?" "There is but one way,” Miriam says. Horror filled Ynez's brown eyes. She shook her head vigorously. “No. Not that. I will not do that!"

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"You have no choice!” Miriam hissed. “You know what will happen now when he puts you aside. He can send you to Galrath if he so chooses. What do you think will happen then, Nezzie?" "Galrath?” Ynez repeated then shuddered at the thought of the infamous nunnery in the Serenian outlands. "It must be done, Ynez,” Miriam said. “Leave the details to me. I will see to everything."

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Chapter Nine

Maire put up a hand to shield her eyes as the sound of harness echoed across the cliff. She was amazed to see five wagons following in the wake of the carriage in which Guy had brought her to the cottage. She got to her feet, shaking her head at the warrior as he pulled the carriage to a halt. "Did you buy out the stores, then, Guyland?” she laughed. "All but,” he replied, looping the reins on the brake handle before hopping down. “I believe I have everything you'll need to start housekeeping. The last wagon has all the personal stuff you brought with you as well as a few surprises.” He looked around. “Dek hasn't been by?" "I've not seen nor heard from him,” Maire said. "That's strange,” Guy said, brows clashing over his hawkish nose. "Perhaps he changed his mind about me,” she said. "Not a chance,” Guy stated emphatically. “All it means is he's having a bitch of a time with that witch of a wife of his. He'll be along shortly, I'm sure." Even so, by the time the sun set and the lamps lighted in Maire's new home, there had still been no sign of Deklyn or Jules—which Guy assured her was most strange, indeed. "Something's wrong,” Guy said. “I'd best head back to the keep and see what's amiss." Maire reached out to take hold of his arm. “Guy, maybe he really has changed his mind and now regrets...." "Nonsense. Stop trying to buy trouble where there is none, lass,” Guy said, patting her hand. He looked past her to the middle aged couple he had hired to be maid and gardener—hires Dek had insisted Guy make when they had spoken of it on ship. “Take care of your mistress and see she doesn't overdo." "Aye, Captain!” Carolyn Demerest agreed. “Me and Hank will look to our lady for you.” She and her husband had taken the largest of the three rooms on the ground floor as their bedchamber and had already moved in their meager belongings. Maire had given them a second room as a sitting room and taken the third for a sewing room as Jules had suggested.

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Maire stood at the window to watch Guy until his carriage was swallowed up by the light fog that had drifted in from the ocean. In the distance she could hear a fog horn skirling and when she looked farther southward, the occasional flash of golden light coming from the lighthouse at Drogh-gheay lit the twilight. Sighing heavily, she went back into her new home—shoulders slumped—and ventured into the kitchen where Carolyn was standing at the counter peeling potatoes. "I'll get the pork chops breaded,” she told the older woman. Carolyn had been warned by Guy that the lady of the house would most likely prefer to do much—if not all—the cooking herself. Her task was to take as much off milady as milady would allow. "That's a spunky little goat you got there, milady,” Carolyn's husband Hank observed. She had set him to stripping the husks off ears of fresh corn she'd purchased at the market earlier in the day. "Her name is Jenny,” Maire said listlessly. She washed three pork chops at the sink, set them aside then dried her hands on the ever-present apron tied ‘round her waist. She opened the flour tin and scooped out a cupful. “Did she give you a rough time?" "Nay, milady,” Hank laughed. “She wanted to play, she did. She needs a mate, I'm thinkin'." "Don't we all,” Maire mumbled under her breath. She paused in dredging the pork chops through the flour she had turned onto a plate to stare at the wall. She sighed again then turned to retrieve a cast iron frying pan, filling it with corn oil. Hank and Carolyn exchanged a knowing look for they had heard the low words. Too aware of their status as servants—and new ones at that—neither made a comment. Instead, Carolyn asked Maire what it was like where she had lived before coming to Tarryn. "Dreary,” Maire said. “Dreary and dull and dangerous.” Pork chops ready to be fried once the corn and potatoes were done Maire went over to check on the two pots of water she had placed on the stove. Both were close to boiling so she added a few pinches of salt to both pots. "So what are we going to plant in them garden spots Hank'll be clearing tomorrow, milady?” Carolyn inquired as she brought the peeled potatoes to the sink. "Vegetables in one and the smaller will be my herb garden. One section for cooking herbs and the other for medicinal needs,” Maire replied. She

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watched the older woman cut the potatoes into large chunks then dump them into the boiling water. "Where you want this corn, Caro?” Hank asked. His wife rolled her periwinkle blue eyes. “I guess ‘tis too much to expect you to wash it, eh? Just give it here, old man." Glad to be finished with what he no doubt considered women's work Hank ambled out of the kitchen. "Men are nigh to worthless when it comes to knowing the ins and outs of cooking,” Carolyn observed. “'Tis a wonder they don't starve to death when they ain't got a good woman to see to their bellies. That one can't even boil water without scorching the pan." Maire smiled. “My husband was one who could burn water, too, if you didn't watch him." Carolyn gave her new mistress a surprised look. “You were married, milady?" "I was,” Maire answered. “He's dead now." "Oh,” Carolyn said. “My condolences." "Thank you,” Maire said on a long sigh. With the corn in the pot and the potatoes bubbling away to give a starchy scent to the air, Maire sat down at her new table where she had placed three place settings and stared at the empty chair across from her. She had hoped to fix Dek a nice meal, but it was obvious she would not be seeing him until the next day—if then. "She's a terrible woman they say,” Carolyn said. Maire swung her head around. “Who?" "His wife,” she replied then clarified. “The Baroness." Knowing she shouldn't be indulging in gossip about Dek's wife, Maire's curiosity got the better of her. “What has she done to warrant such an assessment, Caro?” she asked, using the older woman's nickname. Caro beamed at the familiarity. She wiped her hands on a towel and came over to the table, her grin widening when Maire indicated she was to sit. She leaned forward with her elbows on the table.

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"She beats the servants when he's not there to stop her,” the older woman says and nodded at Maire's shocked look. “Aye and she's been known to order a full-on lashing if one of them does something that really sets her off.” She lowered her voice, even though they were alone in the kitchen. “Just yesterday she slashed a poor serving maid across the bosoms with that little whip she carries with her. Cut Lisle right badly, it did." Worry creases formed between Maire's eyebrows. “Does His Grace know this is happening?" Caro shook her head. “By the goddess, no, he don't, milady! Anyone who dares to speak up and tell him would be minus their tongues if they did. He ain't here often and when he leaves, she takes it out on them what can't defend themselves." "That's most distressing to hear, Caro,” Maire said. “And His Grace needs to put a stop to such doings." "She's a bad ‘un, milady, and that there companion of hers? That one named Miriam? She's just as bad if'n she ain't worse! Together they make a mighty evil pair.” She hesitated then reached out to touch Maire's arm gently. “I'm just telling you this, milady ‘cause I wouldn't want nothin’ to happen to you.” She squeezed Maire's arm. “You should stay clear of the both of them, milady. It ain't safe for you to do otherwise. His Grace can protect you when he's at home but when he's away?” She shook her head. “It worries me. It truly does." A trickle of unease slithered down Maire's back, and she looked to the front door that had been left open to the late afternoon breeze. “Perhaps we should lock the doors when the sun goes down,” she suggested. "A right good idea and I'll have Hank check all the windows,” Caro said and shot to her feet to do just that. As she hurried through the great room, Maire got up to shut and lock the back door, as well. It was a quiet, subdued supper the three ate and after insisting on being the one to do the clean up, Caro shooed Maire out of the kitchen. “Go try out that new swing on your balcony, milady. You've earned an hour or two with your feet up. Me and Hank will finish up." Depressed, Maire agreed and slowly made her way up the stairs. She had not seen Deklyn the entire day and his absence had affected her more than she was willing to admit. As she slowly rocked the swing back and forth with her bare feet, she stared into the now thick fog, feeling the light pebbling of moisture hitting her face. She barely felt the hot tears that slowly coursed down her cheeks.

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**** "It was late when I got back else I would have sent word to her,” Guy fumed. “Damned carriage wheel split off the axle not three miles from her place and in that gods-be-damned pea soup fog, I couldn't see my hand ‘til it was almost to my face!" "It's a wonder he wasn't traipsing around in circles trying to make his way home as it was,” Daragh commented as he, Jules and Guy broke their fast the next morning. They were seated at the large harvest table in the kitchen where the three men were most likely to be found at the crack of dawn each day. “You know he doesn't have much of a sense of direction in the clear light of day." "He is sitting right here, Daragh!” Guy complained. "Well he should have done what he knew was right,” the healer said with a snort. "That's a fact,” Jules agreed. “I'm just saying you should have sent her word that Dek was ailing, Guy. My guess is she's brooded about him all the night long." "And that concerns you how, Jules?” Guy asked his brother. “I thought you didn't give two figs how the wench felt." "Aye, well, that was before,” Jules muttered, scooping up the last of the porridge in his bowl and indicating to the cook that he'd like a refill. “She's not like most females." "She's unlike any female you've ever met,” Guy said. “Me, either. Maire is a lady and she's a good woman. That's rare when you get two for the price of one in a female." "I'm looking forward to meeting this paragon of virtue,” Daragh said. “Mayhap I'll take a drive out there later this morn to welcome her." "That would not be amiss, I'm thinking,” Jules acknowledged. “She'll be your patient so checking on her would be wise.” He shook his head to an offer of more coffee. “And he won't be up until well after noon—if then." "I hear you dosed him again around three this morn,” Guy said. “I hope this ain't one of them headaches that last for a day or two." "Shaping up to be that way,” Daragh said with a scowl. “I'm going to dose him again at seven of the clock, and if he's still got it at eleven, I'll give him a strong dose of pairilis."

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"He'll sleep ‘til nightfall if you do that,” Guy complained. "I'll let his lady know so she won't be worried about him,” Daragh said and the other men knew he wasn't referring to Ynez. "Jules, you and I need to go into Cathair and make a few more purchases for Sheidaghan." "For who?” Jules grumbled with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “What the fuck are you babbling about and why the hell should I go anywhere with you?" "Sheidaghan is what she named the place,” Guy said. "Oh,” Jules said. “You could have been clearer about that, you moron.” He chewed the porridge as though it was meat. “What else does she need?" "Livestock,” Guy said with a sigh. “A few goats, chickens, ducks, a milk cow, perhaps a few pigs." Jules snorted. “She won't be slaughtering them, Guyland, and she won't allow you to do it, neither, so what's the use of having livestock?" "Chickens and ducks for eggs, cow for milk, and a goat for what?” Daragh inquired. "The goats to be companions for Jenny as well as milk,” Guy replied. “I guess we can do without the pigs." "Well, maybe one to clean up the garbage,” Jules commented. "You'll need feed,” Daragh said. “For them all." "And a horse and buggy for her so the hired hand can drive her into town when she wants to go,” Guy said. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Settling up a homestead sure is work." "You finished eating?” Jules asked. "Aye." "Then let's get this shite done. I've got men to train this afternoon and so do you,” Jules reminded his brother. He scraped his chair back, turning his attention to Daragh. “We'll see you at Maire's. I'm guessing we'll be bringing herders with us for all that blasted livestock he wants to get. Tell her not to go to no trouble fixing us a noon meal. We'll bring something out for the lot of us."

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Daragh's red brow cocked upward. “Is that a fact?" "Aye, that's a fact,” Jules mimicked with a downturn of his lips. “What's it to you?" Both red brows shot up. “Nary a thing. Just asked." "Just asked,” Jules echoed before stomping off. "She's won his black heart over,” Guy said as he, too, got up from the table. “Won't admit it but she has." "Now I am even more eager to make the lady's acquaintance,” Daragh said. He wiped his mouth on his napkin then got to his feet. “I'll be leaving here as soon as I see to Dek." "Make sure the guards are told not to allow that bitch in to see him,” Guy said. "Believe it or not, she and that praying mantis of hers left here just after first light,” Daragh said. Guy blinked in surprise. “You're joking! Where'd they go?" Daragh shrugged. “Didn't care enough to ask and don't care if either of them ever comes back.” He grinned nastily. “Maybe they won't." "From your lips to the gods’ ears!” Guy declared. **** After speaking softly to the guards regarding who could and could not have access to the Baron, Daragh went into Dek's chambers carefully for the heavy drapes had been pulled over the wide casement windows, and he had no desire to bump into the furniture. As quietly and unobtrusively as he could, he lit a candle on the desk and—cupping the bright flame—brought it over to the bed. "You think you're being quiet but trust me when I tell you you're making as much noise as a stampeding bull elephant,” Dek said in a near whisper. "Fuck you and the jackass you wobbled in on, Deklyn Yn Baase,” Daragh groused. He placed the candle on the night table, braced his forearm on the headboard and looked down at his patient with the deep affection that had begun in childhood. “How's your head?" "It feels like Ynez is stomping around in there with hot pokers strapped to the toes of her riding boots."

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"Delightful image,” Daragh said, straightening. He turned to the night table, poured a cup of water from the carafe sitting there into a cup then rummaged in his black bag. He took out a dark green glass bottle and poured a generous amount of the powerful narcotic pairilis into the water. “Here, drink this delightful brew and go back to sleep." Knowing it would do him no good to argue with the healer, Dek released a long breath. “I need to get word to Maire,” he said, struggling to sit up. "I'm heading out there as soon as I'm done with you. I'm looking forward to meeting her.” He held the cup to Dek's lips. Obediently downing the liquid before he realized what he'd drunk, Dek cursed softly. “You're a prick, Frazier, and you play dirty." "You need to sleep this off or you'll be in bed another day or two,” Daragh reminded him. “Now, lie back down and close your eyes. By the way, I like that green color. It suits you for they are actually glowing in the near-dark." "They are clouding from that shite you tricked me into drinking,” Dek complained. "Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Daragh mimicked in a falsetto voice. "And speaking of which, I don't want Ynez in here,” Dek mumbled, already feeling the effects of the highly potent drug. "You don't worry about her. She's not going to be bothering you. Now, go to sleep!" Dek closed his eyes as the warm, fuzzy blanket of the drug pulled over his mind to shut him off from reality. Although he hated being vulnerable to the brew, he had to admit he enjoyed the rush that spread through him as it took effect. He didn't feel Daragh smoothing his covers or hear him blow out the candle. He was already in a place where there was nothing but darkness. **** Maire had spent a very restless night tossing and turning, hoping for Dek to come to her in her dreams but her phantom lover had not put in an appearance. At one point she'd sat straight up in bed to stare into the darkness—her mouth flooding with a bitter cherry flavor she thought tasted like tenerse. She'd thrown the covers back with the intention of getting out of bed but her head swam unmercifully, and she lay down again with a hand to her forehead. "Dek?” she questioned, feeling foolish for calling out to him.

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Disappointment filled her as she turned to her side, wondering about the strange, lethargic feeling that had suddenly gripped her. She had the strangest feeling that the man she had so unwillingly fallen in love with had been trying to reach out to her but something had stopped him—something that had severed the link between them as effectively as a sharp blade through ribbon. Whatever the odd sensation was that made her close her eyes it lulled her into a deep sleep that lasted long past the daybreak so that when she awoke, she was shocked at the lateness of the morning hour. Flinging aside the covers, she hurried through her morning ablutions, dressed in a sturdy gown, and—barefoot—went down the stairs to find Caro and Hank waiting for her. "Why didn't you wake me?” she asked. “I never sleep this late.” Her attention went to the coffeepot on the stove and that was her next destination. "I didn't know whether to or not, milady,” Caro answered. “I'll know to do so tomorrow." "You must have been real tired, milady,” Hank said, observing the dark circles under his new mistress’ eyes. “What with all that moving in and the like." "I was tired but I didn't sleep very well until the wee hours,” Maire admitted, taking a cautious sip of the strong brew. She closed her eyes. “That is delicious!" "I brew it with eggshells,” Caro said. "That's the second time I've heard of doing that,” Maire said. “I'll have to remember." Caro smiled. “What would you like to eat to break your fast?" "I don't normally eat breakfast but of late His Grace has insisted. I suppose a plate of scrambled eggs on toast wouldn't be amiss." "I'll fix your plate straightaway,” Caro told her. "If you'll show me the dimensions of the gardens, I'll get started on that,” Hank said. "Let's do that now,” Maire said, padding barefoot to the back door. "Don't you want your boots?” Hank asked.

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Maire shook her head. “I'm used to going barefoot in the summer." "'Tis just about always summer in Tarryn,” Caro said. Following Maire outside, Hank took some small stakes and marked off the herb garden first since that was where his mistress told him she would be planting that morning. Next he staked off the large vegetable garden and set to work with the shovel to turn the ground for the herb garden. Sitting down on the steps of the back porch to drink her coffee, Maire reveled in the warm sunshine caressing her face. When Caro called to tell her breakfast was ready, she asked the servant to bring the plate to her. “It's too nice a day to be inside." "You should have a little table and chairs out here,” Caro suggested. “That would be good for when the watermelons are in season." "I'll ask Guy if he'll fetch me one,” Maire replied. She used her fork to pick up a piece of piece of toast covered in creamy yellow eggs. She nodded as she chewed—lifting her thumb to Caro to let the older woman know the food was excellent. In no time she had consumed the light breakfast and was on her second cup of coffee when the rattle of harness was heard at the front of the house. "Dek!” Maire exclaimed and jumped up to run through the kitchen and great room to the front door, pulling the lock back and throwing it open in a flash. She raced onto the front porch only to realize her visitor was a stranger. She felt the frustration all the way through her heart. "Good morn!” the red haired man called to her as he tied his buggy to the hitching post Hank had erected the day before. "Good morn to you, milord,” Maire said. She walked to the edge of the porch. "I'm Daragh Frazier,” he said as he walked across the grass. “I'm the healer at Drogh-gheay.” When he saw her eyes widen and her face pale, he held up his hand. “I came to welcome you to Tarryn and to let you know Dek is fine, but he'll be out of commission at least for today." She came off the steps, meeting the healer halfway and took the hand he held out to her. “Is it his wound? Did he have an accident? Was he hurt badly? Was he...?" The healer kissed her hand then released it. “He has a particularly nasty megrim,” he told her. “Has had those pesky things since he was thirteen. This one just doesn't seem to want to go away. He's fine but my guess is the stress is what brought this headache on."

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She searched his face, obviously seeing something he was trying to hide. “His wound?” she repeated. Daragh smiled. “You're an observant little lass, ain't you?” He looked down at her bare feet and made a tsking sound. “Let's get you inside before a snake comes slithering over your toesies." Maire wasn't to be appeased. “I'm not afraid of snakes,” she said, lifting her chin. “What of his wound?" "Aye, the wound broke open but I stitched it closed again and there is no infection. It's draining as it should and the flesh isn't red surrounding it.” He cocked his head to the side. “I understand you are something of a healer, yourself. Perhaps you would consent to be my aid on occasion?" She nodded absently. “If you have need of me, just ask,” she agreed. “How did his wound come undone?" Daragh sighed heavily. “Let's go inside, milady. I need a cup of coffee and the smell wafting out that door is driving me insane with want." "I'm sorry,” she said. “Where are my manners? Of course, come in!” She hooked her arm through his when he crooked it in invitation. “Please call me Maire." "I'm Dar,” he offered as they climbed the steps. Extending an invitation for him to sit on the new settee, she asked Caro to bring him a cup of coffee. “How do you like it?” she inquired as she took a seat for the first time in one of the two chairs flanking the settee. "Black,” Caro said for him with a wink. "I've no secrets with this one. She knows me too well,” Daragh said. "I ought to. You delivered three of my five boys,” Caro said as she brought him the coffee. "The wound?” Maire insisted, refusing to get sidetracked although she was curious to know about Caro's boys. "His lady-wife grabbed at him and inadvertently raked her nails over the wound,” Daragh stated. Maire winced. “They were fighting?" "No,” Daragh said. “She wanted to talk, and he was in too much pain with the megrim to do so. He was trying to go up the stairs, and she reached out

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to stop him. If it's any consolation to you, she apologized to him. She didn't mean to hurt him." "Now, that has to be a first! How many times has the woman bloodied his nose?” Caro said. The older woman must have realized she shouldn't interfere and put up her hands before turning back toward the kitchen. "She's bloodied his nose?” Maire asked. "He'll sleep through the day,” Daragh said to get her mind off that image. “I hadn't planned on giving him any pairilis unless the pain lasted ‘til noon but it was sufficiently brutal enough this morn that I felt it prudent." "I understand,” Maire said although she was keenly disappointed that she would go another day without seeing him. "And Caro?” the healer called out. When she answered, he told her what Jules had said about the noon meal. "'Twas just gonna be sandwiches anyway,” Caro said, “but that's good to know." "Jules is coming out later this morning?” Maire inquired. "Bringing your livestock and I heard from the stable boy when I fetched my carriage that they are also going to stop by the nursery to buy a few fruit trees and cuttings.” He grinned. “It seems you would like to not only take in sewing and make the occasional poultice, you want to sell jams, jellies, and cheeses.” He shook a finger at her. “You're an industrious woman but don't spread yourself too thin." "People are talking about my plans?” she asked, surprised. "If Jules Yn Baase knows something, the entire barony knows it,” Daragh said. “The man is a veritable one-man gossip enterprise. Never say anything around him you don't want repeated." "I'm not sure he should have done that,” Maire said. "Well, don't be surprised when after a few weeks people start showing up at your door with their sewing and hurts,” Daragh said. “Already I'm hearing you're an Angel of mercy, and they've yet to make your acquaintance but that's good. That means you are being accepted without question." Maire's fingers were twisting in the fabric of her gown. She looked down at them then smoothed her skirt. “I was afraid they would think me an interloper and would distrust me, dislike me. I feared...."

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"Everyone within shouting range knows Deklyn has decreed you his Cochianglt, Maire,” he said gently. “They'll honor you as such." "But what of his lady-wife?” she asked. “He will be married to her for another few years. Won't there be those who will think ill of me for daring to take a husband from his legal wife?” she asked, tears glistening in her eyes. "Hell, no, they won't!” Daragh said. He left the settee and came to hunker in front of her chair, reaching for her hands to hold them for they were once again making nervous ramblings in her lap. “Maire, our people have long wanted Deklyn to be happy. They know he is not with Ynez. They hate one another so vehemently I'm surprised one hasn't murdered the other in his or her sleep! If you make Dek happy, if you are what he wants and needs—and obviously you are or his eyes would not have changed color and he would not have proclaimed his Cochianglt—then the people of Tarryn will welcome you with open arms and generous hearts.” He lifted her hands to his lips and placed kisses on each of them. “Don't think for one minute you are not wanted here. You are and I've a feeling everyone you meet is going to love you as much as Deklyn does." **** Ynez looked with distaste at her surroundings. She had been to this vile place several times before, and it held very bad memories for her. The first time Miriam had brought her there had been unpleasant, for the old woman who lived in the hovel was ugly enough to stop a clock and her pox-ravaged face had frightened a young Ynez. "First, ye must wear this at all times,” the toothless hag said in a voice as dry as parched corn. She extended a grimy hand with long, yellow, curling fingers to Ynez, opening her wrinkled palm to reveal nestled there a small leather pouch on a velvet string. "What's in it?” Ynez demanded, with her upper lip arched as she plucked the offensive thing from the hag's hand. "Nothing to draw thy disdain, Your Grace. Just gems of amethyst, clear quartz crystak, chyroprase, and adventurine,” the woman said. Slipping the little pouch over her head, Ynez shot Miriam a strained look. "Next, ye must wait until the waxing of the moon. ‘Twill be in three days on Monday eve—a most auspicious day. On that night at the stroke of midnight, ye must gather a freshly laid brown egg.” She wagged an arthritic finger. “Not white, mind ye, but brown." "We understand Mother Maude,” Miriam said. “Continue."

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"On that egg ye must draw the sign of the goddess and the sign of the god, a sun, a pentagram...." Ynez rolled her eyes but she knew better than to berate the old woman with how she was supposed to put all the drawings called for on a little brown egg. She kept her mouth closed, looking from time to time at Miriam. "All must be drawn in green ink,” the old woman concluded. “When ye be done and the drawings be dry, bury the egg in a clay pot filled with fertile earth. Bury it deep with acorns and hazelnuts then put it where the sun will shine hot upon it. Sow on its surface seeds of grass and water them well for nine weeks. At the start of the tenth week, gather the crop of grass and tie it with a blue thread. Hang it above your bed until the deed is done. Thirdly...." "There's more?” Ynez queried, annoyed and aching to leave the smelly confines of the old woman's squalid hut. The glass jars lining the walls, the stench of whatever was brewing in the cauldron in the corner, the unblinking stare of the black cat lying under the bed and glaring at her were beginning to take a toll on the Baroness’ nerves. The hag went on as though she had not been interrupted. "Each day ye are to drink a quart of red clover infusion.” She looked to Miriam. “You know how to prepare the blossoms?" "Aye,” Miriam agreed. "Do not skip a day drinking the infusion, Your Grace. ‘Tis most important. Then each night ye must fill a warm bath to which you have added three drops each of lemon oil, orange oil, and lime oil. Stay in the water until it cools then drink a half cup of very strong tea." "Is that it?” Ynez snapped. "One last thing,” she was told. “Before ye go to him, ye must use a special douche." "Miriam!” Ynez complained, whining like a teenage girl. "Shush,” Miriam warned. “Do you want to keep him or not?" Ynez exhaled loudly. “Unfortunately I have no choice but to do so." The old woman got up from her chair—joints creaking as she made her stooped way to a shelf. Her house slippers scuffed across the wooden floor as she walked. Reaching her destination, she straightened as much as her humped back would allow, studied the jars lining the shelf then reached for a

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pint jar filled with some greenish-gray material. She handed it into Miriam's keeping. "This be moss from the Tarryn hills. Take ye a pot and boil this in fresh water. Strain it and then mix in two tablespoons of red raspberry tea leaves and three drops of tea tree oil. Ye'll no doubt need a few jars more before all is said and done. Send my grandson to fetch it if ye do." "Once a month is all that bastard ever touches me,” Ynez said. "Then ye should make sure he comes to your bed more often, Your Grace, if ye want the spell to work,” the hag told her. Ynez shuddered at the thought of Dek pawing her. She pursed her lips, casting Miriam a woebegone look. "There be a chant ye need to say at rising each morn and just a'fore ye go to bed. Ye must chat it three times." Listening to the words, Ynez shuddered again. She remembered the last time she had made this journey into the backlands four years earlier. The pain she had endured that morning had been horrific as the seedling her brutal husband had planted in her womb was drawn out, the abortion necessary if she was ever to be free of him. The cramping had brought screams and the bloody mess that had oozed from between her thighs later that afternoon had sickened her as she stared at it. Despite all the precautions she'd taken not to conceive a bairn by Deklyn Yn Baase, she had but with the old hag's help the bratling had never drawn breath. The first abortion she'd had four years before that one had not been all that bad. Subsequent ones had each grown in degree of discomfort until that last one that she thought might kill her. Now, today, here she was doing the exact opposite and hoping against hope the spell to conceive his unwanted child would take. After six abortions she wasn't sure she could conceive. **** Watching Jenny and her two new friends cavorting in the corral, Maire reclined on the quilt she'd spread on the ground and took a sip of the sweetened tea Caro had brewed. Around her, Jules, Guy, Andy, Rupert, Strom, Hank, and a laughing Daragh sat beneath the spreading chestnut tree's shade as they played some kind of card game. Caro was mending one of Hank's shirts, humming quietly as she worked. All that was missing was Dek. Maire drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. As happy as she was with the day's work, the chickens pecking at the grass, the fruit trees that had been planted and the ducks waddling down to the stream for a drink of

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water, she would have given all of it up to have him laying beside her, his head in her lap, her fingers in his thick dark hair. "A copper for your thoughts, milady,” Caro said, looking up from her stitching. "I miss him,” Maire said then bit her tongue at allowing such a revealing statement past her lips. Caro grinned. “Men have a way of growing on you like kudzu,” she said. “Some men are just like that kudzu, too. They sap the very life out of you. But some.... “She glanced over at Hank. “Some of them wrap their vines around your heart and burrow in there never to leave.” She brought the thread up to her teeth to break it. “I'm thinking His Grace is growing like that around your heart." "I think he is, too,” Maire admitted. A loud whoop from the men made both women turn their attention to them. They were getting to their feet—Andy with a handful of matchsticks clutched in his palm. "Did you beat them all, Andrew?” Maire asked. "Aye, milady, indeed I did!” Andy replied. "And now the five us are off to be doing what we should have been doing all day,” Jules grumbled. “Training our men.” He stomped past them, heading for the wagon he'd driven to the cottage. "He won't admit it but he had a gods-be-damned fine time,” Guy said of his brother. “Thank you for the gentile company, lass. Caro. If you need anything, just send Hank to the military compound. That's where he'll find us." "Thank you for all you've done, Guy,” Maire said. “And thank Jules for me.” She turned her attention to Andy, Rupert and Strom and thanked them as well. "He should be out to see you tomorrow,” Daragh said as he strolled up. “If not, I'll send word to you how he's doing." "I would appreciate that,” Maire replied. “Please take care of him for me." Daragh put a hand to his heart. “With my last breath, dearling." As the sun set on Maire's second day at Sheidaghan, she was not as depressed as she had been the day before. Her thoughts strayed often to the

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imposing keep she had only spied on the high bluff above Drogh-gheay Harbor and to the man who she prayed was safe from any potential evils directed at him by his wife.

Chapter Ten

The first thing Deklyn did when he came into his own as the Baron of Drogh-gheay was to have a huge tiled shower installed in the bathing chamber of his quarters. It was an innovative piece of engineering he had discovered in AnGhréig during his first tour of duty there as a young man. He had spent hours talking to the man who had designed and built the device and had—himself—improved on the design when he'd commissioned his workman to run the pipe from the enormous copper boiler beneath the keep and into his bathing chamber. Hiding the unsightly pipe behind specially built columns so no one who looked at them could tell they concealed the workings of his shower, Dek loved the addition. On a morning when his world was still fuzzy around the edges and his tongue felt the size of his horse, standing beneath the streaming water was as blissful as life ever came for him at the keep. He had pushed aside all thought of Ynez waiting for him or the duties of the barony that the Tribunal, no doubt, had in mind for him to handle while he was home. Standing with his palms flat against the tile, head bent to allow the steamy water to beat down on his neck, he watched the water swirling down the drain—lost in thoughts of Maire and the waterfall dream they had shared. "She's got the garden in,” Guy had informed him when Dek had awakened around nine of the clock the evening before. He was groggy but any news of Maire pleased him and he was anxious to know what all she had accomplished since moving into the cottage. "Both gardens,” Jules corrected. “One for her precious little herbs and spices and the other for the vegetables." "Aye, and we planted several fruit trees as you suggested,” Guy added. “She's got things under control except for the draperies and coverlets and the like." "Those she plans on sewing herself,” Jules said without realizing there was pride of her in his gruff voice. "I can't wait to see what she's done with it,” Dek said, yawning. He was hungry and said as much. Guy eased off the side of the bed where he'd been sitting and strode to the door.

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"I'll bring you back something light,” he told Dek. With his brother out of the room, Jules took Guy's place on the mattress, narrowed his eyes and gave Dek what the younger man had always called his serious face. "You need to make sure that house is hers, Deklyn,” Jules said. “Completely hers. You get my drift?" "Aye,” Dek replied. “I intend to." "As quickly as possible,” Jules continued. “You never know what that witchlet you married might take it into her head to do when she finds out how much money has been spent on Sheidaghan. So far there's only a few of us who know but it's bound to get leaked and when it does, Ynez is going to bust a gut." Dek nodded. “Have Delaney come see me first thing in the morning,” he ordered Jules. “Tell him to bring a scribe with him." "You're gonna have a deed drawn up, then?" "Did you think I wouldn't?” Dek countered. “By the goddess, Jules. I have no intention of leaving anything to chance where Maire is concerned. Aye, there will be four deeds drawn up. One will stay with Delaney, one with you, one will go to Maire, and the fourth will go to the Tribunal after I've had each of them sign all four deeds." Jules slowly smiled. “No, you aren't leaving anything to chance. I take it you will ask the Tribunal to register the deeds." "I want to make sure the cottage and land will stay with Maire and her line in perpetuity. It has to be written in such a way that no matter what might happen to me, that property will remain hers. No one—and I mean no one— will ever be able to evict her." "Unless Tarryn is overrun by Geddynians or some other marauding bastards,” Jules snarled. “You can't protect her if something like that were to happen." "The chances of that occurring are slim and you know it, but you've given me an idea. I will make arrangements that she is to be spirited out of the country if we are ever attacked or—the gods forbid—conquered. I'll have money set aside to keep her comfortable for as long as she lives." "Perhaps you should purchase a place for her in An Éilvéis. They're neutral in this and she'll be safe there,” Jules suggested.

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"See to it for me,” Dek commanded. “I'll trust you to get our lady a suitable place." "Consider it done." Guy came back with a ham sandwich and a bowl of chicken broth, crackers and a small wedge of cheese. The pitcher of milk was the first thing Dek wanted. "We'll leave you to your dinner, then,” Jules said. “I'll go to see Delaney now. Will seven of the clock be too soon?" "No, I'll be up long before then,” Dek replied. Lifting his head, Dek shook the wet hair from his eyes and reached for the shower controls. He sluiced the water from his chest, arms, and legs then opened the solid glass door that had been one of his innovations. Taking a towel from the shelf by the door, he was drying off as the knock came at his bedchamber door. Knowing the only one the guards would allow to knock would be either one of his cousins or his lawyer, he called out for his visitor to enter. It took over an hour for the wording of the deed to satisfy Dek and when the lawyer and his scribe left, he changed out of the robe he'd thrown on to receive them and dressed in black pants and a white shirt. His wound ached miserably but the stitches didn't look fiery nor were they oozing—which was a good sign. He decided to keep well away from Ynez's claws when he met with her later that morning. "Her Grace requests an audience with you at ten of the clock, Your Grace,” Dek's personal assistant had informed him when he had brought Dek's morning repast to him at a little past six of the clock. "Tell her I will see her in the library,” Dek said, “and be sure to tell her I do not want the Mantis with her. Lawyer Delaney will be joining us but there is no need for the Baroness to be given that information." "As you wish, acknowledged.

Your

Grace,”

Felix

Borderman,

Dek's

assistant,

Dressed, knowing the deeds the scribe was copying would take another hour or so before they were ready to be taken to the Tribunal, Dek wished he had time to ride out to Sheidaghan. He was aching to see Maire. He needed her sweet face and sunny disposition like an addict needed his drugs. He longed to touch her face, to hear her voice. Mentally shaking himself, he knew he had to put thoughts of Maire aside. Things needed to be said to Ynez, plans made, decisions imparted. He had no

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illusions that his lady-wife would prove difficult in regard to Maire. Keeping a mistress, thrusting into the occasional easy cunt was one thing. Such things he knew she would overlook, couldn't care less about. Claiming a woman as his Cochianglt was an entirely different matter. There was going to be hell to pay and he wasn't looking forward to it. Not for the first time did he wish his mother and father were alive to see what mischief that had been wrought. It was the two of them who had put him in this untenable situation, who were responsible for the years of unhappiness he had suffered, the misery and disillusion. His father had once told him that it had been his mother's decision—not his—that had set the gears into motion. "She wanted you to marry Ynez for reasons she did not discuss with me. I told her it was not a good idea, but she could see nothing past the vast estates and revenues the lands would bring in. I went along with her against my better judgment." Not that his father ever apologized to Dek for being the instrument behind the horrendous marriage. Asking forgiveness, seeking pardon for any ills he'd done in his lifetime had never crossed the old Baron's mind. He had been as hard nosed and arrogant on the day he left this life as he'd been when he'd taken control of Tarryn from Dek's grandfather. "A man must be strong enough to ruthlessly rule every living thing he surveys,” was the only advice his father had ever given Dek. “And that goes for any woman who shares his bed!" Leaving his chambers, he stopped to talk to his guards, dismissing them over their protests. He patted each on the back, thanked them for both their diligence and concern then sent them on their way. With his hands in his pockets, he sauntered down the stairs, heard Ynez and Miriam's voice and did an about face, heading for the kitchen where neither woman ever deigned to make an appearance. Greeting the cooks, he asked for a cup of coffee then sat at the table talking to the women who were in the process of making the noon meal, asking what had transpired in the two years, since he'd last been home. As he listened to the litany of who married whom, who birthed babies, who had died, he noticed one young woman in the corner who seemed to be moving slowly and painfully about her tasks. "Shanna, isn't it?” he asked her, gaining her attention. The young woman curtsied. “Aye, Your Grace,” she said, flicking a furtive glance to the cook. "Don't you normally work above stairs?” he asked. It wasn't an ideal question for many a servant at Drogh-gheay who aspired to be on the next

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rung of the ladder in his or her employment. Working in the kitchens was considered below rank to those who worked upstairs. "She's a bit under the weather, Your Grace,” Maeve, the head cook, quickly explained. “Thought it best she take it easy down here for awhile." Genuinely concerned, Dek inquired what ailed her, asked if perhaps she should not take a day or two off. "Just a wee injury, Your Grace,” the young servant told him. “Ain't nothing to keep me down." From the worried looks the other women in the kitchen were giving her, Dek knew it was more than that. He put down his cup, got to his feet and walked over to the girl whom he realized was trembling. "What kind of injury, Shanna?” he asked softly. Backing away from her overlaird, the servant shook her head. “Ain't nothing, Your Grace. Truly. Ain't nothing." Realizing the girl was terrified, he turned to Maeve, fearful one of the male servants or soldiers had harmed her in some way, he put hardness in his look. “What happened to her, Maeve?" "Your Grace, just let it go,” Maeve pleaded. “It's over and done and...." "What happened?” he questioned. "Show him, Shanna,” one of the other girls spoke up even though those around her tried to shush her. She angrily shook her head. “Nay, let him see what goes on when he's not here to stop it!" "Shut up, Danelle! You're gonna get us all in trouble,” Dek heard another girl hiss. Dek held up a hand to silence the women. He took a step closer to Shanna. “If someone hurt you, lass, I need to know about it.” Noise at the door drew his attention, and he looked around to see Jules and Guy. He waved them away. "What's going on?” Jules asked. "Leave and close the door behind you,” Dek said. “Make sure no one comes in." The two men exchanged inquisitive looks but did as they were told. When the door closed behind them, Dek turned to Shanna.

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"Shanna?” he questioned. The young woman's eyes snapped to Maeve and Dek was peripherally aware of the older woman nodding her head. "Go on, Shanna. You know you can trust His Grace,” Maeve said. Hands trembling, Shanna slowly unbuttoned the front of her gown then eased the bodice apart to reveal a livid red slash above the frayed neckline of her chemise, disappearing beneath the course cotton fabric. Brows drawn together, Dek came closer, reached out to tug the neckline down just enough to ascertain the slash extended across the young woman's breasts. A muscle jumped in his lean jaw as he stepped back—hands clenching into fists at his side. “Who did that to you?” he demanded, eyes blazing with anger. When she didn't answer, his gaze flicked up to hers. “Shanna, who did it?" "She's afraid to say, Your Grace,” Maeve told him. "Afraid it'll happen again,” the girl called Danelle spoke up. “'Twas your lady-wife what done it, and it ain't the first time she's lashed one of us." "Or had it done,” another girl bravely added, the dam of confessional having broken. "My John was laid to bed for nigh on a week after she ordered him whipped,” still another informed him. “And all he did was not have her horse ready when she told him to." "One servant was lashed so badly he took to his bed and died a month on,” Danelle volunteered. “Wounds got infected, they said." Dek looked around at Maeve. “Why haven't I been told about this before now?” he asked, voice as hard as stone. "She said if'n we told you, it would be the harder on us when you left again,” Maeve answered, lowering her head. Fury struck Dek like a heavy chainmail fist to the chest. Blood pounded in his ears and a red haze tinted his vision. Clenching his teeth, he spun around and strode heavily to the door, jerking it open only to have both Jules and Guy stumble into the room—their ears obviously having been pressed to the door's panel. "Did you know about this?” he bellowed at them. "Nay!” the men replied in unison.

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"We've been with you,” Jules protested, “and ain't a soul said nothing to us of this kind of shite happening whilst we was away." Muscles flaring in both cheeks as he ground his teeth, Dek's face took on the look of a rampaging demon. His voice was steely and cold when he spoke. "At eleven of the clock I want every man, woman and child of Droghgheay assembled in the inner bailey,” he ordered. “I may be a bit late in getting there but no one is to leave until I have spoken to them. Is that clear?" "Aye!” the brothers agreed. Dek looked around at the women—his gaze softening as it went to Shanna. “I want you ladies to know that this will never happen again. I extend my sincerest apology that it ever did, and I ask your forgiveness for my lack of properly seeing to your welfare but you can be assured from hence forth this sort of thing will not be done. Shanna, you will be compensated for your pain and suffering, believe me." "Dek, if we had known.... “Jules began but stopped as his overlaird turned back around to shove the brothers aside as he left the room, bellowing his wife's name. Both Ynez and Miriam jumped when the thunderous voice disrupted their conversation. They looked at one another for never had either of them heard Ynez's husband shout her name with such rage. They could hear him slamming open doors and the heavy tattoo of his boots ringing against the marble as he walked. "Something has set him off,” Miriam said. "What should I...?” Ynez began to ask when the door to her sitting room crashed open with enough force to break off the door handle as it struck the stone wall. Her eyes widened with terror as her husband stalked into the room, snaked out a hand to grasp her arm and yank her to her feet. "I should beat you within an inch of your miserable, useless life, you mean, hateful bitch!” he shouted, shaking her like a terrier with a rat. He ignored Ynez's yelp and shook her again. "Your Grace, you are hurting her!” Miriam said, coming to her feet with a hand out to protect the Baroness. Without a second thought Dek splayed his free hand against Miriam's bosom and shoved her back into her chair, pointing a rigid finger at her with the crisp order to stay where she was.

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"Else I'll have you stripped to the waist and your back bared to the whipman!” he threatened. “Or mayhap it should be your tits he lays his lash to!" "How dare you speak to her in such a fashion, Deklyn!” Ynez protested but he jerked her hard enough to snap her teeth together then dragged her behind him as he exited the room. When she would have spoken again, he yelled at her to keep her mouth shut if she wanted to keep all her teeth. Suddenly afraid of her husband for the first time in her life, Ynez decided provoking him in his present state of arousal would not be wise. She clamped her lips tightly shut and stumbled along behind him as he propelled her toward the library. "Tell Delaney to get his ass in here,” Dek shouted at Guy who was standing with his mouth open. “Now, Yn Baase!" "Aye!” Guy acknowledged and ran for the lawyer. Shoving open the library door, Dek swung Ynez into the room then sent her careening onto the damask-clad settee beside the unlit fireplace. She hit the seat with so much force it wobbled on its legs. "How dare you?” Dek snarled as he slammed the door to the library shut and advanced on his wife—who was cowering against the far side of the settee at his approach. “By the gods I knew you were an evil bitch, but I didn't know you were insane to boot!" Ynez lifted her chin. From the threat he'd made to Miriam, she had surmised what had set him off. Without doubt he knew about the servant she had lashed. “I do not punish the servants unless they deserve it." He leaned over her with one hand on the back of the settee and the other on the arm—effectively pinning her in. “And just what the fuck had she done to warrant being cut across the breasts, Ynez?” he asked. "She sassed me,” Ynez replied. His face became a lethal mask. “You lying bitch. I know better. That girl would never have dared sass you. She's afraid of her own shadow." "You're never here to know what these slovenly peasants do,” she hissed. “It is left to me to chastise them when they...." He lowered his voice to a near whisper but the volume only made it that much more terrifying when he spoke. “I have a castellan to handle such matters as they arise. If you have a problem with one of my servants, you go to him with it. You so much as lift a hand to another of my people and before

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the gods, Ynez, I swear to you, I'll dole out the exact same punishment you ordered, or you dealt to one of mine to that spindly cuntlicker you keep to warm your bed.” He lowered his face to hers—his green eyes tracking back and forth between hers. His jaw was set, lips pulled back from clenched teeth, and brows slanted together. “Do you hear what I am saying to you, you crazy bitch?” A light knock on the door was ignored as he asked again. "Your precious Delaney is here,” she snarled at him. "Do. You. Hear. What. I. Am. Saying. To. You. You crazy bitch?” he repeated, punctuating the words forcefully. "Aye, Deklyn,” she hissed. “I heard you." "If you think I don't mean it, that I'm not serious, I will disabuse you of that notion soon enough,” he said, pushing away from her and yelling for Delaney to enter. The lawyer was pale as he came through the door. He'd been hastily apprised of what had transpired in the kitchen and was relieved to see his overlaird had not beaten the Baroness—though it was well within the Baron's rights to do so. "Do you have those papers finished?” Dek asked, referring to the deeds he had ordered copied. "Aye, Your Grace,” Delaney said. “I brought them with me." "Then close the door and take a seat,” Dek ordered. “This won't take long." Delaney hastened to do as he was commanded, perching nervously on the edge of his seat where he sat with his briefcase clutched protectively to his chest. He shot a quick glance to the Baroness, who was glaring at him, swallowed loudly, and then directed his attention to his overlaird. "What does the contract say about the conditions for the dissolution of this farce of a marriage?” Dek asked. "We know what it says, Deklyn,” Ynez said with a roll of her eyes. Dek slowly turned his head to her. He was standing at the fireplace with his forearm braced on the mantle, his other hand jammed to his hip. “When I want you to speak, I'll pull your string. Until then, keep your mouth shut, or I'll hit you hard enough to break your fucking jaw!" Ynez's nostrils flared but she refrained from making the comment that was no doubt hovering on her tongue.

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"What does the contract say, Delaney?” Dek asked again. The lawyer swallowed again before speaking. “It says if no issue has been forthcoming by the anniversary of the tenth year, the marriage may be set aside as null and void." "And how much longer until the anniversary of that tenth year?" Since he had been asked to calculate, Delaney had the answer at hand. “One year, six months, and twenty days, Your Grace." "One year, six months, and twenty days,” Dek repeated. "Correct,” Delaney said, putting up a hand to run around the front of his collar. "What of the disbursement of the lands brought into the marriage?” Dek inquired. Ynez sat up straighter. She opened her mouth to remind him the lands were hers but the look he gave her stopped her cold. "Since the contract expressly states the obligation of conceiving a child from the union is the direct responsibility of the female, in the absence of producing said child, the lands are to be handed over to the Tarryn treasury as compensation for there being no heir brought forth." "Which means she loses all control and ownership of said property,” Dek wanted clarified. Delaney nodded. He shot out his leg and took a handkerchief from his pocket to blot the sweat from his face. His hand was trembling as he applied the fabric. "And no heir has been brought forth,” Dek stated. "No, Your Grace,” Delaney replied. "Those lands are mine!” Ynez said, no longer able to control the anger pushing at her throat. “They have been in my family for generations!" "And you can have the gods-be-damned land,” Dek shouted at her. “I've no need or use for it, and before you spout off again, I have ordered Delaney to go to the treasury to get an accurate accounting of the revenues generated from the use of those lands since the day of our marriage. On the day this sick farce ends, you will be given those monies and the titles to those lands— free and clear. All I ask is that you stay the hell out of my sight, whenever I am forced to be here."

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There had been a time when hearing those words would have made Ynez's heart sing. Now, they were bitter ashes in her mouth, a death knell to her ear. She gathered courage from knowing what she stood to lose if the marriage was dissolved. She lifted her chin. "You are conveniently forgetting the other requirement stipulated within the contract, husband,” Ynez said, the stressing of his title like a bad taste she was spitting out of her mouth. “The one requirement neither of us can legally ignore and one to which we must adhere whether it is to our liking or not. One you have been lax in upholding." Delaney looked up at his overlaird. The Baron was frowning, seemingly searching his memory for which requirement it was of which his wife was speaking. He cleared his throat, drawing Deklyn's attention. “I believe the Baroness is referring to the Seeding Clause, Your Grace." Dek's frown deepened then his face lost all expression—the flesh smoothing along cheekbones and forehead as realization set in. His eyes narrowed as he looked to his wife. “What of it?" "What does the contract say of how often the Seeding must be done, lawgiver?” Ynez queried. Delaney coughed before answering. “Ah, once a month, Your Grace,” he replied. "What of it, Ynez?” Dek asked again. Instead of answering him, Ynez looked to the lawyer. “Since you seem to have your remaining days of our contract noted, tell me, lawgiver. How many instances of Seeding remain in that one year, six months, twenty day timetable?" The lawyer winced, looking to his overlaird for guidance. “Your Grace?” he questioned. "Come now! Can you not figure that in your head, lawgiver?” Ynez challenged. “I surely can. I know you will correct me if I am wrong when my tally comes to nineteen." It was Deklyn's turn to wince. Going to the shrew's bed nineteen more times to hump her stiff, unyielding, unresponsive body would be sheer hell knowing that only ten miles away the woman he loved would be waiting for him. "And since you have seen fit to keep yourself from that portion of the contract by hiding in Geddyn...."

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"Hiding in Geddyn?” Dek roared. “You know full well we are at war, madam! I was with my troops fighting that war!" "Needless on your part, Baron Yn Baase,” Ynez reminded him. “Your troops were needed there, aye, but not so you." "I am their commander. Where they go, I go!” he snapped at her. "That does not negate the responsibility with which you as husband were charged in the Seeding Clause of the contract,” she stated. “As I calculate it, you were gone roughly two years which means you missed twenty-four instances of Seeding.” Her smile was nasty as she watched the color drain from his handsome face. “But let's make it a round number at twenty and call it even." "Thirty-nine times?” he questioned—voice filled with shock. “You expect me to ... to.... “He couldn't say it and even thinking it was making him ill. "I expect you to come to my bed thirty-nine times between now and the tenth anniversary of this sick farce, as you call it,” she said. “That is in the contract, and you are required, by law, to adhere to the letter of that contract." "Why are you doing this?” he demanded, pain registering in his changed eyes. “You've never wanted me in your bed!" "True and I don't want you there, now, but you will uphold your part of the contract or that contract will not be met to the letter of the law,” she said then turned a smug expression to the lawyer. “Am I not right in this, lawgiver? If the exact letter of the law written within that contract is not fulfilled, the marriage cannot—and will not—be dissolved. Is that not the way of it?" Dek turned a horrified look to his lawyer, his friend—hoping Delaney would deny Ynez's claim but the man wouldn't look at him. “Delaney?” he asked in a voice that broke. The lawyer flinched as though he'd been slapped. “She's right, Your Grace,” he answered. “If the contract isn't fulfilled, the marriage can not be set aside.” He finally looked up at Dek. “You must do all you can to get her with child. If that fails, it is not your fault." "But she's tried for eight years and hasn't conceived. What are the chances of her conceiving now?" "Slim to none,” the lawyer replied, “but the law is the law. You must do your duty as her husband at least once a month."

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The Baron of the WindWarrior Clan stared at his lawyer in silence for a long moment then his gaze slipped slowly to his wife. There was no mistaking the gloating on Ynez's face, the triumph blazing there. It was a bitter thing to see, and it cut him to the core. It hurt him so deeply he was surprised he didn't drop to the floor in a bleeding heap. "Did that take the winds out of your sails, Deklyn?” she cooed to him. "Why are you doing this now?” he asked, his face filled with desperation. She ignored his question and grinned hatefully. “You will come to my bed and do your best to get me with child." Hopelessness warred with overwhelming anger in the very depths of his soul. He had never felt so discouraged, so helpless, so powerless in all his life. Not even weaponless, facing an enraged warrior charging with a sword aimed straight at his heart, had he ever known such defenselessness. All he could do was stare at her as she calmly stood, tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder and then walked to the door. When she turned, gave him a brutal, knowing smile filled with so much venom it made him flinch as it was bestowed upon him, he felt completely defeated. "I,” she said as she flung open the door, “am the Baroness of Droghgheay,” she said, head held high. “And the Baroness of Drogh-gheay I will remain!” With a brittle laugh, she slammed the door shut behind her. Delaney slumped in his chair. The vibrations in the room were overpowering—as dark and sinister as any known to man. There was rage flowing in waves from the man standing beside him but there was fear there, as well, and the lawyer looked up. "What are you going to do, Dek?” he asked. For a long time, it didn't seem as though the Baron would answer and when he did, his voice was without inflection. "What choice do I have?" Delaney shook his head. “None that I can see." Dek lowered his head to his forearm on the mantle and closed his eyes. “You say you have the deeds to Sheidaghan with you?" "Aye,” Delaney said and opened his briefcase to rummage through the stuffed contents, withdrawing four copies of the legal papers. He held them out to his overlaird.

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Dek opened his eyes, issued a weary sigh, and then took the papers. He glanced at them then let his hand fall, the papers rustling against his leg as his shoulders slumped. "She thinks she's won, but she's sorely mistaken. I'll give her those fortythree Seedings she's insisting on." "Thirty-nine,” Delaney corrected. “She is willing to forego four of them." "Well, I'm not,” Dek said through clenched teeth. He shot his lawyer a cold look. “Did you hear her say those Seedings I had to make up had a timeframe attached to them?" "No,” Delaney said, drawing out the word. “What are you thinking, Dek?" "I'm thinking the bitch has bitten off more than she can chew this time, and I can promise you she won't like the twenty-four I'll be making up!" **** When he left the library, there were three things Dek needed to do before he went to the courtyard where his people would be congregating. His first stop was to the offices of the Tribunal—the three-man judiciary unit of Tarryn. It did not take him long to demand their signatures on all four copies of the deed. Not one of the judges questioned his motives or desires for the look on the Baron's face did not bode well for anyone who either delayed or annoyed him. The signatures were applied and the Baron sent on his way— amid sighs of relief from the Bench. The second thing he did was to make a visit to the castellan to inform him that under no circumstances was he to allow any corporeal punishment of the inhabitants or servants of Drogh-gheay until its overlaird was apprised of whatever transgression warranted the punishment. If there was a question in the mind of the castellan concerning whether punishment was needed, the transgressor was to be incarcerated and treated justly until the Baron returned to judge the man or woman's offense. "Aye, Your Grace,” Bennett Yn Ghurn agreed with a heavy sigh of relief. “I was told the Baroness had your approval on such matters, and that I was not to bother you with it." "You know differently now,” Dek told the aging man. One last errand and the Black Baron headed for the exterior balcony that ran along the front of the keep's entrance. It was there where he could be seen and heard by those who had gathered in the courtyard. When he opened the doors and stepped out, he could hear the voices of his people, but at this point they noticed him standing with his hands on the marble

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railing, they began to cease speaking until a pin dropping onto a blade of grass might well have been heard. Deklyn's talk with the castellan had awarded him with information that had turned his stomach. His gaze shifted across the courtyard to the old whipping post that had been there for generations. It had been left as a reminder of the death of a very brave man who had given his life to the whip long before Dek had been born. It was past time for the brutal thing to be torn down and after today, he meant to see it done. Eyes were on him—faces lifted up and filled with myriad expressions. He saw concern, curiosity, excitement, suspense, but mostly he saw fear and that heated the anger already festering in his blood. He took a deep breath and raised his voice so everyone there would hear him. "It has come to my attention,” he said, sweeping his gaze over every quadrant of those gathered, “that I have been lax in my duties to Droghgheay as well as to you, its people. I have come here to ask your forgiveness for that dereliction of my duty and to ask that you find it in your heart to grant that forgiveness." He saw faces turning to other faces, mouths parting as whispers were exchanged. He waited until the whispers died down. "You are Drogh-gheay,” he continued. “And I am Drogh-gheay. Together we make Tarryn what it is. If there is a cancer within the walls of this keep, it will eventually spread beyond those walls to infect the whole of the country if we do not carve it out. As Drogh-gheay goes, so goes Tarryn. That is the way it has always been and that is the way it will always be. Do you agree?" "Aye!” the people cried. "If you have an enemy, that enemy is mine. If Drogh-gheay has an enemy, that enemy is mine.” His hands tightened on the railing. “I deal harshly with my enemies, and I will deal harshly with yours. I will not abide a transgression against you for that is a transgression against Drogh-gheay.” He pointed to the whipping post. “That evil thing stands as a constant reminder of how a good and brave man gave his life to keep Drogh-gheay from being destroyed. It has stood there for longer than any of us here today have drawn breath. Before the sun sets on this day, that place where Tuirc Yn Baase shed his life's blood so Drogh-gheay would survive will be no more!" A cry went up and the people clapped, stamped their feet. Catcalls and whistles rang out over the courtyard until the Baron raised his arms for silence. When that silence settled around his people, he lowered his hands to the railing once more.

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"No man—or woman—save your overlaird has the right to mete out punishment to you. No man—or woman—save the man standing before you has the right to mete out pain of any kind to you. When I heard this morning that punishment and pain have become commonplace here in my absence, I knew a moment of killing rage that took me to a place I pray I never go again. I never want to feel that kind of fury again." His people were nodding for many had heard what had transpired with the Baroness, even though they were not privy to what had been said or done. They made no sound at all as the doors to the keep opened and Guy and Jules escorted the Baroness onto the portico. "Under Tarryn law, the wife of the Baron cannot be publicly punished for her crimes against the people who serve her. In the past, such infractions were dealt with by her husband, in private, as it should be. Husbands have the right to chastise their wives and believe me when I tell you I will see to the punishment of mine." Ynez snorted, jerking against the holds Guy and Jules had on her arms. She cursed them beneath her breath but neither man so much as gave her a sidelong glance. Their eyes were on the people of Drogh-gheay. "I cannot offer those of you who were harmed by my wife's malice and spite any excuse for her behavior for there is no excuse for such contemptible actions. Neither can I offer you the retribution that would truly be fitting for those actions. What I can—and do—offer you is justice. Those who were targeted for her viciousness and brutality will be compensated although no amount of coin can undo the damage she wrought. I ask your forgiveness and I offer you a small token of the rightful vengeance due to you." Dek looked across the courtyard and nodded. Two guards opened a door at the far end of the inner bailey and two other guards dragged a struggling Miriam Brazwellington through the crowd. The people parted—none wanting to touch even the hem of the hissing woman's gown as she was manhandled toward the whipping post. "No!” Ynez shouted upon seeing what was about to be set into motion. “Damn you, no, Deklyn!" Standing above her, unable to see her, Deklyn had no doubt in his mind that she was struggling as violently with his cousins as the Mantis was with the guards. Only Ynez and her lover could be heard in the courtyard. The shouting, screaming, shrieking and cursing came from them, but it was enough noise to wake the dead. As Miriam was lashed to the whipping post— her arms shackled above her head—she tried to crane her neck around so she could look up at the Baron.

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"You will regret this, Yn Baase!” she spat, her eyes wild and teeth flashing. “I promise you will! You will rue the day you did this blasphemous thing!" "Miriam!” Ynez called out, her voice breaking. She struggled violently with Guy and Jules, tried kicking them until Jules ordered her legs lashed together and a servant hurried forward to do just that. People stepped back as the ta'zeer strode forward. The master whipsman was dressed all in black, the upper portion of his face—eyes and nose— hidden behind a black silk mask but everyone there knew who he was. In his hand was the sennett whip that had been fetched from the Baroness’ bedchamber. The ta'zeer looked up at his overlaird. "Ten lashes,” Deklyn ordered. “Do not spare the weight of them." The ta'zeer nodded, stepped forward to grasp the back of Miriam's gown, rending it open before snagging his rough fingers in her chemise and tearing it as well to bare her back. With her cursing him—spitting and hissing like a cornered wildcat—he stepped back and let loose the first heavy lash. A horrible shriek was torn from Miriam's throat, and she twisted against her bonds. The second lash followed quickly by a third and fourth brought even louder wails. The people gathered around her stood in silence as the lashes fell. Five. Six. Seven. The Baroness was wailing along with her friend, but she had sagged to her knees, her arms held above her by her captors as she made loud keening sounds that would have done a wounded hyena proud. Eight. Nine. Deklyn forced himself to watch the punishment though it made him physically sick. He had no doubt Miriam had put the idea of doing what she pleased into Ynez's head. Instead of being a restraining influence, the Mantis had encouraged Ynez to act as she had. The castellan had said as much. "She goaded the Baroness into it, Your Grace. I've heard her time and again."

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Though he was against corporeal punishment—and especially that of a woman—he had no qualms about seeing Miriam Brazwellington pay for her own crimes against the people of Drogh-gheay. When the bitch was healed, he meant to see her sent from his beloved keep—never to be allowed to return. Furthermore, he knew just the place to send her. Ten. A collective breath flowed from the people as the ta'zeer ceased his lashing. They moved aside for the two servants who walked to the whipping post and unchained the Mantis’ hands, dragging her now unconscious body from the courtyard. When they looked up to the balcony, they were not surprised to find it empty.

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Chapter Eleven

Sobbing, no longer fighting the tight grips on her arms, Ynez was escorted up the stairs and to her chambers. Her head was down, her spirit bent if not broken, as Guy opened the door and shoved her inside. So distracted by her own misery she barely heard the key turn in the lock, imprisoning her. She stood with her shoulders slumped, hands covering her face for a long moment then slowly straightened, lowering her hands, lifting her eyes. When she saw her husband sitting across the room in her favorite overstuffed chair, she snarled, her fingers curled into claws, and she took two enraged steps toward him before realizing the ta'zeer was standing beside him—brawny arms folded and hooded eyes boring into her. She came short with her mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. "Be very careful what you do, Ynez. Be very careful what you say,” she heard Deklyn advise. “Say what I don't want to hear, and I'll have Randall take another ten strips of flesh off Miriam's bloody back." "Get him out of my room,” she said, fingers balling into fists and jaw clenching. "When I'm ready for him to leave, he will,” was the reply. "This is my room!” she hissed. "This is my keep,” he reminded her. “Thus it is my room." He was sitting barefoot with one leg crossed over the other—ankle to knee—and elbows on the chair arms. His fingers were laced together with the two index fingers extended and braced over his upper lip, as though he was studiously observing her. To her way of thinking, he'd never looked more menacing. Or mean. "What is it you want, Deklyn?” she demanded, head back. "It's not what I am demanding, Ynez, but rather what you demanded,” he drawled. “You wanted me to make up the Seeding sessions I missed these two years, and I am—albeit reluctantly—going to accommodate you, here and now." Ynez's eyes widened. “You can't be serious!" His own eyes turned flint hard and as cold as the snows on Mount Kaule.

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"I assure you, madam, I am deadly serious,” he declared. “Now strip and get into the bed." "I most certainly will not!” she raged, lifting a hand to point at the ta'zeer. “And most certainly not with him here to see me." "He couldn't care less about seeing you naked, Ynez, but if you won't take your clothes off of your own accord, I will ask him to take them off for you.” He smiled—so brutally, so hatefully it chilled her soul. “It won't be any fun for you, but I'm sure I'd find it highly amusing." Tears filled her eyes and her bottom lip trembled. “Don't do this, Dek,” she pleaded, hand out to him. “Please?" He tilted his head to one side, studying her for a moment then his smile disappeared. “It's a little late for polite requests, Baroness. You wanted the Seeding? You'll get the Seeding. Now strip!" Every instinct screamed at Ynez to launch herself at him and claw out his eyes but one look at the sinister man in black standing beside Deklyn's chair was a strong deterrent from such actions. Instead, she straightened her spine and began unbuttoning her bodice. "This is nothing but rape,” she snarled, kicking off her slippers. "It's not rape when I am your husband, and you demanded I meet my obligations,” Deklyn told her. “You reminded me I had twenty-four months of Seeding to catch up on, and I am merely obliging you." "I said twenty!” she hissed as she pushed the sleeves of her gown from her arms then slid the dress down her hips. "Well, I'll be a gentleman and make up those sweet, missing ten for you." "Bastard." "Bitch." Ynez stepped out of her gown and ripped the chemise from her body, tearing at her stockings with fierce tugs. She shot her husband a loathing glance then went to the bed and crawled atop, flinging to her back with arms and legs spread wide. "You want it? Well, here it is!” She refused to look at him. "Baby, you've got nothing whatsoever I want, but unfortunately I've got to make use of it,” Dek answered with a snort. He unlaced his hands and

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unfolded his tall body from the chair, getting to his feet. He glanced at the ta'zeer. “Wait in the hall." "Aye, Your Grace,” the man in black agreed. He walked to the door and tapped. The portal opened and closed again behind him with a snick of the lock. Deklyn stood by the chair—staring across the room at the wife he hated, the woman he wished he could strangle and be done with it. His shirt was opened halfway down his broad chest and hanging free of his pants. When Ynez turned her head to glare at him, she saw he was finishing unbuttoning the shirt. She watched him peel it from his body and toss it aside. His hands went to the zipper of his pants, and she looked away as he started toward the bed, cringing as she heard the tick of the zipper teeth parting. "Here's how it's gonna be, Ynez,” she heard him say. “If you scratch me, bite me, kick me, hurt me, or in any way struggle, I'll have the ta'zeer go after your muffdiver and get some more exercise with his whip arm." He had reached the bed and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pushing his pants down his long legs. "I want you to lay there staring up at the ceiling like you usually do, as unresponsive and uncooperative as an overcooked noodle, and I'll get this done as quickly as I humanly can. Believe me, I'm not going to enjoy it anymore than you are." Peripherally she saw him massaging his cock, tugging upon it. The mattress dipped with his weight, and then he was sliding over her, wedging himself between her thighs, pushing her knees further apart with his. She felt the graze of his knuckles against her core and clenched her jaw and fists. It took only a few minutes, and he climbed off her, bent down to retrieve his pants and stepped into them. "I'll be back when I can get it up again,” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked over to retrieve his shirt. "What?” she cried out, sitting up—breasts bouncing as she stared at him. “What do you mean?" "I've got twenty-three Seedings to complete within the next day or so then only nineteen after that,” he said savagely. “Then I'll be through with your perverted ass.” He went to the door and rapped his knuckles against the panel. "You can't do this!” she snarled, coming to her knees on the bed.

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"I can and I will,” he said as the door opened, and he strolled out with the shirt slung over one shoulder, hooked on his index finger. "Fuck you, Deklyn Yn Baase!” she screeched, coming off the bed. She ran to the door, but it closed in her face and the lock clicked into place. She jerked on the handle. She beat her fists against the panel. “Fuck you, you bastard! I hate you!" "I hate you, too, dear,” he replied, voice muffled by the door. As he and Guy walked down the corridor—the ta'zeer following—Deklyn felt sick to his stomach. It was barely noon but he needed a drink so badly his hands shook. "I'll be in the library,” he told his cousin and for once Guy made no comment nor did he attempt to stop him, even though he was sure Guy knew what he would do. **** "Are you going out to see Maire today or do you want me to?" Dek didn't look up at Guy. “I'll ride out later this afternoon." The Baron of the WindWarrior Clan was sitting slumped in his chair with his right hand shielding his closed eyes. His legs were thrust out in front of him, bare feet crossed at the ankles. In his left hand, resting on his thigh, he clutched a nearly empty snifter of potent Chrystallusian brandy, the fumes pungent in the room. "You got another headache?" Deklyn sighed. “Unfortunately so.” He didn't complain when Guy came over and eased the snifter from his hand and set it on the table beside the chair. "I'm sorry, Dek." A slow, tired smile pulled at Dek's lips. “Aye, well, me, too, Guy.” He lowered his hand and opened his eyes, laying his head on the back of the chair. “You know what?" "What?” Guy asked softly as he hunkered down by Dek's chair and put a comforting hand on his cousin's thigh. "When I've wanted a woman, there was always one willing to oblige me.” He shrugged. “What I did up there was masturbation, and it will be

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masturbation when I trudge up there again just as will be the next time and the time after that." "What if you get her pregnant?" Dek snorted, closing his eyes again to the building agony between his temples. “She hasn't gotten pregnant in eight years, Guy. She's not likely to now." "But what if she does?" "I'll drink a shot of arsenic, slit my wrists then hang myself from the nearest rafter." Guy grinned. “A very efficient way to handle it and so mature, Yn Baase.” He squeezed Dek's thigh. “Messy but efficient." He opened one eye. “And final,” he said, closing his eye again. “Don't forget final." "You hope,” Guy said. He patted his cousin's leg then got up to seat himself in the chair across from him. “With your luck, you'll survive the poison, you won't hit a vital vein in either wrist, and the hanging will merely snap your neck and paralyze you from head to toe. What will you do then, Your Grace?" "Wait for my dear cousin to finish the job for me,” Dek drawled. "Not me, cuz, but I will promise to come by every day to wipe the drool from your chin." "Fucker,” Dek grumbled. "Of course Jules will most likely cart you out to Maire's to let her use you for a doorstop. She can wipe the drool from your chin. Hell, she might even find a medicinal purpose for paraplegic drool for all we know." Dek laughed then winced. “Don't,” he pleaded. "Well, if you don't have anything you need us to do, he and I have been remiss in playing with the troops.” Guy stood. “Mayhap you should go to lay down until the headache passes." "I can't,” Dek said with a sigh. “I've got to go masturbate in Ynez a couple of more times before I head out to see Maire. I figure in less than a week I'll be caught up with the Seeding."

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"Good luck with that, then,” Guy said as he turned to go. “With Ynez, I mean." "Fuck you and the jackass you came riding in on a sidesaddle,” Dek replied with a sweet voice. **** Maire was lovingly placing the cobblestones Hank had piled on the grass for her into the curving pathway he'd prepared for her from the oyster shell drive to the front steps. She had been at it for several hours—working the pale pink stones in among darker rose-colored ones—and still had a few more hours to go before the job could be completed. The pathway had been edged with sections of tin Hank had hammered into the ground, so she had to find the appropriately sized stones to maneuver them into position. The clip-clop of hooves on the oyster shells made her look up, heart soaring when she recognized the rider trotting toward her. She quickly got to her feet, arming a stray lock of hair from her forehead then removed the heavy gloves she was wearing before shaking out her skirt. Timid smile in place, she waited anxiously for him to reach her then dismount. "I missed you,” she said, hands clutching the gloves as he tied his mount to the hitching post. He reached her in two strides—arms reaching out to take hold of her and drag her against him, his head coming down so he could slant his hungry mouth across hers. He molded her to him, his lips devouring hers, his body straining to possess her. "By the gods, I missed you more,” he swore against her lips before showering her face with more kisses. “I needed to be with you so badly." "You're here now,” she said. "I'll always be here,” he whispered. “In spirit if not body." In the distance thunder rolled ominously. Surprised, they both turned to stare at the dark sky that was looming toward them. A stitch of lightning seamed the clouds. "Where did that come from?” she asked. "You'll get used to it,” he said. “Along the coast, storms pop up this time of the year in the blink of an eye.” He looked at the work she'd been doing. “I don't think you're going to get the walkway finished today." "Doesn't look like it,” she said.

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He eased her out of his arms. “Want some help?" She shook her head. “I was thinking about taking a break and going in to get some lemonade. Want some?" "I would,” he said. He shooed her aside when she bent down to retrieve the mallet and trowel she'd been using then slung an arm around her shoulders as they started for the cottage. “How've you been?" "I've been fine. How've you been?” she countered, looking up at him. “Are you over your headache?” He shrugged noncommittally. “And the wound to your chest?" He shrugged again. “It itches like crazy so I guess that's a good sign." They climbed the steps to the opened door. Seeing it, he frowned. “Aren't you worried about stray critters slinking or slithering in?" "They're welcome if they can escape Caro's broom or Hank's hoe,” she said with a laugh. “A skink got in yesterday and Caro chased the poor thing until I caught it to put it outside." Neither Caro nor Hank was in sight as they went through the great room into the kitchen. Smiling—for she knew the couple had vanished to give her time alone with the Baron—she ushered him to the little kitchen table then set about pouring two glasses of lemonade. Bringing them to the table, she saw him staring out the window, rubbing his forehead. She took a seat beside him. "I heard what happened,” she said, wrapping both hands around her glass. “I'm sorry she hurt you." Believing there was no way she could have heard as yet about the drama that had taken place earlier that day, he told her—not wanting any secrets between them. "I heard about that, too,” she said and when his eyebrows shot up, she cocked a shoulder. “I've been having a few visitors today.” She looked around at the counter where a few wicker baskets sat. “I've got fresh bread, a jar of fig preserves, some homemade candles, a sack of sugar and several other items that have been brought as welcoming gifts from neighbors." "Neighbors?” he questioned. “What neighbors? The closest cottage is in Cathair and that's ten miles from here." "Curious neighbors,” she answered. “But nice ones."

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"Who couldn't wait to tell you all the local gossip, I suppose,” he grumbled. He stared down into his glass—as yet to take a sip. “I'm not sure I like people coming out here bothering you." "They weren't bothering me, and I enjoyed the company,” she defended the new acquaintances she'd made. “Drink your lemonade." He took a sip and once again his eyebrows shot up. He swallowed then licked his lips. “That is the best I've ever had, tarrishagh." "I would like to plant several citrus trees, especially lemons,” she said. "I'll get Guy to procure a couple,” he said. "Mayhap a lime, too?” she asked and he nodded agreement. "So,” he said, stretching out his long legs. “What did they tell you about the doings this morn?" "That the punishment you doled out was needed, just, and accepted by your people as a desire on your part to do right by them." He searched her eyes and when he found no censure there, he sighed. “And my lady-wife? What did they say of her?" "That one year, six months, and twenty days would not come soon enough,” she said with a twitch of her lips. Dek groaned. “By the gods, do they miss nothing?" Maire looked away. “Not even the twenty-four Seedings which I'm sure by now are less than that,” she replied softly. He flinched, reaching out to cover her hand. “Maire, it wasn't something I wanted to do. It isn't something I want to do. It is...." "Necessary and we'll not speak of it again,” she said in a firm voice. “Would you like something for your headache?" "How did you know I.... “He shook his head gently. “Aye, I would." She got up from the table and went to the cupboard to rummage through the bottles and jars there. “I will be planting a few papaver plants so I can brew my own tenerse,” she informed him. “I'm setting aside a portion of my herb garden for medicinal plants." He smiled—remembering Guy's comment about the drool. When she came back to the table she had a small glass of milk-colored water that had a more

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pungent odor than he was accustomed to. He sniffed the glass. “Is that vinegar?" "A few drops, aye,” she answered. “It will greatly reduce the pain." He made a face but downed the offensive liquid in one gulp, shuddering as the taste hit his pallet like a rocket. “Ugh, tarrishagh. That's bloody awful! It tastes much worse than the moldy shite you gave me in Vardar and that was worse than normal tenerse." "Drink your lemonade,” she ordered. “It will cut the taste." Lifting his glass, he took several swallows before his eyes began to glaze. He blinked as the warmth and the peacefulness spread through him. "That's some gods-be-damned good shite,” he mumbled, running his tongue over his numb lips. “Moldy shite, but good shite." The windows shook as another rumble of thunder sounded. The light was going out of the sky and the wind had picked up. Maire went to close the front door as Dek got up and walked out on the back porch. He held the cool glass to his forehead as he surveyed the newly dug gardens and the trees that had been planted. He laughed as the ducks waddled past for the safety of the barn as lightning zigzagged through the heavens. He saw Jenny—at least he thought it was Jenny—trotting under a lean-to in the corral. He thought he saw lights in the little hut beside the barn but Maire joined him at that moment. She snaked an arm around his waist as he tucked her under his arm. "You should lie down,” she told him, “until your headache goes away." "In your bed?” he countered. "In one of the guest room beds?” she offered. He glanced across the room. “On the settee?” he inquired. She agreed so they walked back through the kitchen and great room to the comfortable settee. "You sit,” he told her and when she started to protest he told her he wanted to lay with his head in her lap. “Your fingers in my hair." Maire made a tsking sound, but she accommodated him, threading her fingers through his thick curly hair as he laid on his side with his knees drawn up. The settee barely held his tall, muscular frame, but he snuggled close, arms crossed over his chest. The back of his head was pressed against her belly, and it sent waves of desire rippling through her womb.

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With a suddenness that made them both jump, the sky seemed to break open with a sharp crack and a deluge of fierce wind and rain pelted the cottage. "I don't like bad weather,” she said, her voice tinged with nervousness. They were facing the large front windows which had yet to have draperies sewn for them. The darkness beyond the mullioned panes was lit often by the flare of lightning. "The storms can be pretty severe,” he said. At that moment his world was so mellow the threat of the weather had little meaning for him. With her hands in his hair, massaging his scalp, the universe could implode, and he wouldn't care. "You're not bothered by storms?” she asked. "Not in the least,” he answered. "What about when you were a child?" He chuckled softly. ‘The only thing that scared me when I was a child was my mother. The woman was a dragoness. My ta'zeer has nothing on her." She smiled. “Did you get many spankings?" "Let's put it this way,” he said. “I didn't sit down from the time I was two until I was eighteen." Maire laughed, smoothing the locks from his forehead. “Isn't that a bit of an exaggeration, milord?" He turned over so he was on his back looking up at her, knees crooked. “If you don't believe me, ask Jules and Guy. Most of the time they had their asses lit up alongside mine.” He reached for her hand and drew it down to his chest, pressing the palm over his heart. The rain slashed against the windows with fury. The wind howled in the eaves. Fierce lightning spider-webbed its way across the gunmetal gray heavens and in the west, the sun was dipping to the horizon. "I don't believe you'll be riding out tonight,” Maire said then gasped. “Oh, Deklyn! Your poor horse!" He sat up so quickly the tenerse made his head spin violently, and he had to clutch the back of the settee. Trying to stand, he found his knees had turned to rubber. He turned his head to Maire, his eyes full of guilt.

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"I'll see to him,” she said, and before he could snag a hand at her gown, she was racing toward the door. "Don't you dare to go out in that gods-be-damned.... “He got no farther for she was bolting through the door and into the torrential downpour. Struggling to stand, he flopped back to the settee as his entire world canted off to one side. In the brief flashes of lightning he saw her untying his horse then running with the beast around the side of the house—no doubt leading the beast to the barn. Fear for her safety and irritation at his wobbly legs and spinning head set his adrenaline to pumping through his body—which, in turn, intensified the effects of the tenerse. He tried one more time to stand but his legs skidded out from beneath him, and he crashed to the settee. As one last lightning crack came, the lights in his world went completely out. **** It was the bright sunlight coming through a crack where the blanket had slipped sideways from the drapery rod that woke him. Blinking at the blinding brightness he closed his eyes again and nestled down into the comfort of the soft mattress and cool pillow. All around him were a sweet, deep quiet and the scent of the ozone clinging to the crisply ironed sheets. He buried further under that crispness and dozed off for a moment or two. He heard laughter. Feminine laughter. His Maire's girlish laughter. Then an unknown male's loud guffaw. He frowned and popped his eyes open. Across the room was unfamiliar furniture, a bare pale blue wall where dark oak paneling should have been, and a strange woman smiling gently at him. "Good morn, Your Grace,” she said softly. “Would you be liking your breakfast up here or will you be taking it with milady?" Once again, he heard a man laughing, Maire shrieking as though she was being chased, and he sat bolt upright, fury lashing his handsome face. The woman put out a hand. “They're only teasing one another, Your Grace. That's my husband, Hank, and they do it all the time." Memory came back to Dek, and he let out a harsh breath, slanting his hand through his hair. “Where the hell am I?" "You're at Sheidaghan, Your Grace. In one of the guest rooms upstairs,” she told him.

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"And I got here how exactly?” he queried, flinging the covers back to get up then gasping as he grabbed them again and jerked them up to his chest for he was completely naked beneath the covers. “Who the hell took the clothes off me?" The woman had turned away with a hand to her mouth, her face red, lips pursed with laughter. "That would have been me, Your Grace,” a strange man who was no doubt the unknown woman's mate said as he came into the room. “Milady thought you'd be more comfortable without your pants and shirt and since you weren't wearing no undies...." "Where is Maire?” he interrupted. He felt foolish clutching the sheet like a bashful maiden. "I'm right here,” the lady in question replied as she came into the room with a cup of steaming coffee. “I heard you bellow all the way down in the kitchen.” She came to the bed, placed the cup on the night table. “These two wonderful people are Caro and Hank." "Did you see me naked?” he asked in a suspicious voice, eyes narrowed. Maire lifted one fine brow. “Well, it wouldn't be the first time, but if you mean last eve? No, I did not nor did Caro." "Saw him just now, though,” Caro said with a laugh even though her overlaird glared murderously her way. "Hank saw me running with your mount.... “Maire began. "We'll discuss that foolishness later,” he snapped. He looked at Caro. “She saw me naked in a roomful of my men when she was seeing to my wound.” He pulled the sheet down to show her the injury. "I understand completely, Your Grace,” Caro said, obviously having trouble forcing the humor from her face. "We've never been alone when I was without my clothing,” he said. “Isn't that true, tarrishagh?" Though she realized he was gallantly trying to protect her reputation, Maire continued as though he hadn't spoken. “Hank came out of the guest cottage to help me rub down the poor beastie. We fed the horse then Hank escorted me back here."

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"She looked like a drowned rat, she did,” Hank said with a grin. “Told her to get herself upstairs and into a bath while I picked you up and brought you up here. You was dead to the world, you was, Your Grace." "I was asleep all night and didn't get out of bed even once,” Dek stated. “Not even to piss.” Which he realized he had to do very badly. "Deklyn,” Maire said with exasperation in her voice, “they know we were not intimate nor will we be until you are free. Stop trying to protect me." "There won't be any tales spun about you spending the night here, Your Grace,” Hank said. “If'n anyone dares to ask, they'll be told that I slept in that there chair over there the entire night so you've nothing to worry about in that regard." "Caro, would you help me in the kitchen?” Maire asked, noticing the way Dek was shifting uncomfortably on the bed. “Milord, do you need Hank's assistance?" Dek stared at her. “No,” he said with a bit of pique. "Then we'll leave you to your dressing,” she told him and ushered the two servants ahead of her from the room. “Come downstairs when you're ready, and I'll fix you a plate." "Aye, mommy,” he grumbled, “and I'll be sure to wash ‘hind my ears."

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Chapter Twelve

While Miriam healed and Ynez spent a week of solitary confinement in her room with guards carefully inspecting every meal tray as it went in and came out lest the two women try corresponding, Dek took care of the distasteful business of visiting his lady-wife's bedchamber three times each day until the deed had been done. Despite the odious task that sent him to Ynez's chambers, he was content. His afternoons were spent at Sheidaghan with Maire, but he refrained from spending another night there—afraid of generating talk that could damage his lady's reputation. He did not, however, refrain from sharing his lustful dreams with Maire and this night was no different. Hand and in they walked along the pristine white sand of Montyne Cay as a playful breeze ruffled their hair. Turquoise waves lapped at the shore and ran over their bare feet—soaking the cuffs of his turned-up white cotton pants and the hem of her light blue muslin gown. Beneath the warm rays of the tropical sun, his bare chest was as nut brown as a native's. "I love it here,” she told him and leaned against his shoulder. "When we're married, we will travel to the real Cay and build a beach house. Would you like that?” he asked. "Aye,” she sighed. “I would." He untangled their hands to slip his arm around her shoulder, holding her to him as they continued down the beach. They were headed for their favorite spot to go swimming. It was there where dolphins swam up to join them in their frolic and skinny-legged sandpipers played tag with the sea foam rippling to shore. Coming to the gently curving crescent that marked that special spot, he released her to unbutton his white trousers and step out of them. Maire pulled the muslin gown over her head and stepped naked into his open arms, delighting in the feel of his sun-heated flesh against her bare breasts. He cupped the back of her head to hold her cheek to his chest, laying his own cheek atop her spun gold hair. "I love you so much,” he whispered. "As I love you,” she replied. They stood that way for a long moment as the waves folded over their feet and the sand beneath their soles shifted away. Her arms were around him. His left hand rested on the curve of her bare bottom, caressing her. He 176

finally broke apart from her, reached down for her hand. Together, they ran into the undulating waves, laughing like children as their hands separated, and they dove into the warm water. They swam with the dolphins, dunked one another, came together for fleeting kisses and prolonged savoring of the other's mouth. They touched. They rubbed their bodies against one another. He ran his hand between her legs to caress her. She molded her fingers around his cock to massage him until he was hard and aching with need. When that moment came, they shared a look, and he put his hand to her chin to lift her face, lowering his to taste the sweetness of her mouth. His lips plied hers with gentle touches. His teeth nibbled at the full bottom lip until she opened to his seeking. Firmly, he pressed his tongue in the wet warmth, his cock stirring against her belly. "Love me,” she pleaded around his fiery assault. Dek dipped his legs, put an arm behind her back and under her knees to lift her high against his chest. He carried her out of the ocean and onto the beach. He went to one knee—placing her on the sparkling sand—then covered her with his warrior-honed body. The waves flowed around them, leaving behind foamy bubbles to catch in her long blond hair. He spread her legs with his knees, put a hand between them to guide his shaft into her velvety heat, and slid deep inside her. "Deklyn,” she said on a long sigh, gathering him to her, one leg lifted to hook her foot over his calf. They moved together on the shifting sand slowly but with demanding purpose—his cock thrusting powerfully, her cunt welcoming the heat and hardness and command of his shaft. He dug his hands beneath her to lift her rump, so he could go deeper still, touch her womb, touch her very core. Her hands clutched at his back as the muscles rippled and played beneath her palms. Their climax burst like a supernova—exploding with white-hot heat. They cried out as he pumped his seed, and she milked every last drop of it from his pulsing rod. Exhausted, he collapsed atop her. She held him tightly. "I will never let you go, Deklyn Yn Baase,” she told him. "I will never leave you, Maire Barnes,” he replied. **** Dek sighed heavily. He was sitting in his office going over a mound of paperwork that had accrued in his absence from Drogh-gheay. For an hour he had been scrawling his signature to documents and still had a three-inch

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stack left to tackle. His hand ached, cramped. He sighed again and tossed the pen to the desk top, leaning back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. The day would not end quickly enough for him, so he could swing atop his horse and race toward Sheidaghan and the woman he loved. He flexed his tired back, yawned, and then lowered his hands. He reached for the pen, shaking his hand to alleviate the cramping. The sooner he finished with the blasted infernal paperwork, the sooner he could leave the suffocating confines of the keep. He sat forward, pulled a page off the stack and began reading it as a knock came at his door. "Enter,” he called out, not looking up, scribbling his name at the bottom of the page. He laid the pen down and reached for the red candle sputtering on his desk. He glanced up as Jules entered but didn't greet his cousin. He allowed a blotch of the wax to spill beside his signature then pressed the Great Seal of the barony into the warm wax. Knowing how much his kinsman hated having to deal with paperwork, Jules slipped into one of the two chairs that stood before Dek's desk and crossed his legs. “How much longer will you be?” he asked quietly. Dek took up the pen again. “Until I'm a toothless, hairless, sightless old man, it seems,” he said, snatching another page from the slowly dwindling pile. He perused the page then cursed, crumbled the page into a ball and tossed it at the overflowing wastebasket beside the desk. “You wouldn't believe some of the shite the Tribunal in all its senile glory has come up with for me to approve this go-round.” He snorted. “Separate drinking fountains for the Geddynian refugees. Whose jackass idea was that?" "Most likely Lord Gael,” Jules replied. “He always has been prejudiced to the extreme." "Well, he fucking isn't going to get separate drinking fountains,” Dek grumbled then reached for another page. “Are you here on business?" There was a long pause before Jules said, “Unfortunately so." Dek looked up. The expression on his cousin's face made him slowly set the pen down. He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, shite. I know that look,” he said. “That's your Dek's-not-going-to-like-this look." Jules shrugged—eyebrows lifting. "Just tell me,” Dek said, bracing for whatever bad news his captain of the infantry was about to deliver. "I received word from the harbormaster that a ship has been sighted heading our way,” Jules said.

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Dek blinked then scowled. “Jules, a lot of ships come to Drogh-gheay harbor." "A big red ship with big red sails." The color drained from Dek's ruddy face and his lips parted. He stared at Jules with growing horror then squeezed his eyes tightly closed. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck! That's all the hell I need!” His eyes popped open so he could shoot his kinsman a hard look. “Are you sure it's his ship? Maybe the lookout saw sunlight glinting off the hull, and it just looked...." "Hard to mistake a big red schooner with scarlet sails bearing down on you, Deklyn,” Jules drawled. “And to my knowledge he's the only man we know with a big red ship." The Baron's head dropped to his chest. “No, no, no, no, no,” he repeated in a near-whisper, shaking his head. "I've already informed Yn Ghurn that we have important personages on their way for a visit. I told him to make up ten rooms for the gods know how many lickspittles he'll have with him this time." "No less than eight,” Dek said, ashamed his voice was filled with a whine. He lifted his head. “How long do you think the bastard will stay this time?" Jules crossed his arms. “Last time it was three weeks." "Fuck!” Dek exploded, shooting out of his chair. He slammed a hand through his hair, grabbing a handful and tugging. “I was hoping my memory had failed me, and I just thought he'd put us out for only a day or two." Jules snorted with disdain. “You know better. If we get lucky maybe he'll be gone in two weeks but Yn Ghurn reminded me he's never stayed less than three weeks and a few times it was a solid month of enduring his presence. The longest he's ever stayed was six weeks." "Fuck!" Going to the window, Dek stared down into the harbor where the activity was already bustling. Word was spreading that he was coming so there were certain protocols that had to be met. Hands on his hips, Dek let his head drop again, his shoulders slumped. He squeezed his eyes closed again. “He's heard, hasn't he?” he asked. "That would be my guess." A long, weary sigh left Dek's lungs.

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"You should go to change. You know how he likes all the pomp and circumstance when he arrives,” Jules said. “I sent Guy out to Sheidaghan to let Maire know you won't be coming out for awhile." Dek opened his eyes and turned his head to look at his cousin. “Did you tell him to explain why?" Jules nodded. “She'll understand." "I wish I did,” Dek said. **** He was an immense man with an enormous gut that strained the scarlet cummerbund that banded his girth. From the broad brim of the large red felt hat with its round crown to the tips of his highly-polished red shoes, the man who came down the gangplank was a very imposing sight. His face was round with a large bulbous nose, a nearly lipless slit of a mouth and beady eyes that moved constantly, missing nothing. He was as pale as freshly-drawn milk and had three layers of jowls that hung beneath his neck and wobbled with every step he took. The sausage-like fingers of his left hand were curled around the handle of a six-foot long black walnut crozier—the symbol of his office. Lord Assyl Fyrryn—the Senior Judge of the Tarryn Tribunal—stepped forward, bowing respectfully. “Welcome back to Tarryn, Your Beatitude,” he said then took the hand extended to him and kissed the ornate gold ring adorning the pudgy hand of the Patriarch of the WindWarriors. His Beatitude the Ecumenical Patriarch Keish Buillovvee inclined his head, the brim of his hat quivering. “It is a pleasure to grace your homeland once again with our presence,” he replied. He turned to the man standing slightly behind him and to his right. “You know, of course, His Eminence Archbishop Grouig." "Welcome, Your Eminence,” Lord Assyl greeted the stick-thin man who nodded but did not speak. The Patriarch turned to the man on his left. “And His Eminence Archbishop Mongey." "It's good to have you with us again, Your Eminence." This Archbishop did not speak, either, but surveyed the Tribunal judge with barely-concealed laughter lurking in his blue eyes. "Where is your Baron?” the Patriarch inquired in a sharp tone. “Could he not be bothered to attend us?"

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"I am here, Your Beatitude,” Dek said, stepping from among the crowd that had gathered to welcome the shepherd of their religion. The warrior came to the Patriarch then genuflected before him, keeping his head down, awaiting the Blessing of the Patriarch. The moment the Patriarch laid his palm on his head, Dek felt his skin crawl. He hated having the man touch him, but it was custom, an integral part of the beliefs he called his own. "Go raibh an choir Ghaoithe I gcónai leat,” the Patriarch pronounced, bestowing the time-honored blessing beseeching the Wind to be at the Baron's back. "Thank you, Your Beatitude,” Dek answered. He cringed as the fat man's hand smoothed over his hair. "You need a haircut, Deklyn,” the Patriarch stated then removed his hand. “You may rise before us." Dek got to his feet, stiffening as the large man hooked his arm through Dek's and bid the young man, “Walk with us, my son." The crowd dropped to its knees as the Patriarch passed. He graciously inclined his head in the direction of the people with a tight smile pulling his mouth. Not once did he stop to accept the gifts held out to him—he had servants following in his wake to do that—nor did he speak. Despite his enormous weight, he walked well enough with the aid of the crozier and the sturdy shoes he wore although by the time the procession—the archbishops, two auxiliary priests, the Tribunal judges, and various officials right behind their shepherd—crossed over the lowered drawbridge to venture into the outer bailey, the Patriarch was wheezing. "You should have allowed me to send a carriage,” Dek said quietly. "The people must see us, Deklyn,” the Patriarch insisted. “It is the joy of their day to observe our passing." Dek ground his teeth. The pomposity of the man irked him almost as much as the fondness His Beatitude had for touching. Reminding himself it was his own distaste for being touched by those for whom he did not care rather than any inherent evil within His Beatitude the Ecumenical Patriarch Keish Buillovvee did little to settle his nerves. He wanted to shrug off the heavy arm imprisoning his but to do so would be a grievous insult. As they entered the inner bailey, the Patriarch stopped—turning his head to the place where once the whipping post had stood. “What has happened here, Deklyn?” he asked. “Where is the post upon which your ancestor Tuirc Yn Baase bled out his life and why has it been removed from the courtyard?"

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Dek knew the Patriarch was aware of what had transpired in the courtyard. The man had spies everywhere who reported even the most insignificant matters to the auxiliary priests who in turn handed them up the chain of command to the archbishops who then appraised the Patriarch. "It was past time the post was laid to rest, Your Beatitude,” Dek replied. “It was taken down, burned, and the ashes scattered over Tuirc Yn Baase's grave as was fitting." "But not before it was well-used once last time, eh, Deklyn?” the Patriarch queried. "A woman deserving of the lashes was punished here, aye,” Deklyn agreed. “I am sure you were told my lady-wife was included in the punishment though hers was not corporeal." The pudgy hand resting on Dek's wrist tightened. “On that matter I am not entirely sure your lady-wife would agree.” He looked away from the empty spot where the post had stood and stared directly into the Baron's green eyes. “Is not what you have been engaging in as part and parcel of her punishment not physical, my son?" Knowing he was treading on very thin ice, Dek held the intense stare of the Patriarch. "My lady-wife had reminded me earlier that I had been lax in providing her with the requisite number of Seedings called for in the contract she and I signed on the day we were married. You are an astute man, Your Beatitude, and you know the way of it between Ynez and me. She is loath to have me touch her at any time and if you, in your infinite wisdom, know of a way I can perform the Seedings without physically touching her, I would be most appreciative of learning of it." The thin flaps of flesh that passed for lips on the Patriarch quivered for a moment and Dek wasn't sure if the man was going to laugh or chastise him. "I am sure you would,” was all the fat man said before starting forward once again, tugging gently on Deklyn's arm. Servants flanked the steps into the keep, going to their knees on the hard stone as the Patriarch passed. Once inside the vast reception hall, the man released Deklyn's arm and handed the crozier to Archbishop Grouig. He then headed toward the library. “Join us, Deklyn,” he commanded though the Archbishops and auxiliary priests made no move to follow. Anticipating the Patriarch's demands, a crystal decanter of Tarryn whiskey and two glasses had been placed on a table that sat between two overstuffed chairs. The fat man took one chair and motioned Dek to the other.

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Surprised the Patriarch was not asking for the whiskey, Deklyn took a seat—feeling like a child being called to the office of the head master. "Remind me again of the name of the woman you have decreed your Cochianglt." Cold fear shifted down Dek's spine. He knew the Patriarch had to know of Maire's existence but hearing him ask of her was unsettling. "Maire, Your Beatitude. Maire Barnes,” he answered. "I am told she is a widow?” It was a question, not a statement. "Aye, Your Beatitude, she is." "And that you were the one who lanced her maidenhead." Dek's eyes widened, his mouth parching of all moisture. He tried to swallow and couldn't. The blood rushed through his ears. His heart was thudding so violently he put a hand to his chest. The Patriarch turned his head toward the young man. “Do you fear I might take her from you, Deklyn?" "If you do my life will end,” Deklyn replied, barely able now to draw breath for terror was crawling through his veins. Waving a dismissive hand at the statement, the Patriarch informed him only weak men died of a broken heart. "With all due respect, Your Beatitude, I am not a weak man, but if I lose Maire, I would not want to live,” he replied. "You might not want to, my son, but you would,” the Patriarch said. “Was it not you who said ‘I am Drogh-gheay'? As such, your life is pledged to your people and your country above all else—which includes your personal happiness. Your heart might break but you would not die of it." The terror increased until it was a dark shadow hanging over Dek's head. He had to know before that terror completely overwhelmed him. "Is that what you're planning on doing?” he asked. “Are you going to take her from me?" "What we plan to do is visit with this young woman to ascertain for ourselves her acceptability as your potential Cochianglt. If we are satisfied she is, indeed, your chosen bond-mate then, no, we will not take her from you. Of course until your marriage is set aside—if it ever is—you will not be

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allowed to have relations with this woman.” He held up his hand when Dek would have spoken. “We know you have not lain with her since you found her in Geddyn and are pleased that you have showed wisdom and restraint, adhering to Tarryn law. However, if when we visit her, we find she is not what you believe her to be, we will take her with us, and you will never see her again. Temptation is ended when it is removed from sight." So hurt by those words he forgot himself, Dek bolted from his chair. He wanted to smash his fist into something. His head was pounding so fiercely he felt as though it would burst. His face was clenched with such obvious agony, the Patriarch rose to his feet. "Do not start borrowing trouble where there is yet to be any, Deklyn,” he advised. “We have every confidence the woman is as you represent her else your eyes would not have changed color." "I know but...." "And of course we will need to speak with your lady-wife. Considering the numerous Seedings you have implemented, it is quite possible she could conceive, and if she should, that would make this entire conversation a moot point, now, wouldn't it? You would be forced to set the Cochianglt aside whether or not she is your true bond-mate." Dek felt tears burning behind his eyes. He wanted to drop to his knees in front of the Patriarch and would have if he had thought it would do any good. He would do anything necessary to keep Maire with him. "Speak to us, Deklyn,” the Patriarch said, not unkindly. He reached out to put a heavy hand on Dek's shoulder. His hand flexed. “Tell us what is in your heart. Hold nothing back." Dek stood beneath the weight of that touch—hating it—but too afraid to shake it off. "You know how it has been with Ynez,” he said. “She has made my life a living hell since the day we Joined. She doesn't want me—she never has— anymore than I want her, but if she can do anything to ruin my life, she will. I wouldn't put it past her to move heaven and earth to see me kept from the woman I love just to spite me!" "Then do not give her a reason to cause trouble. Stay away from the woman until the marriage has been set aside." Dek groaned for he had feared that would be the Patriarch's command. “I can't,” he said. "You can't or you won't?"

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There was a hard, uncompromising look in the fat man's beady eyes. They were locked on Dek like searchlights. He raised his chin. "I love Maire,” he said. “I won't give her up easily." "You aren't being asked to give her up as yet, Deklyn,” the older man said. “You are simply being told that we do not wish you to visit her until our questions are answered." "And just when will that be?” Dek snapped, fear being pushed aside by anger. "Do not question our timetable, young sir!” the Patriarch warned though he did not raise his voice. “It could be in a day or two, a week or two or it a year or two.” He narrowed his porcine eyes. “It could even be in a decade or two. That is up to you." The warning was clear. The hand on his shoulder tightened. "We will drop the matter for now. Think about what we have discussed with you then make your decision.” He removed his hand to pat Dek's cheek as though the Baron were a tempestuous little boy. “We are sure you will make the right one." **** At the Patriarch's request, Ynez was allowed from her room and told to make a presentable appearance at the formal dinner that was being served in the dining hall. She was warned to be at her most polite and to only speak when spoken to. Any quarreling in which she might feel inclined to indulge would not be looked upon with leniency. She was to behave as the daughter of a Viscount and the wife of the Baron had been brought up to behave. Or there would be consequences. Dressed demurely, her head down, her face expressionless, she sat to the right of her husband—her usual place at the other end of the table taken by him, since he had vacated his rightful place out of respect for the Patriarch's rank—Ynez toyed with her food. She ignored the conversation in which the men were engaged and silently waited for permission to leave the table. She was hoping she could find a way to either see or get word to Miriam or—at the very least—learn something of how her companion was fairing. The guards outside her door had intercepted two messages sent to her from Miriam and the servant who had dared to circumvent Jules’ orders for no contact between the two women had been dismissed. "His Beatitude asked you a question, Ynez,” Dek said in a tight voice.

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Ynez look down the length of the table—past the Archbishops and auxiliary priests as well as the three Tribunal judges and two Councilmen. She forced her lips into an apologetic smile. "I beg your pardon, Your Beatitude. I fear I was woolgathering as you gentlemen discussed the war,” she said, batting her lashes coquettishly at the obese man. The Patriarch did not answer her smile. Instead he pursed his lips and directed his gaze to Dek, raising one eyebrow. "His Beatitude asked if you would like to retire from table,” Dek said, not bothering to look at his wife. "If it would please you, husband,” she said sweetly. "It would please me if you would drop dead,” he said loud enough only she could hear his words. "I am sure it would,” Ynez hissed in reply. She glanced around at the servant who suddenly appeared behind her to draw back her chair. She got to her feet, curtsied to the Patriarch, wished him a good evening then left the table. "A most disingenuous woman,” Archbishop Mongey declared, lifting his napkin to blot at his thick lips. "My sentiments, exactly,” Archbishop Grouig agreed. "I am glad Your Eminences can see through her act,” Dek said. He took a sip of the fine claret that had been a present from Lord Gael. "As we see through yours,” Archbishop Mongey said gently. “I have been watching you all evening and though you were polite to the lady, the anger in your eyes was almost sentient.” He braced his elbow on the cleared space in front of him to rest his chin on his fist. “Tell me, Your Grace. What did she say to you that caused you to look so murderous upon her arrival at table?" Dek tried not to smile, but it was hard not to when you looked at Arthur Mongey. Unlike his counterpart, Grouig, Mongey was rarely without a smile. Even his name meant smile in the old language. "She said she hoped I choked on my supper and died gasping for breath,” Dek answered. “She assured me she would not lift a hand to help me should that happen." "Oh, dear!” the Archbishop said, his laughing eyes sparkling. “No wonder you've been sitting there so tensely and chewing so methodically."

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Even Archbishop Grouig laughed at that remark and the Patriarch nodded as though the words might have been his thoughts as well. "I'm accustomed to her insults, Your Eminence. I imagine I'll suffer more of the same—but on a larger scale—as the countdown to the dissolution of our marriage advances." "If there is to be dissolution,” Lord Assyl, the Senior Tribunal judge, injected. "There will be,” Dek stated loudly and clearly. "Let us discuss more palatable matters,” the Patriarch said. “Deklyn, tell me of this new peace initiative of which I've learned. How do you think it is going?" With talk turning to the envoys from Tarryn and Geddyn who were meeting in secret in an attempt to work out a peace accord, Deklyn was more in his element. He was—first and foremost—a trained warrior. "I am hoping some good will come of it,” he said. “This gods-awful war has been going on far too long." "I agree,” the Patriarch said. “We will add the envoys in our prayers at morningtide." "It is sincerely wished you will be here to say many masses for us, Your Beatitude,” Lord Gael said. “May we hope you will be with us for Raahoil?" "Indeed, we will,” Archbishop Grouig replied for the Patriarch. “And well beyond, I imagine." Dek groaned inwardly for the sacred festival of Raahoil was over three weeks away—which meant the priests would be there at least a month. He released a long sigh then signaled for a servant to bring him more wine. For the next thirty minutes, he listened to the plans for the festival, bored out of his mind as Lord Gael waxed inexhaustibly over past masses held on the Cliffs of Doolane two miles north of Drogh-gheay. "While I enjoy the other three festivals, I do believe Raahoil is my favorite,” the pompous man stated. "Mine, as well,” Archbishop Grouig agreed. "Would you gentlemen like to retire to the library?” Lord Assyl inquired. “I am sure the Patriarch would be more comfortable." "Excellent idea!” Lord Gael responded.

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With the Patriarch leading the way, Dek lagged behind the other men, grinding his teeth at having to continue dancing attendance for another hour or two until the priests retired for the evening. He longed to be astride his horse and racing to Sheidaghan instead of listening to the longwinded Lord Gael regaling everyone with still another reminiscence of Raahoils past. He desperately needed Maire's quiet company and gentle smile, her soft lap in which to lay his head. Taking a seat across from the Patriarch, he crossed his ankle over his knee and settled in for what he knew would be a boring time. He rubbed his palm on the chair arm, discovered a loose thread and began to pluck at it, only partially listening to the small talk going on around him. He would nod now and again in the pretext of paying attention but his mind was on Maire. Time dragged on. Dek had unraveled several threads and at that moment was intent on unraveling another, his brows knitted as he worked at the thread. "Are you bored, Deklyn?" Suddenly aware of the deep silence surrounding him Dek looked up to find ten sets of eyes staring at him. The Tribunal judges were frowning sharply. The councilmen and auxiliary priests looked embarrassed. Archbishop Grouig looked indignant while his counterpart—Archbishop Mongey—looked vastly amused. The Patriarch was sitting with his fingers pressed together beneath the layered folds of his triple chins, his expression one of sharp inquiry. "I'm sorry, Your Beatitude. I must have been woolgathering,” Dek answered truthfully as he smoothed the loose thread to the chair arm. He could feel the heat in his cheeks and the heavy censure coming from most of the men watching him. "Would you like to be excused from this scintillating conversation we are having?” the fat man questioned. Dek opened his mouth but before he could speak, the Patriarch held up his hand. “We know you are still mending from the battle at Unita. Perhaps you should get to bed early this eve and make an early start with us for the morningtide." Suppressing a groan, Dek nodded and uncrossed his legs. He stood. “Thank you for your understanding, Your Beatitude,” he said, bowing to the Patriarch. He nodded to the other men then left before anyone could prevent him. Behind him, he heard laughter he knew must have come from Archbishop Mongey then felt an icy finger of dread scrape down his spine when he heard the word Sheidaghan.

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Stopping dead still in his tracks, he snapped his head around but the two patriarchal guards who acted as the Patriarch's bodyguards and who were never far from His Beatitude’ side closed the library doors, keeping him from hearing anything else. With hands clenched, Dek took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the landing, he stopped again. To either side of his bedchamber door were two more patriarchal guards in their distinctive red and gold livery. He stamped down the urge to bellow and started walking. Plastering a smile he didn't feel on his face it was all he could do not to turn around and go back downstairs to confront the Patriarch. The AnÉilvéis mercenaries snapped to attention at his approach. "Good evening, men,” he greeted them. "Good eve, Your Grace,” the men responded in unison. One hurried to open the bedchamber door. Dek thanked him before entering the room, stopped, and then turned to look back at them. “I take it the Patriarch assigned you to be at my door all night?" The older looking one of the two cleared his throat. “Aye, Your Grace. All night, every night." Dek nodded then gently shut the door in their faces, even though he wanted to slam the portal as hard as he could. For a moment he stood in the center of the room—fuming and searching for something to smash—but then his better judgment took control and instead he flung himself face down on the bed and growled from frustration. **** "Well, you look like shite,” Jules whispered as he fell into step beside Dek as they made their way to the morningtide mass. It was just after daybreak but every man and woman of any rank above servant at Drogh-gheay was expected to attend the service. "He posted guards at my door,” Dek whispered back as Guy joined them. "I saw them going up and figured that was what was happening,” Guy said in an equally low voice. "Did you tell her what's going on?” Dek asked his cousin. "Aye and I told her you wouldn't be visiting until he left,” Guy responded. “She said she understands."

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The men reached the chapel door, allowing the Tribunal judges and their lady-wives to precede them. "Meet me in the stables after we break our fasts,” Dek said. “And don't dally!" Guy and Jules looked at one another as they followed their overlaird into the chapel. Until he was seated in the family pew at the front of the room, no one else could take their seats. When he genuflected then knelt to say his private prayers, the people quietly sat—Guy and Jules in the pew directly behind Dek's. Ynez was already seated with her hands primly clasped in her lap. She gave no indication her husband had entered the pew for she was staring straight ahead. When Dek was finished with his prayers and slid onto the seat, she moved further away from him. The Baron just as studiously ignored his lady-wife as she was ignoring him. He had his attention locked on the altar and when there was a tinkle of bells to the rear of the chapel, he stood without offering her his hand to rise. Turning his head to watch the Patriarch processing up the aisle between the rows of pews, he heard her call him a mannerless beast and smiled. The Patriarch passed Dek at that moment and—no doubt thinking the smile was being bestowed on him—inclined his head in greeting. Throughout the service Dek sat attentively and without giving in to the urge to glare at Ynez. From the corner of his eye, he saw her foot bouncing in agitation and knew from experience, she was in a bitchy frame of mind. He had not missed the two guards who had escorted her to the chapel. They were standing at the other end of the pew against the wall and would be there to take her back to her room. He had no intention of visiting her chambers again until the following week to perform that month's Seeding. When the last amen had been intoned and the recessional had vanished up the aisle, he was surprised when Ynez reached out and grabbed his arm. "I want to see Miriam!” she hissed at him. Shrugging away her grip, he didn't bother to look at her. “No." "Why not?” she whispered fiercely. He stepped out of the pew, genuflected then turned to give her a cold look. “Because I said so,” he replied and started up the aisle. "Deklyn!” she called after him but already Guy and Jules were between her and her husband and the two guards had moved quickly into place to flank her—one having hurried around the pew to block her exit as the other moved down it to keep her from escaping that way.

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"She's gonna make a scene at the morning meal,” Guy mumbled to his brother. "She'd better not,” Jules replied. “The Patriarch isn't fond of her to begin with." Despite what Guy predicted, it was to be a quiet breakfast that morning for Dek. Archbishop Mongey had informed the Tribunal judges their presence was not required at the meal, turning them away from the dining room with a pleasant but firm smile. He informed them, neither he nor Archbishop Grouig would be breaking the fast with the Patriarch, the Baron and his lady-wife. Absent, too, would be the auxiliary priests. Bidding Dek and Ynez to sit to either side of him at his place at the head of the table, the Patriarch blessed the food then dove in with relish, his jowls wobbling as he ate. "So, tell me, Ynez,” the Patriarch said in between forkfuls of ham steak and crisply fried potatoes, “what are your plans should the marriage be dissolved?" Dek cut his eyes to his wife, frowning at her as he placed a spoonful of baked apple into his mouth. She was eating demurely—knife and fork in hand—with her gaze upon her plate. She looked up at the questioned, turning to look at the Patriarch. "I have not given it much thought, Your Beatitude. I am still hoping the gods will grace us with a child,” Ynez replied. Dek choked on the apple he was swallowing and had to grab his napkin. His face turned beet red as he coughed, striving to dislodge the food. When he finally did, he shot Ynez a look that was filled with poisonous intent. "You should be more careful, husband,” Ynez said sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him. “You could choke to death that way." "What of the Baron's Cochianglt?” the Patriarch asked smoothly. He paused with his coffee cup at his lips, viewing Ynez over the rim. “What of her?" Ynez waved a dismissive hand. “When I conceive...." "That's not going to happen,” Dek snapped. "When I conceive,” Ynez said, continuing as though he hadn't spoken, “the question of Deklyn's paramour will be of no consequence. According to the marriage contract, he must put her aside and—under very stiff penalty should he not do so—have nothing more to do with her."

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The Patriarch nodded thoughtfully then set his cup into its saucer with a light clink of china meeting china. “Do you know what will happen should you not put her aside, Deklyn?” he asked softly. Clenching his jaw so tightly he was getting another headache from the pressure, Deklyn was glowering at his wife. The food he'd consumed had left behind a bitter taste in his mouth. He stared into Ynez's amused eyes, wishing he could wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze until there was no life left in her lying, deceitful body. "His Beatitude asked you a question, husband,” she said, one side of her mouth drawing up in a smirk. "I'm not deaf, Ynez,” he threw back at her. “I heard him." "Then, pray to give His Beatitude your answer,” she said, once again batting her lashes at him. Dek's eyes narrowed dangerously but without looking at the Patriarch, he gave the religious his reply. “Aye, Your Beatitude. I am aware of the penalty involved." "Just asking,” the Patriarch said then leaned back in his chair—the frame groaning beneath his immense weight. He threaded his fingers over his protruding stomach, shaking his head as the servant came forward with the coffee server then turned his full attention to the young Baron. “What are your plans this day, Deklyn?" Dek blotted his lips then tossed the napkin aside. He had lost his appetite and his stomach had been soured. “I will be riding into Cathair as soon as my captains are ready to leave." "That would be your cousins? Guy and Jules?" "Aye, Your Beatitude,” Dek answered. "Fine men,” the Patriarch announced. “We like them." "What business do you have in Cathair, husband?” Ynez asked in a sly voice. Dek looked across the table at her with venomous intent and she drew back with a hand to her throat, flicking a worried look at the Patriarch. “Nothing that concerns you, wife,” he answered, teeth clenched. He looked to the Patriarch. “How will you be passing the time, Your Beatitude?" The Patriarch sighed heavily. “Alas, we will be with your Archimandrite,” he replied, speaking of the head of the local church. “We will be going over

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his books, seeing to the schedule for this year's confirmations and baptisms, firming up plans for the other three High Holy Days.” He sighed again. “The usual things that occupy a busy cleric's mind.” He reached out to put a pudgy hand on Ynez's arm. “Would you do us the honor of accompanying us this day, Ynez? There are the matters of the confirmand gowns to be sewn, the party arranged for later, the young girls chosen to honor the Blessed Mother for Beeal Voayldyn." "I would be honored, Your Beatitude,” Ynez said, jumping at the chance to dodge her jailors. Dek frowned. “Ynez has been confined to her chambers, Your Beatitude,” he reminded the Patriarch. “She...." "Will be under our strict supervision so therefore I believe we can forego the remainder of her punishment,” the Patriarch stated in a voice that brooked no argument on the matter. His porcine eyes bored into Dek. “You may go about your business without worry concerning your lady-wife." "When will you be returning, husband?” Ynez asked. She hoped whatever took him from the keep would divert him for a goodly portion of the day. With any luck at all, she could wangle her way into seeing Miriam. Dek shook his head. “I have no idea. It depends on how quickly I can see to the business at hand." "Take your time,” the Patriarch said and when Dek glanced at him, the overweight man smiled. “Complete your business now then you can settle down to keeping us company for the remainder of our stay." The steady look being sent his way from the beady eyes of the religious left no doubt in Dek's mind that the Patriarch was giving him permission to see Maire. Nothing got past the Ecumenical Patriarch Keish Buillovvee. "Thank you, Your Beatitude. I will do as you suggest,” Dek mumbled. "Then shoo!” the Patriarch said, waving his fingers at Dek. “Be about your business, my son. The sooner you go, the sooner you will return. If needs be we ask you send word if you will not be in attendance this eve for we will not hold supper for you." Dek got to his feet, bowing his head to the cleric. “Thank you, Your Beatitude. I will keep that in mind.” He never glanced at his wife as he took his leave. Once her husband was out of sight, the Patriarch turned the full force of his unsmiling gaze on Ynez.

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"You may be excused from table, Baroness, and about your own particular brand of business—whatever that is. I have informed my guards they are to intervene on your behalf should the Baron's men try to restrain you from your tasks. You once again have the freedom of the keep.” He narrowed his piglike eyes. “Be wise in how you use your time while your husband is away." "Thank you, Your Beatitude!” Ynez said then shot to her feet, barely remembering to curtsy respectfully before she departed. Motioning the servant over to pour one last cup of coffee, the Patriarch informed the man he would be taking the coffee in the Baron's office. “Pray to send word to the Archmandrite to let him know where we will be.” With difficulty he pried himself from the chair. "As you wish, Your Beatitude,” the servant acknowledged. He made no move to aid the Patriarch for to touch the religious person would be blasphemous. **** "I'm not sure this is wise, Dek,” Jules said. He, Guy and the Baron had reached the crossroads leading into Cathair. Dek urged his mount in the opposite direction toward Sheidaghan instead of the capitol city. "He knows where I'm going,” Dek said. “Take your time in Cathair. I'll be spending the night with Maire.” At Jules’ look of horror, Dek held up his hand. “In a bed other than hers but with her, nevertheless." "You've done some dangerous things before but this is bordering on insanity, cousin,” Jules admonished. “You're courting a session with the ta'zeer. You do know that, don't you? Maire isn't expecting you so why...?" "He's going to do it whether you approve or not, Jules, so shush,” Guy snapped. “He is aware of the consequences of his actions.” He controlled his prancing horse with a tight press of his knees and by drawing back on the reins. “Besides, the hag isn't with child yet and with any luck she never will be." "And you'd better hope that continues to be the case,” Jules muttered. His face was etched with worry lines. "I know what I'm about, Jules,” Dek said then kicked his steed into a gallop. "Famous last words, Deklyn!” Jules shouted after him then snorted with disgust when Dek raised a single finger in acknowledgement of his cousin's warning.

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**** Furtively making her way up the stairs—not trusting that one of her husband's guards would not try to stop her—Ynez reached Miriam's door without incidence. Taking a deep breath before putting her palm to the handle—praying the door was not locked—she gently pushed down on the handle and eased the door open. "Miri?” she whispered. “Are you here?" Miriam always kept the room as dark as the thick velveteen drapes would allow. She hated sunlight in the mornings and always woke to a pitch-dark room, dressing and performing her daily ablutions by candlelight. Only when the sun was well down would she pull the drapes back, throw open the window to allow the night breeze to flow through the room. "Miri?" "I am here,” came a listless voice. “Where else would I be?" Tiptoeing into the room, Ynez closed the door behind her and—from long association with the room's inhabitant and knowing the exact placement of the furniture—hurried to the bed. "Are you badly hurt, my precious?” Ynez asked, reaching out in the darkness. "I am healing,” Miriam said. There was a shifting of the covers and a cool hand touched Ynez's. “How did you fare? Did the beast beat you?" "Nay,” Ynez replied as she laced fingers with her lover and climbed onto the bed. “He would dare not. The Patriarch has come.” Ynez heard Miriam draw in a breath as she nestled beside her. “Did I hurt you?" "You did not,” Miriam said. “So the fat pig is here, eh? No doubt he heard of the Cochianglt and came to question the whore." "He has reminded Deklyn what will happen if I conceive,” Ynez said, turning so she was pressed full-length against Miriam's side. "Have you been adhering to the witch's instructions?” Miriam demanded as Ynez stroked Miriam's breast with her free hand. "Aye, but I need more elixir only you know how to make.” She made a vulgar sound then began to roll Miriam's nipple between her thumb and middle finger. “He will be coming to my bed again next week." "And the extra Seedings? Did you demand those?"

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"Those are done,” Ynez said in a disgusted voice. “For all I know I may be carriying his vile seed even as we speak." "We cannot leave it to chance,” Miriam said. “Help me up. I will see to the making of the elixir and the internal bathing liquid." "You mean the douche?” Ynez asked and felt Miriam wince as she helped her to a sitting position. "That is such a cheap, vulgar, and whorish word,” Miriam snapped. “Internal bathing liquid sounds more genteel." Though Miriam sucked in a quick breath now and again as she put on her wrapper and lit a candle, Ynez did not think her back was bothering her too greatly. She wanted to see what damage had been done but that would have to wait. There were more pressing things on the agenda. "When will he come to your bed again?” Miriam asked as she began putting the various spices and oils together. "On Wednesday." "There is time, then, for the tea to steep and settle. That is the most important part of the regimen.” She glanced around at her lover and Ynez realized Miriam had lost weight for her eyes were sunken in her head and her cheeks were hollow. She appeared weak and frail though her gaze was bright and filled with anger. "Oh, my love!” Ynez said, putting a hand to Miriam's cheek. "I will mend,” Miriam said, shrugging off the touch. “Destroying Deklyn Yn Baase is more important than a few ripples of pain." "He will pay for hurting you,” Ynez swore. "Aye,” Miriam agreed. “That he will!"

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Chapter Thirteen

Maire was delighted to see the man she loved riding toward her. She bolted off the porch where she and Caro were hanging pots of flowering plants to run to meet him. He had barely reined in his mount before he was off the steed and grabbing her in a bear hug to swing her around, his green eyes filled with happiness. "I thought you would be a week or two more,” she said and would have continued had not he slanted his mouth firmly over hers to take away her breath. His arms were so strong, so solid around her as he plundered her mouth. She was being held against his muscular body with her feet off the ground, her arms circling his neck. Their tongues were dancing. Their passions rising rapidly—too rapidly for he suddenly set her down, breathing heavily, the evidence of his arousal there for her to see. "Not good,” he said, his voice shaky. "No,” she agreed. She was trembling and her breath was as labored as his. "Sit. Down,” he managed to say although sitting was the last thing he really wanted to do. Maire nodded. Careful not to touch him, they walked up the serpentine pathway she had finished and edged with lavender plants. "Good job,” he mumbled, and she thanked him. Guy had brought a score of rocking chairs his last trip out and their pristine white stood out on the porch as Maire led the man she loved to a pair of them. They sat—he, very gingerly—and laced hands on the rocker arms. Caro had vanished into the house, so they were alone on the porch. "Guy said you wouldn't be here for awhile,” she said. "The Patriarch all but gave his blessing for me to see you,” he replied as he struggled to get his breath and body under control. He didn't dare look at her for he was afraid he'd sweep her up and carry her upstairs to her bed. Maire was looking at his profile. “Why would he do that?” From what Guy had told her the Patriarch was adhering to the very letter of the law regarding the marriage contract between Dek and Ynez.

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Dek shrugged, using his free hand to dust away a speck of lint from his pants. “I've no idea,” he told her. “Last eve he had guards posted at my bedchamber door to make sure I didn't leave the keep.” He grinned, risked shooting her a playful look. “Not that their presence outside the door would have stopped me if I'd been brave enough to leave." "What?” she asked. “By scaling down the wall?" He leaned closer to her so only she could hear even though he knew Caro and Hank could be trusted. "There is a false back in the armoire,” he said. “It leads to a series of tunnels that wind down to the dungeons and beyond. The main tunnel comes out in a cave near the river." Maire's eyebrows shot up. “That's handy." "Aye, but I was afraid someone would come check on me during the night, and I was right.” He made a face. “Someone did." "Then they know about the secret passage." "Or else were afraid I'd shimmy down the trellis outside my bedchamber window." "They might have had someone watching there, too,” she reminded him. He sighed. “True.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I was so afraid I wouldn't see you for the blasted month the Patriarch is going to be here." "A month?” she repeated, wide-eyed. "Aye, I'm afraid so. He'll be here until Raahoil." "What is that?" Having forgotten his lady was a Geddynian, he explained to her about the four Elemental Festivals of Tarryn. "Raahoil—the Blessing of the Wind—is my favorite of the Four Major Blessing Masses because I was born within the three month span of its arc and the Wind is a male sign along with fire. The others are Çhenney, the Blessing of Fire, Dowan, the Blessing of the Earth, and Ceau, the Blessing of the Water. Raahoil and Ceau are both celebrated atop the high cliffs of Doolane two miles north of Drogh-gheay while the festivals of Dowan and Çhenney take place an equal distance inland near the extinct volcano at Aavolcaan. Participants are required to walk to the sites behind the clergy. It's

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sort of a pilgrimage. Raahoil, Ceau, and Dowan are held at the break of dawn but Çhenney is held well past sundown. The way is lit by thousands of torches placed in wrought iron stanchions and at the blessing site there is a huge cauldron blazing away. It is from that cauldron that each household must light a lantern they have brought with them. They take the fire from the Sacred Cauldron home to light a special candle that signifies the light of the gods bestowed upon the family. It is considered very bad luck if your lantern goes out before you reach home." "It sounds beautiful,” she said. "You know the Patriarch wears red ceremonial robes?” he asked. At her nod, he told her on the Festival of Çhenney, each participant wears a bright orange robe meant to represent the fire. “On Ceau, the robes are dark blue. On Dowan, they are green." "And on Raaoil?" "Yellow,” he said with a frown. “Not my best color." She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment and when he became aware of her sudden silence turned to look at her. "Is something bothering you, tarrishagh?” he asked. "I imagine Caro and Hank will go to the Festival. Do you think I could go, too?” she asked. “I'd stay well back, but I would like to see it." "I don't see why not. You have every right to be there if you wish. Want me to ask Guy if he'll pick you up?" "Aye,” she said. They were silent for a moment as they stared out across the grass to the ocean beyond the cliff. Seagulls were swooping down to the water, sailing the currents of the light breeze that was freshening the land. Their cries echoed like boisterous children. "How long can you stay?” she asked. “Will you be here for the noon meal?" "I plan on spending the night if it's all right with you,” he said softly. “I want a re-match on that last chess game. I don't care to lose so soundly, tarrishagh." Maire's heart swelled at the news, but she gave him a worried look. “What about the Patriarch? Will he not be expecting you back at Drogh-gheay?"

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"He didn't come right out and say it but he hinted that I had his permission if I was away overnight,” he said. Maire's worried look deepened. “I'm not sure I like the sound of that." "I think he's allowing us time together for two reasons,” he said. He thrust the thumb on his free hand into the air. “He knows I have found my Cochianglt and.... “His index finger shot up. “He can't stand Ynez.” He lowered his hand to his thigh to rub the palm vigorously on his pant leg. “Ah, I should warn you. He'll be making a trip out here to interview you." Maire gasped, jerking around in her chair. “He what?" "There's nothing to worry about,” he said, soothing her. “He wants to ascertain for himself that you are the Cochianglt. He's not an ogre, tarrishagh. Chances are he'll stay only long enough to meet you, ask a few pointed questions, and then be on his way.” At least he hoped that would be the case. "Oh, Deklyn, I don't know.... “she said, looking away from him. She bit her bottom lip, chewing on it. "Everything will be all right,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips once more. “Just answer him truthfully. Let him see what's in your heart." She looked around at him, fear quivering in her gaze. “What if I mess things up for us, Dek? What if my answers aren't to his liking, and he decides we can't be together?" "He won't,” Dek said firmly though those were his fears, as well. "But what if he does?” she protested, her hand jerking in his. "Then we will go away together and Jules can rule Tarryn,” he said. He stared into her fearful eyes. “I am not going to lose you, Maire. On my very soul, I will not!" A powerful gust of wind came across the lawn and washed over them. "See? Even the Wind god Paralda approves of our union,” he teased. Maire looked out over the water where white caps were beginning to form. To the west, another storm was brewing. The sky was a pale gray. Hank had told her it was the beginning of the rainy season for Tarryn and that the storms would grow increasingly more violent each month until Luanistyn—which was the same as August in Geddyn.

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"You know the old weather saw?” Hank had inquired after breakfast. He pointed at the sky. “Red sky at night, sailor's delight. Red sky in the morning, sailor's take warning.” The morning sky had been scarlet tinged with gold. "You'll get used to the storms,” Dek said, thinking that was what furrowed her brow. Maire nodded but it was concern over the Patriarch that had her uneasy. To get her mind off such things she told him how she, Caro, and Hank had used the hidden steps behind the waterfall to climb down the cliff to reach the beach. It was Dek's turn to frown. “I would rather you not do that, Maire. The steps are slippery. You could fall and break an arm, a leg.” He shuddered. "We held onto the railing,” she said. "Railing? What railing?” he inquired, having no idea such a thing existed on the land he'd purchased. "There's a railing someone put in not too many months back,” she explained. “One of the farmers who comes by to bring me honey—oh, did I tell you he's going to help me start my own hive?" Dek shook his head. “No, and never mind about that. What about the farmer?" "He said someone put it in to get to and from the beach easily. Plenty of people trek up and down the steps,” she told him. "I don't know that I like people traipsing around your property, tarrishagh, and I can't see any need for them to unless.... “He narrowed his eyes. “Someone is using that egress to the beach for smuggling.” He got to his feet, pulling lightly on her hand. “Show me." They walked around the side of the house and to the rear of the property, following the little stream as it wound its way to the edge of the cliff. Just before the waters tumbled over the side and into the ocean below, they came to a small cave—the entrance half-hidden by lilac bushes. He used his arm to push them aside so she could duck under a low-hanging branch. Inside the cave the roar of the water passing overhead drowned out any other sound. It was dark but Maire found the lantern sitting on a natural shelf of stone and struck a match from a tin kept there for that purpose. Golden light chased away the darkness and Dek walked over to the broad steps that had been carved into the cliff many decades before then hunkered down to inspect the iron railing that had been driven into the cave's floor and cemented in.

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"Someone went to a lot of trouble to put this in,” he said, pulling on the simple railing that ran the distance of the steps to a small stone platform. He knew the platform was actually the floor of a tunnel that ran beyond the scope of the waterfall and down five steps to the sandy beach. At high tide, the platform would be hidden and the water covering the first few steps leading up to the cave. "What do you think they could be smuggling?” she asked. "Whatever they don't want to pay revenue on,” he muttered darkly. He stood. “I think I need to have Jules look into this. The idea of smugglers practically at your back door doesn't set well with me." "Do you want to go down to the beach?” she asked then the dream of them making love in the waves came at her, and she felt the heat rising in her cheeks. He must have remembered, too, for he shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea, tarrishagh.” He suggested they return to the house. After a filling noon meal, Dek sat on the back porch while Maire and Caro shelled peas. He sat with one booted foot braced on the porch railing, the rocker tipped back as he conversed with Hank. The Baron had put the older man at ease right after their first meeting a month before and now the two of them were carrying on a lively conversation about horse racing. Throughout the rest of the afternoon as the sky continued to grow darker with every passing hour, Dek kept glancing at Maire. He studied her when she wasn't watching and memorized every facial expression, every little habit, and every mannerism that set her apart from other women. He etched the sight of her into his mind's eye. When she caught him staring openly at her, she winked then turned away from her conversation with Caro to make an inquiry of him. "Didn't you say you had a birthday coming up?” she inquired, running her thumbnail down a pea pod. "Aye,” Dek answered. “The eighth of Boaldyn." "Boaldyn babies are said to be the happiest,” Hank observed. "You couldn't prove it by me,” Dek said. “At least not up until now.” He gave Maire a look that made her blush hotly. By the time the rains came, supper had been eaten, the dishes cleared away, Caro and Hank retiring to the little parlor with crocheting and book respectively, Dek and Maire were sitting cross-legged before a fire lighted to chase away the damp. Between them was a chess board on a low table. They

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were both barefoot and his shirt was untucked, unbuttoned halfway down his tanned chest, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Checkmate,” Maire said and giggled when Dek groaned. "Will you not let me win at least one game, tarrishagh?” he complained. He put a hand to his heart. “You are wounding my manhood." She shook her head as thunder made the panes in the windows shake. “I've always heard chess was a game of strategy,” she said. “You should be much better at it than me.” She paused with a hand on her queen then gave him a steady look. “Or are you letting me win?" He grinned like a little boy. “Now, would I do that?” He leaned back on his elbows, and as he did a glint from a bowl of sea glass caught his eye. He liked the play of the firelight catching in the shards and said as much. "After the storm, I'm sure I'll find more glass and shells and hopefully pieces of driftwood I can incorporate in the sculpture I'm doing for the garden,” she said. Dek had seen the unfinished piece and complimented her on her creativity. Her many talents never failed to impress him. "I wish I could go hunting along the beach with you,” he said. They both knew he needed to leave at first light and neither knew when he'd be allowed to return to Sheidaghan. "Would you like a glass of plum wine?” she said. She got to her feet and went over to the sideboard where a pair of crystal decanters stood. "It would only put me to sleep and my eyelids are heavy enough as it is,” he told her. "Then go to bed,” she said over her shoulder as she poured herself a small glass of the pale orange liquid. “You look tired." "One minute earlier to bed is one minute less I can spend with you,” he said. She returned but instead of sitting down on the floor, she curled up on the settee with her legs tucked beneath her knowing he'd join her. He did, stretching out on his back with his head in her lap—his favorite place it seemed—then crooked his knees. He smiled as she idly ran the fingers of her free hand through his hair. "I can't wait until I take you to Oceania,” he said, closing his eyes to the feel of her smoothing his hair.

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"When will that be?” she asked. "Tonight,” he said and opened one eye. “In our dreams.” He wagged his brows suggestively. Her cheeks turned red but she made no comment. "Do you enjoy those dreams, tarrishagh, or am I intruding on your sleep?’ he asked, looking up at her with those endearing lines appearing between his beautiful green eyes again. She put a finger to the creases to stroke them. “Since it is the only way we can be together, I look forward to your nightly visits, milord,” she said then ran the tip of her finger over his full lips to the slight indention in his strong chin. "You don't feel I'm dream-raping you, do you?” he asked and his face was so earnest, so concerned, she cupped his chin and tugged. "No, Deklyn. I do not,” she said. “Such a thing never crossed my mind.” She realized he wanted to say something but seemed afraid to. She arched a brow. “Spit it out. There's something on the tip of your tongue. Out with it." "I am proud I was your first,” he said. Maire's breath caught in her throat. There was a time when she had cursed Deklyn Yn Baase, the Black Baron, the enemy of her people. She had bemoaned the fact that she had been so weak, so gullible that she had allowed him to seduce her, to take the most precious thing a woman had to give her husband. Now, when she thought back to that night in Ghraih, it was with a sigh. "I am glad you were my first, too,” she said. "If I knew then what I know now, if I had it to do over, I would have left you be,” he told her. "I have had many weeks to think about it, Dek, and I believe the gods put us together,” she said. “Surely it was Their will that threw us together again after so many years. I do not regret our having met." "No?" "No,” she said firmly. “Once of a time I did but that time has since passed." He reached up to take her hand and bring it to his lips, placing a kiss in her palm before he lowered her hand to his heart. It was something he did

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often and the steady beat of his heart against her palm was reassuring. And when he looked up at her as he did now, her entire body felt as though it would melt beneath the heat of his gaze. Rain beat against the cottage as though looking for a way to get inside. It drummed against the roof, pelted the window panes, and pushed at the door. The fire in the hearth—lighted to chase away the damp—sizzled and popped in time to the rain's incessant cadence. Instead of being distracting, it was a lulling sound that soon had them both dozing. When she tugged gently on his hair and told him it was time he was abed, he started to protest, but she covered his lips with her fingertips. "We will have other nights, milord,” she said. “This one has played out for as long as it should." Seeing the weariness in her eyes, he nodded, kissed her fingers then sat up, and swung his legs to the floor. He raked a hand through his hair, sighed heavily, then got to his feet with his hand out to her. She nestled her fingers in his. For a sweet, desperate moment, he took her into his arms and held her with his chin atop her head. "I never want this night to end,” he said. Her arms were around his waist, her cheek pressed to his bare chest where the shirt was open. “There will be other nights,” she repeated. Once more, he sighed then with an arm around her, led her to the stairs. He would escort her to her door, kiss her goodnight then spend torturous minutes until sleep claimed him aching to be lying beside her in her big brass bed. When he lay down on the bed in the guest room, he could hear her still moving about her own chamber. He clasped his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and wondered what it was she was doing. "Brushing your hair one hundred strokes, my love?” he asked softly. “Plaiting it?" He could picture her in the demure gown he thought she would wear—the long sleeves ending in little ruffles around her wrist, the hem touching the tops of her feet. It would be buttoned all the way up to the top button and the fabric would be soft against her body. In his mind's eye, he saw her pull the covers back, kick off her slippers and crawl into the bed, punch up her pillow, punch it again before settling down, drawing the covers up. He watched her turn to her side to tuck her hands beneath the pillow. He saw her smile and knew she was thinking of him. "I love you, too,” he whispered.

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Her smiled widened for a moment then slowly slipped away. She was fast becoming his life, he thought as he skirted the edge of sleep. He was bone tired and fighting it. His nerves felt on edge, but he didn't know why. As sleep finally overtook him, he tumbled down into a deep, deep sleep that took him to the shores of Oceania. Her hands were buried tightly in his hair, her legs spread wide. His hands were beneath her shapely rump as he feasted upon the sweetness between her legs. His tongue swept along the folds, darted into the warm center to lap at the cream that gathered there. They were lying beneath the canopy of a huge willow tree, the leafy branches of which swung softly in the breeze. Above them on a graceful branch a black-capped chickadee sang its cheerful song in serenade. In the distance the sound of waves breaking upon the black sand beach lent peacefulness to their surroundings. "Love me,” she whispered, and he looked up, his gaze locking with hers. "Always,” he answered. Easing his hands from beneath her, he slid his body over hers—feeling the dampness of her nether curls grazing his chest and belly. She hooked a leg over the small of his back as he guided his hard cock to her entrance. Gently, he thrust into that slick haven to bury himself deep. She clenched her inner muscles around him, and he hardened even more, withdrawing to slide shallowly, temptingly inside her with short, sure strokes. "Now you're teasing me,” she said and lifted her other leg to trap him in her sensuous embrace. Her hands went to his cheeks to bring his mouth to hers. As their tongues mated, he increased the depth of his strokes, the speed, and the possessiveness until they both were breathing heavily. His lips devoured hers—fusing their mouths together, their tongues swirling around one another. His cock probed hard and deep. Her cunt welcomed him with greedy pulses that came and went then became one long series of undulating quivers. Against his mouth she groaned, and he released his seed to join her in ecstasy. He sensed rather than saw a shadow fall over them.... Dek opened his eyes. There was a man standing beside his bed, looking down at him with a half smile. Had he not recognized the man as being one of the AnÉilvéis mercenaries who had stood guard at his door the evening before, he would have grabbed the dagger he always kept beneath his pillow

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no matter where he laid his head and plunged it into the interloper's gut. As it was, he did not move, did not speak. He simply stared at the mercenary without blinking. "I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Your Grace,” the man said softly then blended into the shadows, moving across the room with stealth and quietness, Dek could not detect his presence until the door opened and closed behind his departure. It was the same man who had checked on him the night before. That he was here—had somehow managed to get into Sheidaghan when the doors and windows were locked—irritated Dek no end. He sat up, flinging the covers aside, cursing bitterly. Now he knew why he'd been allowed to come to Maire. They had been watching him all along. The Patriarch had wanted to make doubly sure Dek did not spend the night in Maire's arms, did not slip physically between her thighs. "Son of a bitch!” Dek said. He got up from the bed and began to pace, so infuriated by this turn of events he wanted to throw back his head and howl to the heavens. Had he been alone and would not have disturbed the three other people in the cottage, he would have. He snatched his pants from the chair where he'd tossed them and dragged them on. Refraining from donning his shirt and boots, he left the guest room, not at all surprised to find the mercenary standing just outside his door. "What's your name, soldier?” he demanded. "Damian, Your Grace." "How the hell did you get in here?” he hissed. Damian hesitated only a fraction of a second then replied that he had slipped in earlier in the afternoon when they were all on the porch and concealed himself within the cottage. That enraged Dek even more. "You were spying on us? Watching us all evening?" The mercenary shook his head. “No, Your Grace. I was not watching you. I was told to stay close, to listen but not to observe." Dek's eyes narrowed dangerously. “And?” he growled.

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"To prevent you from doing anything that might compromise the young lady, Your Grace." "To prevent...?” A red haze of pure fury rippled over Dek's vision. A tic developed in his cheek. “By prevent, you mean to physically restrain me?" "If it became necessary, aye, Your Grace." Fury turned to festering rage that was moments away from exploding into mayhem. “Get out,” Dek said. “Now!" "I cannot, Your Grace,” Damian replied. “I am under the personal orders of the Patriarch. If I leave, you must leave with me. I was told not to leave you here alone with the young lady." "I'm not going anywhere!" "Then with all due respect, Your Grace, neither am I,” the mercenary stated. "Dek?" Both men turned to find Maire standing at her door. She was barefoot with a fringed shawl wrapped around her upper body. Her long hair hung in an untidy braid that hung over her left shoulder. "Who is this man?” she asked. "One of the Patriarch's guards,” he told her. “Sent to spy on us." "Do the two of you realize what time it is?” she asked. “It is three of the clock. Can't your conversation wait until a decent hour?" Dek went to her, cupped her face between his palms. “Tarrishagh, I am sorry we woke you. Go back to bed. I'll handle this." She eased her cheeks from his tender grip and looked past him to the guard. “Did you think he would be in my room?” she asked. "Nay, milady,” Damian replied. “I knew he would not." "Then why come into my chamber to make sure?” Dek demanded then hissed. “Did you go into my lady's room? If you did...." Damian lifted his chin. “I would not have done that, Your Grace." "But you would have stopped him from coming into mine,” Maire said.

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The mercenary inclined his head. “Aye, milady. I would have." She stepped around Dek and went to the guard. “Damian, is it?” she asked, letting both men know she'd heard most if not all their conversation. "Aye, milady." "Damian, I want you to deliver a message to the Patriarch for me,” she said. "Tarrishagh, I don't think.... “Dek began, but she held up a hand, the other wrapped carefully around the ends of her shawl. "I want you to tell him I am not Deklyn Yn Baase's whore nor will I ever be. I am his Cochianglt." "I am sure His Beatitude knows that, milady,” Damian said. "Nevertheless, I want you to tell him so for me. Furthermore, while you're at it, tell him I resent him questioning my honor and even more so the honor of the Baron. Will you do that for me, Damian?" "I will, milady." "Thank you.” She turned her back on the guard, walked past Dek and into her room. The sound of the lock made it clear regarding her feelings that the conversation was closed as far as she was concerned. Without another word to the guard, Dek walked past him and into the guest room, closing the door and locking it. The AnÉilvéis mercenary positioned himself between the two rooms, leaned his back against the wall and remained there the rest of the night.

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Chapter Fourteen

With the red robe flapping around his legs, Dek followed the seven clergymen and ten acolytes up the winding road to the Cliff of Doneen with Ynez at his side. Leading the procession was the Patriarch with the two Archbishops a few feet behind him, the Archmandrite directly behind them, followed by the Presbyter—the Archmandrite's assistant, then the two auxiliary priests who had accompanied the Patriarch to Tarryn. Between Dek and the auxiliary priests were the acolytes. Behind Dek—and in regard of their rank—were the Tribunalists, the councilmen, Guy and Jules, the wives of the dignitaries and the citizens of Tarryn. Bringing up the rear were the servants of Drogh-gheay and the soldiers who had not been left behind to guard the keep. Somewhere in that throng was Miriam Brazwellington. The day was overcast but warm and the wind brisk. It was considered to be an auspicious day for the Festival of the Winds. The altar had been set up according to ritual before the false dawn arrived. Everything was in readiness when the procession wound its way to the top of the cliff and the Patriarch took his place facing the pilgrims. Ynez was bored—as she always was at any religious ceremony. She saw no real advantage to worshipping gods who had done nothing in her estimation but make her life miserable. They certainly did not listen to her sporadic prayers and any requests she made where summarily ignored. She hated the robe she was forced to wear but hated it more that she had to stand beside the bastard who had mauled her the night before. He had been quick about it—barely spoke to her either before or after the rut—and she was grateful another month would pass before he would visit her again. His touch the evening before had been particularly loathsome and the weight of his heavy, hairy body atop hers was almost more than she could bear. A bath afterward did little to rid her of his despicable smell. Sensing her husband's attention wasn't on the ceremony, either, she looked up at him. She was annoyed that he was looking at the crowd that had formed a semicircle around the altar instead of directing his attention to the Patriarch. She hissed at him but he ignored her—as though that was something knew, she thought nastily. Looking over to where his gaze seemed riveted, she saw the girl and knew. She knew who she was—even had the bitch not been standing between the Yn Baase brothers. "I see your slut is here,” she said in a low voice and that got his notice. He looked down at her and from the anger on his face, she had hit a nerve. She smiled. “Did you think I would not know her when I saw her, Deklyn? Even from this distance I can see the brand of...." "Don't say it,” he snarled at her. 210

"Her sweet love for you glowing on her pedestrian little face,” she finished. “How positively romantic." He leaned down to put his lips to her ear. “Shut. Your. Mouth,” he ordered before straightening. Ynez turned her nose up and moved a few paces away from him, returning her concentration on the girl across the way. Fair-haired—and no doubt fair-eyed as well—the girl was lovely. Why that bothered her she didn't know but the blonde's beauty stood out against the vibrant red robe and since custom dictated a woman's hair must not be bound or adorned in any fashion during the festival, the flaxen strands were hanging loose, blowing behind her in the wind. All around her men were surreptitiously studying her and that—no doubt—was what was causing Deklyn to breathe so heavily and look so irritated. Smiling at her husband's jealousy over a woman she had no intention of ever allowing him to have as his own, Ynez saw the female in question look her way. Their eyes met. Though there was no expression on the other woman's pretty face, there was heat generating from her gaze. Her hands were clenched at her sides. "He is mine,” Ynez mouthed the words silently and was shocked to the very core of her soul when the whore slowly smiled—almost evilly—arched a brow then diverted her entire focus to Deklyn as though Ynez no longer existed. "Bitch,” Ynez whispered and was rewarded with Dek's hand grasping hers to squeeze it so brutally it was all she could do not to whimper. Across the way Maire watched Dek pull on his wife's hand until they were kneeling on the ground. She, too, went to her knees along with the other worshippers, although she understood nothing of the ceremony and was only mimicking those around her. Heads bowed—including Dek's—so Maire lowered her own but kept her eyes on the man she loved who was still holding his wife's hand. From the look on Ynez's face, that grip was tighter than necessary and the Baroness was striving to get free. For the next hour Maire rose and knelt when the crowd did, repeated the responses they repeated, shook hands, and gave her neighbors the Sign of Peace after hugging Guy and Jules, Caro and Hank in the process. She smiled greetings at those of Dek's men she knew: Andy, Strom, Rupert and a few others for she wasn't close enough to shake hands with them. As the ceremony came to a close, she realized the Patriarch was staring at her as the acolytes cleared the altar in preparation for the final blessing. She didn't know whether to smile but when he did, she gave him a tremulous one of her own before he turned his gaze away.

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As she followed the worshippers when the ceremony was over, she saw a young man hurrying toward Jules. The two stepped aside to talk and when she looked back, she saw Jules frowning. Guy excused himself and walked over to them. "Something's up,” Hank said. Maire craned her neck to see Dek and when she found him in the throng, realized he was speaking with Captain Larson Yn Zell of Dek's flagship, the Céirseach. Dek looked none too pleased by whatever was being said but nodded and made his way over to the Patriarch. "Has something happened?” Maire asked as Guy and Jules rejoined them. "A messenger arrived from Geddyn,” Jules said. “We will be leaving on the evening tide." "Why?” Maire queried, feeling fear settle like a rock in the pit of her stomach. "Your king suffered a heart attack three nights ago and has died. The prince has ascended the throne and as his first action launched a new offensive in the north. We lost an entire platoon before the regiment could turn him back." Thinking of the man who had once come to the field hospital where she worked to speak to his injured soldiers, Maire remembered King Phelan. He had been a warm and generous man—quick to smile and equally quick to cry when a young cavalryman had succumbed to his wounds while speaking to his king. She would mourn for that lost man and pray for the hot-headed son who had been chomping at the bit to take over for several years. "This does not bode well for the peace Dek hoped to achieve before autumn,” she said. "No,” Jules agreed. “Prince Nathan is a stupid shit with delusions of grandeur dancing in his pointed little head." "But he's no tactician, and I doubt King Phelan's commanders will listen to his crap for long. He lucked out this time, catching our platoon unawares. When Dek arrives, we'll send his troops screaming back to Ghraih with their tails between their legs. Then the commanders will take the initiative once they see their prince intends to prolong the war just to make a name for himself in the history books,” Guy offered. "Don't worry about escorting us home to Sheidaghan,” Hank said. “We'll take the carriage if that's all right with you. I know you men have packing to do."

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"That would be a help, Hank,” Guy admitted. He wrapped his big hand around Maire's arm. “Don't you worry about Dek, lass. We'll see to his safety." "And I've got men posted along the coast to catch the smugglers so don't be worried about that,” Jules injected. "Smugglers?” Caro echoed, glancing at her husband. “What smugglers?" "Never you mind,” Hank said. “It's being seen to." Maire was trembling but she braved a smile for the Yn Baase brothers, hugged them both goodbyes, and begged them to be careful. She watched them go with a heart filled with fear and eyes swimming with tears. "I doubt he'll be able to tell you goodbye, milady,” Hank said. “Mayhap we should get on home unless you want to go to the feast at Drogh-gheay." "By the gods, no!” Maire said, horrified at the suggestion. She had no intention of going to the keep as long as Ynez was Baroness. "Then let's get a move on. My old joints are starting to ache and that usually bodes another of them spring storms moving in,” Hank complained. Despite Hank's desire to beat a hasty retreat, people stopped them to speak to Maire, to welcome her, to smile knowingly, to simply reach out to touch her. Word had spread among the common folk of Tarryn who she was, and what she meant to their Baron. They had already embraced her before she ever stepped a foot beyond Sheidaghan. "A pleasure to meet you, milady." "The grace of the gods be with you, milady." "We'll be watching out for ye, lass." Although she was pleased by the reception she was getting from those she was meeting for the first time that day and from the greetings of those who had ventured out to her cottage, Maire was worried sick over Dek's departure. Her only consolation was he would not be forced to go to his ladywife's unwelcome bed. **** Dek was like a sore-tailed cat in a room full of men in jackboots. He had been unable to break away for even a half hour to ride to Sheidaghan to bid farewell to his lady. He had sent her a hastily scribbled missive but he wished with all his soul, he could hold her, kiss her, and tell her he loved her one more time. It wasn't that he worried over his fate. He knew in his heart, he

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would return all in one piece with a victory in hand. He simply didn't want to leave her. If he could have taken her with him, he would have, but he feared for her safety on the high seas for it was rumored Prince—nay it was King Nathan, now—had a heavily armed ship scouring the seas for the Céirseach. He didn't want to risk her getting hurt should that ship fire upon his. As the Céirseach neared the cliff upon which Sheidaghan had been built, he positioned himself at the rail, his heart thundering in his chest. Just to see the lights, to maybe get a glimpse of her through a window would have to sustain him until he returned. The light mist that had begun to fall at Droghgheay harbor was now a light rain but if the lightning flashing in the distance was any indication, the storm would be fierce by midnight. "Dek,” Guy said softly and pointed to the lone figure standing at the cliff's edge. "Tarrishagh,” Dek whispered. There was no mistaking Maire as she stood there wrapped in an oilskin coat. She raised her hand to him. "I love you!” he shouted across the water, not sure if she had heard him but the sailors certainly had. They stopped what they were doing and looked to the cliff. They heard her say ‘I love you, too!' "I'll be back as quick as I can!” he yelled. The ship was already well past the spot where she was standing, and he moved down the rail to keep her in sight. “I'll be back!" She nodded and waved her hand back and forth over her head. “Dy jed oo slane!" Her voice was faint but it came to him like a blessing, and he felt tears gathering in his eyes. She had bid him come safely home in the language of his people. The rain took that moment to begin falling in earnest, slashing into Dek's face so he could no longer see her. The Céirseach was running with the wind—moving quickly along the coast—and the cliff was behind them all too soon. Though he ran to the stern, he saw nothing but rain and darkness. "I love you,” he whispered, wiping at the moisture running down his face. “Wait for me." "Come home soon,” Maire whispered as the running lights of the ship disappeared in the rain. ****

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Two days after Dek's leaving for Geddyn, Maire, Caro and Hank had just sat down to their noon meal on the back porch when the Patriarch, his archbishops and a bevy of AnÉilvéis mercenaries appeared at the front door. With her heart in her throat, Maire curtsied to the religious leader of Dek's people and invited him into the cottage, holding the door wide for him to enter. "Do I smell fried chicken?” the pudgy man asked, sniffing the air. Maire's face turned red. “Aye, Your.... “She couldn't remember the title she'd heard Dek call the man. All the color vanished from her warm cheeks. “Ah Your ... Your...." "You are not of our religion as yet, dearling, so it is understandable you would not know our proper title. It is Your Beatitude, although we have always thought that such a pompous title,” he said kindly then smiled. “Might you have a piece of that delicious-smelling chicken available for a man who— we do hate to admit it—has never met a food we did not like.” He patted his large belly and sighed. Maire giggled at his woebegone expression. “I would be honored if you would join us for our noon meal, Your Beatitude.” She looked past him to the other four men. "Never mind them, they have already eaten as have we but a glass of something cold and a drumstick would not go amiss,” the Patriarch said. He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “We are a growing boy, dearling.” He looked over his shoulder. “Take a seat in the rockers, boys. We might be awhile." She led him through the great room and kitchen and onto the porch, surprised that both Caro and Hank had vanished—along with their plates and glasses of iced tea. She bid him sit then poured him a glass of tea. "What a lovely garden you have started,” he said. He took a sip of the tea, nodded appreciatively and accepted a plate with two drumsticks. “We are told you have a way with healing. Healer Daragh has sung your praises to us." "It is a gift with which I was bestowed, Your Beatitude. I try to use it wisely,” she answered, too nervous to eat until he asked for an ear of corn, a large spoonful of mixed greens before waving his fingers at her and telling her to eat. "There are those who use that gift most unwisely,” he said. “Witches and the like.” He took a healthy bite of drumstick and rolled his eyes, sighing loudly. “That is superb."

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"Thank you, Your Beatitude,” she said. She had lost her appetite and the food tasted like cardboard in her mouth, but she managed to swallow it without too much difficulty. "Witchcraft is against the tenets of our religion and those who practice it are excommunicated,” he said. “Is it the same in your religion, dearling?" She felt a trill of fear rush through her. “Your Beatitude, I do not...." The Patriarch put a hand on her arm. “Dearling, we know you are not of that bent. We know all there is to know about you. You are a credit to your parents and to the gift the gods saw fit to give you. We are merely making conversation.” He dove into the mixed greens, once again sighing with heartfelt pleasure. She doubted this man did anything for the mere doing of it. He had an ulterior motive behind his talk of witchcraft, and she hoped there had been no talk of her delving into the black arts. His next words eased some of her trepidation. "Everyone to whom we have spoken has nothing but good things to say of you, Maire,” he said. “You are said to be a warm and caring woman, a compassionate woman who is generous with her time and talent.” He finished the first drumstick then picked up the second. "I do what I can, Your Beatitude,” she said softly. "Just yesterday we had a line of people wandering into and out of Deklyn's office speaking with us on your behalf. It was a most heartening thing to see and such a pleasure to hear the Cochianglt of their beloved Baron has the people's approval." Maire's heart thudded hard in her chest. Dek's people had gone to see the Patriarch concerning her? "We invited them to speak with us,” he said as though he knew she wondered why people were discussing her. “We wanted to know their opinions before we came out to ascertain for ourselves the merits of the woman Deklyn loves so dearly." "As I love him, Your Beatitude,” she said. "We know you do, but we must ask,” he said, taking up the ear of corn. “Do you hold even the smallest amount of anger toward him for his raping of you?"

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Maire's eyes widened. “Dek did not ravish me!” she said then put a hand to her mouth for she had dared to raise her voice and had not shown respect to the holy man. "Perhaps I should have said forced seduction upon you?” the Patriarch countered, chewing the corn kernels slowly. "He did not force me, Your Beatitude,” Maire said. “Seduced, aye, but there was no force involved." "Not by him, perhaps, but not so with his friend?" She realized the Patriarch knew more about that night than Dek realized he did. “We do not speak of that person, Your Beatitude. He has left this world." "And met his judgment,” the Patriarch stated. “One he deserved, I am sure.” He laid the bare cob down on his plate, took up his fork and scooped up a large portion of the greens. He paused with the fork almost to his mouth. “Deklyn did not tell us of that night. We learned of it from the clergymen who cared for you afterwards.” His pudgy eyes beamed with brightness. “We do our homework, dearling." "I can see you do,” she agreed. The greens consumed, the Patriarch looked wistfully at the bowls of vegetables but shook his head at the offer of more. "Archbishop Mongey insists we need to lose a pound or two.” He sighed deeply. “Or forty or fifty." More like four times that much Maire thought but offered him another glass of tea which he accepted. "We believe,” he said, struggling to get up, “that rocker there has our name upon it.” He waddled over to the chair and sat down gingerly, the frame groaning beneath his corpulence. Maire held her breath—praying the rocker wouldn't break or the rush seat split beneath his weight. She joined him when he patted the arm of the rocker beside his. "Such a lovely yard to have and is that a creek we spy down there?" "It is, Your Beatitude. There is a waterfall, as well."

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"Ah, well, there was a time when we would have walked down to see that sight for ourselves but our knees are not what they once were,” he said then looked over at her. “Regarding this matter of witchcraft...." Maire felt the breath catch in her throat. "It has come to our attention that the companion of the Baroness has been seen communing with a practitioner of the forbidden arts on several occasions,” he said. “We learned of it just this morn. The woman in question and the Baroness were nowhere to be found when we sent for them, so we could discuss the matter. We must wonder if they might not be visiting this evildoer even as we speak." Maire knew what the clergy of her own religion did with witches and those who trucked with them. To hear the Patriarch's suspicions regarding Dek's wife indulging in the nefarious craft was frightening. "What will you do if what you suspect is true, Your Beatitude?’ she asked, a sour taste bubbling up her throat. The Patriarch shifted in the chair—the frame cracking loudly as he did— and gave her a steady look. “Dearling, we cannot accuse the Baroness of indulging in wickedness for to do so would be disastrous for Deklyn. It would mean we would be forced to bring her before the Archtribunal in Bergen to be tried for heresy. That is where the cathedral and the seat of our power are located.” His expression was serious. “Likewise, to accuse her companion—a woman with whom she is in nearly constant company—would be to cast suspicion on the Baroness, though we are sure the people know there has been communion between the three. We are afraid we must refrain from handing out the punishment the companion justly deserves." Dek had told Maire about the woman he called the Mantis. “What judgment would that be, Your Beatitude?” she asked. "Burning at the stake, dearling,” he said, his face hard and eyes cold. “But to do that, the Baroness’ name would be invoked, and that we cannot have. Not that we care overly much about her, but we do have great affection for Deklyn and to besmirch his family name would be a terrible blow to him. Therefore.... “He spread his pudgy hands. “We have decided to do Deklyn a favor and remove the companion from the Baroness’ company and install her at Galrath." Maire's eyes widened. “The convent in Serenia?” she asked with a gasp. "Fortunately, there is only one Galrath,” he stated. "And the witch?” she asked. “The one you believe Dek's lady-wife has visited?"

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"Regrettably, that poor soul is already lost and her days on this earth limited. We have sent men to bring her to us." "Your Beatitude, please.... “she began but the corpulent clergy held up a restraining hand. "The punishment of the Baroness must be left up to her husband. Knowing Deklyn as we do, our guess would be he will remand her to her chambers in solitude once again for the poor lad has no heart for beating her as she so richly deserves. Not that we are condoning the abuse of a wife. We are not. We are merely saying that some deserve retribution. Beyond that, barring any unforeseen problems, we intend to give our blessings to Deklyn for this union between you and him when he returns. We have ascertained that you are, indeed, the Cochianglt. You are a fitting bond-mate for a man who deserves so much more than the evil that has been handed him over the years. The two of you have our express approval, and we look forward to performing the Joining between you.” When she would have spoken, he shook his head. “We know what you wish to say, Maire, but the decision regarding the heretic and the companion has already been made. Nothing you say will sway us. Be happy that we have, hopefully, nipped in the bud any evil the witch might attempt to set into motion that would keep you and the Baron apart." Long after the Patriarch had taken his leave, Maire walked along the beach, staring out across the waves. There was nothing she could do to save neither the witch's life nor anything she could say to keep the Baroness’ companion from being sent to the living hell that was Galrath convent. The Patriarch had made that clear to her. "Be happy that we have, hopefully, nipped in the bud any evil the witch might attempt to set into motion that would keep you and the Baron apart." Maire knew in gifted hands witchcraft actually worked. She had seen many an old woman wield powers no Healer ever could. Whether for good or evil, there were ancient ways certain things could be accomplished outside the realm of modern medicine. She had also heard of terrible things, evil things witches had set into motion that were unstoppable. "Be happy that we have, hopefully, nipped in the bud any evil the witch might attempt to set into motion that would keep you and the Baron apart." Shivering, Maire sat down on the beach, digging her bare feet into wet sand. She locked her arms around her legs and put her chin on her knees. The fear that Dek's wife had already used the black arts to hurt him was something she had to consider. ****

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"Milady?” Caro said as she came into the sewing room where Maire was finishing up the embroidery on a confirmation robe. “You have a visitor." It had been three weeks since the Patriarch had come to call. Not having heard the jangle of harness or clop of hooves, Maire didn't think the clergy had returned. She clipped the thread she'd just tied into a knot on the underside of the fabric and looked up at Caro with a smile on her face. One look at the older woman's pale countenance, clutched hands and worried eyes, she knew there was a problem. "Who is it?” she asked, laying the embroidery aside. "Her,” was all Caro had to say. Maire frowned. She knew sooner or later Dek's wife would come, but she had hoped to put off the confrontation for as long as possible. "She came with only one soldier,” Caro said. "That's because she knows she has nothing to fear from me,” Maire said. She got up from her chair. “Would you and Hank go out to the little cottage while she's here?” she asked. “I would like to keep this between me and her." Caro looked as though she would protest but nodded. “Want me to show her in?" "I'll do it,” Maire said as she took off her ever-present apron and hung it on the back of her chair. She felt like an old woman as she preceded Caro from the room, giving the older woman a smile she didn't feel as Caro left through the kitchen door. Straightening her shoulders, lifting her chin, she opened the front door to find Dek's wife peering at her from the interior of a fancy coach and four. "Well,” she heard the Baroness say in a snide tone. “There's my husband's thieving little whore."

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Chapter Fifteen

Dek was hot, tired, and needed a bath, but he couldn't wait to see the woman he loved for it had been three months since last he held her in his arms. The moment the ship had passed the cliff upon which Sheidaghan sat, he had wanted to jump overboard and swim the distance. Had Guy and Jules not physically restrained him, he might have done just that despite the very real possibility of sharks lurking in the waters. As it was, when the ship docked, the Baron was pounding over the gangplank, grabbing the first horse he saw, vaulting into the saddle and putting heels to the bewildered beast. "Be careful!” he heard Jules yell. Racing like a madman, Dek covered the ten miles in record time. As soon as the cottage came into view, he let out a whoop and urged the beast to a faster gallop. Thundering down the oyster shell drive, he saw Hank hoeing weeds at the side of the house and waved. Hank waved back then dropped the hoe to spring around the side of the cottage. "He's home!” Hank yelled. “Caro, the Baron is home!" Caro was drying the breakfast dishes and nearly dropped the plate in her hand. She put it down and with the cloth in hand raced out the back door for she saw the Baron's horse digging a furrow in the ground as its rider sawed back on the reins. "Should I go to get her?” Hank inquired, looking toward the little cave that held the steps down to the beach. "Nay, not yet,” she said. The Baron was already throwing a leg over the horse's head and sliding to the ground. She lifted her hand to him as he ran toward her. "Where's my Maire?” he asked and would have raced past her if she hadn't put out a hand to stop his headlong rush. "Your Grace, there's something you need to know,” she said. Dek wasn't listening. All he wanted was his lady but the look on the older woman's face gave him pause. “What's wrong?” he asked. His heart leapt up to his throat. “Is she sick?” The color drained from his face. “Is she hurt?” Once more he started into the house but Caro took his arm. "She's on the beach, Your Grace, but I have to tell you something first,” Caro insisted.

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"Tell me what?” he asked, impatiently. "Your lady-wife was here,” Caro said. Anger infused Dek's face. “When?" "A few weeks back,” Caro replied. "What happened?” he demanded, jaws clenched. “What did the bitch do?" "She didn't do nothing that we know of, but whatever she said to milady took the heart right out of her,” Caro said. "Aye, well, I can imagine what she said,” Dek snapped. “And believe me, she'll pay for having said it, too!” He started to turn but Caro still had her hand wrapped around his arm. "Your Grace, she cries all the time, now,” she said. “Hardly ever smiles and spends hours at a stretch walking the beach." "Alone?” Dek asked, amazed the servants would allow it. "She insists on it being that way,” Hank told him. “Don't want no company she says." "And when she comes back, she hardly ever speaks and when she does, it is with such sadness and such despair. It's as though her heart's been broken,” Caro amended. "We'll see about that,” he said grimly and shrugged off the servant's hand, walking with steely purpose toward the cave. "He'll set things to right with our lady,” Hank told his wife. Skipping down the steps without bothering to use the railing, pivoting on the platform and all but jumping from it to the beach below, Dek swept his gaze along the beach and when he finally spied her far down the coast, he dug his toes into the sand and starting running. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest. He could well imagine the horrible, insulting and demoralizing things Ynez might have said to cause Maire pain. He knew the bitch was an expert at hurting people. There wasn't an ounce of compassion, a flicker of kindness in her, and if she could brutally wound someone she considered an enemy nothing would stop her from doing so. "Maire!” he called out, unable to bear seeing her slumping shoulders as she trudged along the beach. When she turned to face him, he realized how gaunt she looked, how thin. He felt her sadness to the depths of him and

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when she made no move to run into the arms that ached to hold her, he knew something very bad had happened. Maire had spent every waking moment he had been gone to pray for his safe return. He looked hale and hearty as he raced toward her. She could not help but admire the fleetness of his movements, the incredible power in his thighs, the way his shoulders bunched. She longed to run to him, to throw herself into his arms, to feel his body pressed tightly to hers in a welcoming embrace, but she remained rooted where she stood, her body numb, her heart in pieces. He was breathing hard when he stopped a few feet from her—his chest heaving, his tongue coming out to lick at his lips. His gaze moved hungrily over her face, searched her eyes. Those precious lines had etched themselves between his brows. "Maire?” he asked almost in a whisper. He held his hand out to her—palm up. She took a deep breath and walked to him, slipped her hand in his. "Welcome home, milord,” she said. She tried to smile but her face felt frozen, as numb as the rest of her. He pulled her gently to him, encircled her in the comfort of his arms and laid his cheek atop her hair. “What did she say to you, tarrishagh?” he asked and her answer was not at all what he was expected. "That she is pregnant with the heir to the Barony,” she said in a lost, hopeless voice. Dek flinched as though he'd been struck by the ta'zeer's lash. Nothing she could have said could have shocked him more. He pushed her back, looking down into her face with horror. He thought he might have misheard her but the look on her face told him he had not. "She is with child,” Maire said. "She's lying,” he said. “She only said it to hurt you." Maire shook her head. “I don't think so." "That bitch Miriam put her up to it,” he said. “They've cooked up this scheme to hurt you...." "The Patriarch sent Miriam away only a few days after you left,” she informed him. “He sent her to Galrath."

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Dek's brows drew together. “Why? What did she do?" "He said she was consorting with a witch." His brows drew together. “That's a burning offense,” he said. "Aye, but to have accused her in public would have been to accuse your lady-wife, as well, since everyone knows where the Mantis went, so went the Baroness.” She reached up a trembling hand to cup his cheek. “The people know the truth of it, milord. They know your lady-wife visited the witch, but they will not accuse her in public for fear of hurting your good name." "The hell with my name!” he snarled. “What good is it to me if I am forced to remain with Ynez?” He shook his head violently. “She's lying. She fabricated this whole thing to hurt you because I was not here to stop her. I'll get to the bottom of it once I get to the keep. The Patriarch will make her admit she lied." "The Patriarch has gone. He left before your lady-wife came to Sheidaghan,” she said. "Aye, well, that's just as well,” he said, plowing a hand through his hair. “I wouldn't want him there when I beat the shit out of Ynez." She stroked his face. “Promise me you won't do anything to her, Deklyn. Lock her in her room if needs be but don't hurt her. Don't lower yourself to her level." "She hurt you with her damnable lie!” he protested. “I should beat her black and blue and string her up by her thumbs for crow bait!" "If she is carrying your heir, you would never forgive yourself if you caused her to miscarry,” she reminded him. For a brief moment, he felt as though the rug had been snatched out from under him, and he was falling through darkness. The thought of a child, an heir—possibly a son—gave him pause but the sure knowledge he would be forced to stay with Ynez was enough to crush that thought into oblivion. "I'll get to the bottom of this,” he said, snaking his arm around her waist. “For now, I want you at the cottage. I don't like you being out here alone. Promise me you won't do this again.” He looked down at her. “Promise me." "I promise,” she said. He was ushering her back to the steps, and she let him. The feel of his body brushing against hers as they walked might well be the last time she

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experienced it. If Ynez was with child, Dek would be forced to end things between them and that was a thought beyond enduring. "She's lying,” he said. “You'll see." Maire prayed he was right. He seemed so sure. For the first time in weeks, a ray of hope flashed on the horizon of her despair. **** Taking the steps up the front entrance of the keep two at a time, Dek barely broke his stride as the guards leapt to pull open the doors for him. Once inside the grand entrance, his bellow could be heard throughout the keep. "Ynez!" The sound of his boot heels rang against the marble floor as he went from room to room, shouting his wife's name at the top of his lungs. "Ynez!" "I am here you loudmouthed lout." Dek skidded to a stop and spun around to look up the stairs. She was standing at the top with a hateful sneer plastered on her face. He had the urge to rush up the stairs and cast her down the risers, aching to hear her body thumping on every step until it lay sprawled—broken and dead—at his feet. Instead, he swung his narrowed gaze to a nearby servant and spoke low and urgently, ordering the Healer be found and brought to the Baroness’ room. "Aye, Your Grace!” the servant replied and hurried off. With a stony expression set on his handsome face Dek started up the stairs—never taking his eyes from Ynez's. The woman was smirking, standing there with her arms folded across her chest. When he was only two steps from her, he expected her to step back from the anger aimed at her, the hatred showing on his face, but instead she smiled slowly, a nasty glint in her eye. "So the slut told you,” she said, lifting her chin. “How did I know you'd go see her before you came to your wife?" Dek's hands fisted at his sides. It was all he could do not to hit her, to slap the scornful look from her face. He'd never wanted to beat her as badly as he did at that moment.

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"Get your ass into your bedchamber and strip,” he said. Ynez cocked her head to one side. “Didn't she tell you you've already done your job, Deklyn. I am carrying your brat, so there is no need for more Seeding." "I wouldn't touch you again if you were the last woman left on this world! Get your ass into your bedchamber and strip!” he thundered. She snorted, intending to tell him no, but then looked past him to see the Healer coming toward the stairs. An unholy light suffused her smug face. This was the moment she had been waiting for, the culmination of all the planning she and Miriam had done. Even though her lover was not there to see Deklyn Yn Baase's defeat, Ynez knew Miri would somehow know. "What's happening?” Daragh inquired as he reached Dek. He looked from husband to wife and back again. "Examine this lying bitch. She claims to be with child,” Dek growled from between clenched teeth. Daragh's lips parted in shock. “She's said nothing to me of it!” he protested. "I don't tell you everything, you quack!” Ynez scoffed. “I assure you I am, indeed, carrying the heir to Tarryn's Barony." Coming up the last two steps, Dek shot out his hand and gripped his wife's upper arm, spinning her around to march her toward her bedchamber. Her snicker of amusement set his teeth on edge as he dragged her along behind him. Not bothering with the handle to her door, he lifted his foot and kicked open the portal. The jamb shattered under the force, the sound of splitting wood loud. "You are an ill-mannered bastard,” she hissed at him, trying to jerk away from his savage hold, but he flung her none too gently toward the bed. Her thighs hit the mattress, and she reached out to grab the headboard post to keep from falling. "Take off your clothes, Ynez, or by the gods I'll rip them off you!” he threatened. "All she needs do is lift her skirt, Your Grace,” Daragh said, knowing he was dealing with the Baron and not his lifelong friend so thus the formal title. “I can examine her just as well that way." "Mayhap he wants to see what a real woman looks like instead of the skinny whore he...."

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She got no further for Dek lashed out a hand to enclose her throat in a brutal span. He backed her against the wall beside the night table and held her there. He slapped the palm of his free hand to the wall close to her head, coming nose to nose with her, his fury raging. "One day you are going to push me over the edge of my control, Ynez, and when that happens, I am going to snap your neck like a dry twig!” he told her. "Don't threaten me, you crazy bastard!” she hissed. "It's not a threat, bitch. It is a promise!” he said, his eyes shifted back and forth between hers. "Even though you would be killing your unborn child?” she countered. He lifted his hand, snagged it in the bodice of her gown, and released her neck to grab another handful of gown then rent the fabric from neckline to waist in one violent tear. Ynez shrieked with outrage, and even though she slapped at his hands, kicked at him with her slipper-shod feet, he divested her of her clothing then shoved her to the mattress. She scrambled across it, fear finally registering in her eyes. She crouched on the bed with one arm over her naked breasts and a hand covering the apex of her thighs. "You see? You see? He's insane!” she told Daragh. “The bastard has finally lost what little sense he had!” She yelped when Dek made a move to come at her, putting up her hands to shield her face instead of trying to camouflage her body. "Examine her!” he ordered the Healer. "Your Grace, you should leave,” Daragh said. “It is not right...." Dek rounded on his friend, flinging a hand behind him to point at Ynez. “Believe me when I tell you I've seen that bitch's cunt more times than I've ever cared to. Examine her and be done with it, Frazier!" Daragh knew better than to argue. He hurried to the bed, instructed Ynez to lie down. As she did as he bid, he went into her bathing chamber to wash his hands as quickly as he dared. Once back, he made quick work of examining her. When he discovered the undeniable truth, his gaze flicked up to hers. "I told you,” she said. Standing at the footboard of the bed with his hands wrapped around the crosspiece between posts, Dek could feel the blood pounding in his ears.

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When he saw Daragh look up at Ynez, watched her slow, triumphant smile begin, his grip tightened. "Daragh?” he questioned. The healer swiveled his head around. There was no need for him to give voice to the answer, the reality of the situation shown in his sympathetic eyes. "No,” Dek said, shaking his head slow. “No." "Will you tell your whore she must leave Tarryn or shall I, husband?” Ynez asked, sitting up to send him a look that scalded his very soul. Dek's gaze moved from his wife to the healer. He searched his friend's face, and what he saw that put a deep, abiding hurt in his heart. “Daragh?” he questioned in a voice only marginally louder than a whisper. "I'm sorry,” Daragh said. "What?” Ynez said. “No congratulations for your Baron on the impending birth of his first born, quack?” she challenged. “Is this not a glorious occasion in which to rejoice?" Letting go of the bed rail, Dek stepped back, needing to put distance between him and the gloating woman on the bed. He took another step backwards, feeling as though he was drowning in her hateful grin. "I am the Baroness of Drogh-gheay,” she told him, “and the Baroness, I will remain!" Striving to keep from howling with the pain tearing at him, Dek spun around to run from the room, Ynez's taunting laughter following him as he thundered down the stairs—running blinding, not caring where he was going, blind to everything and everyone around him. He took the first door he saw, jerking it open, propelling himself down twisting, winding stairs that went deeper into the bowels of the keep. Those he passed, those who saw him made no move to intercept the Baron, to question his headlong flight. One look at his stricken face was enough to keep the stupidest among them from opening his mouth. As he blundered into the darkest, most dismal part of the underbelly of DroghGheay, not even the guards stationed in the dungeon area dared to question his presence among them. Nor did the Geddynian prisoners comment when their captor stumbled past their cells to disappear into the dank, lightless depths beyond. They craned their heads to watch his passage and when there came a soul-shattered howl from those ebon recesses, they backed

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away from the bars to put distance between themselves and the inhuman cry that made the hair on their arms stir. Howling in frustration, he approached the solid barrier of a rough stone wall that blocked farther passage, Dek slapped his hands to the slimy, cold wall and dropped to his knees—his palms scraping along the jagged surface. He threw back his head and howled again—the sound even more pitiful and heart-wrenching. So filled with utter misery and hopelessness, he slammed his forehead against the stone, barely conscious of the pain that shot through his head. Twisting his flesh from side to side, grinding it against the rough face of the stone, he heaved great gulps of air into his lungs, moaning piteously with each exhalation. "What have you done?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Deklyn, what have you done?" He slid down into a heap—curling in on himself in a fetal position. His eyes were squeezed shut in a desperate attempt to keep from sobbing. He bit his lip until he tasted blood. **** Jules hunkered down beside his cousin, saying nothing as he held the lantern aloft. Dek turned his face from the glaring light. "Get that thing out of my eyes, Yn Baase,” he ordered. "What the hell are you doing down here? Are you all right?” Jules asked. He had come as soon as a dungeon guard had found him. Ironically enough it had been one of the Geddynian prisoners who had asked the guards to find the Baron's kin. "You heard?" "Heard what?” Jules countered. “What's going on?" Releasing a long sigh, Dek sat up, plowed a blood-caked hand through his hair, winced as pain ratcheted through his palm. He brought his hand down and stared at the gouges in his flesh. "How'd that happen?” Jules asked. "She's pregnant,” Dek said. “The bitch of Drogh-gheay is with child." Jules was staggered by the news. His mouth dropped open. “What?” he whispered.

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"Daragh examined her,” Dek said. He ran his palm along his pants, flinching as the cuts reopened. “I was there." "By the gods,” Jules said, slowly closing his eyes to this new development. He hung his head. “I'm sorry, Dek." "Aye, well, so am I,” Dek said in a tired voice. He pressed his back against the wall and pushed up from the damp floor. Jules got to his feet. “What are you going to tell Maire?” he asked. A sharp stab of pain drove through Dek's heart, but he didn't answer. He started up the corridor. "Dek?” Jules questioned. Ignoring his cousin, Dek walked past the Geddynian prisoners, the dungeon guards, and started up the stairs. "Dek?” Jules asked again, following behind after handing off the torch to one of the guards. However, the Baron made no reply. When he left the stairs and headed for the door that led to the inner courtyard, he turned to put a hand to his cousin's chest. "Leave me be, Jules,” he said. When Jules would have protested, the Baron of Drogh-gheay issued the order again in a voice that brooked no argument. “Leave me be and do not follow me." Clamping his mouth shut to the command, Jules nodded for he had no need to ask where Dek was going. Though it was storming beyond the portal, he knew there would be no way to dissuade his cousin from venturing out into the lashing rain. "Be careful,” was all the advice he gave as Dek closed the door behind him. Taking the covered walkway from the front entrance around the side of the main building to the stables, Dek stopped halfway there as lightning speared the heavens and thunder shook the wooden planks beneath his booted feet. He looked out across the night-darkened inner bailey—staring at the slanting rain that was driving down in torrents—he hated the thought of taking an animal out in weather so dangerous. Instead, he stepped out from under the walkway and into the onslaught—drenched to the bone in a matter of seconds. Gritting his teeth to the icy cold of the water running down the collar of his jacket, he shoved his hands into his pockets and began walking.

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Chapter Sixteen

It was close to midnight when the knock came at Maire's door. She sat up—heart racing. “Aye?" "Milady, the Baron's here,” Hank told her. Maire gasped and flung the covers aside. She ran to the door, opened it, took one look at Hank's face and knew it was bad news. Oblivious to her wrapper or slippers she hurried past the servant and down the stairs. He was standing at the front door with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, shivering. He was soaking wet, his teeth chattering. A pool of water had gathered at his feet, and he was looking down at it, watching it spread on the carpet. "Deklyn?” she questioned, coming toward him slowly. She put out a hand. “Milord?” The moment he lifted his head, she knew. A heavy sigh issued from her parted lips. "I'm sorry, Maire,” he said. She went to him but before she could put her arms around him, he sank to his knees on the floor. She followed him, capturing him in a tight embrace as great sobs wracked his body and a keening that made her ache to the marrow of her bones came from the very depths of his wounded soul. She held him as the sorrow tore through him. He clutched at her—his head against her breast—as wave after wave of torment leached out of him. "Shush,” she whispered against his drenched hair. She kissed it. “Shush, now. It will be all right." "No,” he cried. “No, it won't.” Heaves shook his body and his hold tightened around her. "Aye, it will,” she said and only Caro—who was standing in the doorway to the bedchamber, she shared with her husband—saw the light of battle gleaming in her mistress’ eye. “I promise you it will." "I can't leave her now,” he sobbed. “I'll never be rid of her. She's carrying my child." "Aye, my love,” she said gently. “I know.” She stroked his back, patted him as she would a child.

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Hank walked past her, shooed his wife back into their bedchamber, then closed the door on the misery that knelt in the great room of Sheidaghan. "Deklyn,” Maire said in a voice that was calm and full of authority. “You need to get out of these wet clothes before you catch your death of cold." "What does it matter now?" "It matters to me, and it matters to your people,” she stated then unwrapped her arms from around him. “Get up and come with me.” When he would have clung to her, stayed where he was, she shook him gently. “I've had all the night to think about this, Deklyn. I'll not let that woman take the only happiness you've ever known from you. Not now. Not ever." He looked up at her—his face ravaged from the tears he'd shed and windrain chaffed from his long walk through the storm. “Maire...." "I will not let her win,” she said then got to her feet. She held her hand out to him. “Will you?" He hesitated, unsure of her purpose. Searching her face, he thought he saw something there he dared not hope he would ever see. She stood there with her hand out to him. “She cheated at this game, Deklyn, and so to my way of thinking she does not deserve to be allowed to claim the victory. She believes herself the winner, but I mean to see her the loser in this. Take my hand, Deklyn, and proclaim her defeat." "Are you sure?” he asked. "Gods-be-damned sure,” she said with an emphatic nod. “Surer than I've ever been about anything in my life." "But Maire...." "You belong to me, Deklyn Yn Baase,” she said, cutting him off. “You are mine! You have never belonged to that witch, and you never will. I belong to you. I am yours and before this night is over, you will know this woman's love the way the gods meant for you to know it! You will have the happiness They intended you have when They put us in each other's path! Do you doubt it? Do you doubt you are mine, and I am yours?" Wiping a hand over his wet eyes, he shook his head. “Nay, tarrishagh, I do not doubt it. Not for a second do I doubt it." "Do you doubt we belong together as the gods intended?" "No, I never have."

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"Then take my hand and let us do the gods’ bidding,” she said firmly. He reached up to take her hand. The moment his hand slipped into hers, he felt the power of their love warm him. Getting to his feet, he followed behind her as she led him up the stairs. "We are not to be disturbed, Hank,” Maire called out. “By anyone." "Aye, milady,” came the reply. **** She led him into her bathing chamber then helped him undress, clucking her tongue over the sodden mess that was his clothing and the angry scrapes that had peeled his palms raw. She fussed over him, bathed the wounds, and made him sit at her vanity while she toweled his hair as dry as she could get the thick, curly mass. When he was no longer shivering but still reluctant to raise his head, she took his hand and led him to her bed. There she bid him lie down and with all the gentleness, sweetness, love and generosity in her heart put her hands to his trembling body. "Let me love you for a change,” she whispered as she slipped out of her gingham gown, tossing it aside before crawling onto the bed, straddling him. "Maire.... “he began, but she leaned down to press the tips of her fingers to his lips. "Shush. Let your woman show you how much she loves and needs you." With tender, loving care, she braced her upper body on her elbows and began to rain kisses on his high forehead, his eyebrows, his nose and cheeks, his chin. Bypassing the lips that had parted to receive hers, she worked her way down the strong, lean column of his throat to the hollow where a rapid pulse beat. She spread that kiss over first one collarbone then the other then made her way down the hard plane of his pectorals to his left nipple. Dek sucked in a breath as her lips closed around the hard little nubbin. A spike of excitement shot down his side and pooled in his groin—causing his cock to leap in invitation. Her teeth clamped lightly on his flesh and another wave of shock rippled through him. His hands fisted in the coverlet and his breath became rapid and shallow as she licked her way from that nipple to the other then drew him between her lips. "Ah, Maire,” he sighed, closing his eyes to the wondrous feeling her mouth was causing. His belly quivered as she kissed her way down from his nipple to his ribs then across to the opposite ribs before scooting lower in the bed to run her lips along the tiger line of hair above his belly button. The moment

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her tongue slipped inside that deep concavity, he shook like a leaf in a violent breeze, twisting the coverlet fiercely in his fist. Her hands molded to his slender flanks as she swirled her tongue around and around his navel, dipped inside then swirled around it once again. She slid lower along the mattress until her toes touched the footboard, but she was right where—exactly where—she wanted to be. She kissed the tip of his cock and smiled when it flexed, the head wept, his balls tightened visibly. She flicked her tongue across the broad head, licked at the oozing slit, and then lapped him like a cat would cream all around the helmet of his shaft. Dek was shivering beneath her tender onslaught. She was lying between his open legs, using her arms to urge him to spread them wider. Raising his legs, he did just that then let his knees fall far apart. The moment she slid her hands beneath his rump, he thought he would ruin it all by coming, but he clamped his teeth together, willing the release not to come. Maire drew him into her mouth and slid her lips down his shaft. Relaxing her throat, she took him as deep as he could go. Using her tongue to press against the underside of his cock, she suckled him hard, drawing upon his flesh with a strong rhythm that had him panting. "Tarrishagh,” he groaned. “You are destroying me." Never removing her mouth from him, she looked up to find him staring down at her with rapt devotion. To her, he had never looked more handsome with his thick dark hair falling down over his forehead and curling around his ears. He had a two-day growth of beard that made him look wild and dangerous. The muscles in his broad shoulders were bunching as he twisted the coverlet in his hands. She smiled around his cock then drew harder on his shaft, fluttering her tongue just beneath the rim of the head. "Argh!” he said, unable to stop the climax that shot from him in a hot, thick stream that made his hips buck wildly. He strained as wave after delicious wave of glorious sensation took him over completely. Writhing beneath her, groaning as the last of the release pulsed from him, he jerked the coverlet so hard he heard it rip. Gasping for breath, he lay sprawled, completely drained, utterly helpless as she released him and raised up to slide her body along his. He looked up into her eyes as she closed her mouth over his. He tasted his cum on her mouth and shivered. If he thought he would roll over and go to sleep in his depletion, he was mistaken for she trailed her hand down his chest, over his belly to the flaccid prick and began to knead him gently—massaging him firmly, tugging him

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back to life. All the while, she lay beside him and kissed him, thrusting her tongue in and out of his mouth as she ran her thumb over the slit of his cock and then reached down to cup his balls. "Did I say destroy?” he asked. “I think you're trying to kill me, milady." She flicked her tongue over his lips then pressed her mouth hard to his, giving him the kind of kiss no other woman ever had. It was a kiss that took his breath away, a kiss that said the woman bestowing it had full ownership of him and could do with him whatever she liked. With her hand rubbing his cock, her foot sliding along the inside of his calf, the sweet curls between her legs grazing his hip, he would soon be as hard as steel in her knowing little hand. He moved so quickly she let out a yelp but before she could say anything, he had her pinned beneath him, pushing her legs apart with his knees, slamming his mouth down on hers—claiming her as she had claimed him, branding her his possession as she had proclaimed him hers. He thrust deep with his tongue and ground his hips against hers, dragging his steely cock along her wet folds. His hands were beneath her—his fingers digging into her soft flesh—as he hefted her up to impale her on his shaft. Maire moaned and undulated beneath him as his cock drove deep. She lifted her legs to cage him against her, digging her fingers into the flesh of his back as he increased the ferocity of his kiss. He pushed hard inside her. Withdrew. Pushed harder still until the headboard was striking the wall. He dragged his mouth from her lips, his hovering mere inches above hers. "Tell me you want me,” he growled. "I want you,” she responded, her nails raking lightly over the muscles of his back. "Tell me you need me." "I need you, Deklyn Yn Baase." His voice broke. “Tell me you love me." "With all my heart and soul and being do I love you and only you, and it will be you and only you for as long as I draw breath and even into the world beyond,” she pledged. He made a soft sound that surely came from deep within him, and he thrust into her with every ounce of his pent up desire. ****

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He wasn't there to break the lovers apart, but he was there to fetch Deklyn back to the keep no matter what it took. The matter at hand desperately needed the Baron and when Jules came riding hell-bent for leather down the oyster shell drive, he had the look of a very determined man stamped on his unsmiling face. Long before he recognized the rider, Hank had seen the dust cloud following in the steed's wake. He stood on the back porch undecided, debating whether he should go up the stairs to awaken his overlaird. Given the situation, a man racing toward the cottage at breakneck speed couldn't be bringing good news. "Whoever it is, is riding like a bat out of torment,” Caro said, shielding her eyes to the early morning sun. "I believe it is Captain Jules,” he told his wife. "Maybe he's coming to tell him the bitch fell down the stairs and broke her evil neck,” Caro suggested. "No such good luck,” Hank grumbled. The matter became a moot point and the decision made for him for the rider was, indeed, Jules and the captain had reached the cottage, dragging his mount to an abrupt stop before flinging a leg over the horse's head, tossing the reins to Hank. "He's here?” Jules asked, striding forward. "He is, Captain." "With her?" Hank nodded as he led the mount to the porch to tie the reins to an upright hitch. "Are they up?" "No, milord. They're still sleeping,” Caro replied for her husband. “They had a late night of it." Jules grimaced. “I'm afraid I've news that can't wait until he wakes,” he said then left the servants standing on the porch. He headed for the stairs, stamping down the impulse to take the treads two at a time. Since he had helped carry the furniture into Maire's room, he knew precisely which one was hers and made a beeline for the door. Listening at the portal, he heard no sound beyond the panel. He took a deep breath. Pausing with his hand up to knock, he thought better of it and simply opened the door with breath held. There was no need to wake Maire if it could be helped but neither did he want to intrude if she and Baron were involved in intimacy.

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Dek opened his eyes as the door opened. He looked into his cousin's face, frowned, and then eased his arm from beneath Maire's head, careful not to wake her. She sighed, but did not move as he gently left the bed—as naked as the day he was born. Jules’ gaze leapt from his cousin's nakedness, and he stepped back, turning from the door to look back down the staircase. He heard rustling in the room as Dek dressed then looked around when the door softly closed. “I wouldn't have come had it not been important,” he said in his defense. "Downstairs,” Dek said, cocking his chin toward the stairs. He was carrying his boots—still wet from his long walk to Sheidaghan. Gaining the great room, Dek sat down on a chair to draw on his boots. “Tell me." "Prince Nathan has been assassinated." Dek paused with one boot on and a foot halfway in the second. He looked up. “When?" "Right after we set sail from Geddyn. I don't know why the news is just reaching us,” Jules replied. “Apparently his council had had enough of his shit and considered there was no way they'd ever change his mind about ending the war. Our spy at the castle says good old Nate was slipped an unhealthy dose of Maiden's Briar with his nightly meal." "Bad way to die,” Dek said with a wince as he finished pulling on his boot. "You know the old saying: Ny smoo vees er y tailley, ny strimmey vees yn eeck,” Jules stated. "The more on the tally, the heavier the payment,” Dek translated. “It's true the bastard had a lot for which to pay." "So, now, the council has set up an interim government and is suing for peace. Baron Wynth Ralston is temporarily in command until democratic elections can be held.” Jules scratched his cheek. “The Tribunal needs you there to co-sign the treaty alongside Ralston and perhaps speak to their newly seated Tribunal." Dek tucked his lip between his teeth then gave Jules a long look. “Does everyone at the keep know about the pregnancy?" Jules nodded. “Aye, but the bell has not pealed and the servants look as dour as I feel. There is no rejoicing over the matter."

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Dek stood. With his hands on his hips, he released a long, tired breath and lowered his head. He could not remember a time in the history of Tarryn when the steeple bell had not welcomed the happy news of the impending birth of a royal Yn Baase heir. It boded ill for the child and he would need to rectify the situation with his people. He might loathe the babe's mother but his son or daughter was innocent of her perfidy and did not deserve to be slighted or thought of in a bad light. "I will need to speak to our people when I return,” the Baron said. "They will love him or her as they love you, milord." Both men turned to see Maire at the top of the stairs. She was dressed simply with her hair hanging loose about her shoulders. She came down the stairs with the regal grace of a queen—even though she was barefoot. "Prince Nathan was assassinated,” Dek said. “I'll need to go back to Geddyn." "May his soul find peace in the Otherworld,” Maire said. She smiled at Jules. “You will be going as well, milord?" "Someone needs to look after this poggleheaded boy,” Jules said. “Guy will be going along to help me keep Dek in line." "No, Guy won't be going along,” Dek said, his face stern. “I want a guard around the perimeter of this estate twenty-four hours a day and the entrance to the sea stairs sealed for now. There is to be two guards at the front of the house and two at the rear at all times and a watch team every hour on the hour to patrol the grounds. No one—and I mean no one—is to be allowed access to Maire and that includes representatives of the Tribunal or the Patriarch." "Isn't that overdoing it, milord?” Maire asked. "No,” Dek said. He reached for her hand. “I don't trust Ynez. While I am gone, I want to make gods-be-damned sure you are safe.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissed it then drew her into his embrace. “Nothing is going to happen to you, tarrishagh." Maire met Jules’ eye and smiled sadly at him. “You will guard him for me, Jules?" "On my life,” Jules swore. Dek kissed her passionately then released her, turned his back to leave. He hated goodbyes but especially so from this woman.

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"He walked here, Jules,” Maire said as she trailed behind them to the door. “You'd best take one of the horses from the stable." "Walked here?” Jules asked, his eyebrows aloft. “You walked here, Deklyn? In that storm?" "Leave off, Jules,” Dek said. He continued on through the kitchen. Nodding to Hank, he bid the man to see to Maire. "I'll guard her with my life, milord!” Hank pledged. Maire stood on the porch while the man she loved went into the stable to saddle a mount, having waved aside Hank's offer to do the deed for him. When Dek led the horse out of the stable and swung up into the saddle, she lifted her hand in farewell. "Be careful, my love,” she whispered. She watched the two men until nothing could be seen of their passing save the plume of dust left behind on the oyster shell road. **** Dek was relieved Ynez did not show herself when he arrived back at the keep. After ordering a bag packed with the ceremonial uniform of his station and rank included, he went to his office to give a few orders to his castellan. His flagship the Céirseach was being hastily provisioned and would not sail for another hour or two. In the interim he remained in his office and it was there a messenger arrived with a summons from Lord Assyl Fyrryn, the Senior Judge of the Tarryn Tribunal requesting the Baron's presence before the Tribunal. Knowing perfectly well what that meant, he strode angrily from the office to the chambers of the Tribunal. "Their worships are awaiting you, Your Grace,” the wizened little man who served as the gatekeeper of the chamber informed Dek with a low bow. Upon seeing the men decked out in the robes of their position, a muscle flexed in Dek's lean jaw. There was no chair awaiting him so this was—as he knew it would be—a formal meeting. In no mood for politics, he spoke before Fyrryn had a chance to. "Make this quick,” he snapped. “I have more important matters to which to attend." Lord Assyl's left eyebrow crooked upward. “More important than the announcement of an heir's conception, Your Grace?"

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Having walked straight up to the Tribunal bench, Dek glared into the other man's shifty eyes. "You know as well as I do that this conception of which you speak was not something I either expected or wanted, Assyl,” he said, deliberately refraining from giving the man his rightful title. “This is not a situation to be celebrated else you would hear rejoicing in the courtyards and the bell would be tolling. All I'm hearing is a strained silence that tells me the people of Tarryn are no happier than am I." "The child is innocent in...." "I know the child is innocent, and I will address the situation when I return,” Dek stated. He turned to go. "A moment longer, Your Grace!” Assyl called out. When Dek swiveled around to face the three-judge panel, he could tell from the look on Assyl's face that the bastard was about to say something Dek knew he wasn't going to like. “Well?” he demanded. Assyl cleared his throat, shifted the papers before him, cut his eyes to each of his fellow judges, and then spoke in a voice that held no small amount of trepidation. "Your lady-wife, the Baroness, has requested our intervention in a matter she considers of grave consequence." Dek narrowed his eyes. “That being what exactly?” he growled. "The Baroness is concerned the exact letter of the law regarding marriage contract has been violated,” Lord Gael spoke up. Eyes narrowed now to dangerous slits, Dek came back to the bench. “Does she now? In what regard?" Gael exchanged a worried look with Assyl before he replied. “She says you are in direct violation of the tenets of the contract." "She does, does she?” Dek queried, the muscle in his jaw bunching repeatedly. "It is the matter of you keeping a concubine,” Lord Gael stated, sweat pouring from his high forehead. She has asked t ... the woman in question b ... be arrested for adultery, b ... branded a whore then d ... deported back to her c ... country.” He wiped a linen handkerchief over his damp face.

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Dek went completely still, his gaze boring into Gael. He put his hands on the curved edge of the judge's bench and speared the man with a look so enraged, so lethal it made Gael whimper. "You touch my woman at peril to your own lady-wives being taken from you and treated in the same manner,” Dek said, his voice as steely as his eyes were cold. "Your Grace...!” Assyl started to protest. "Had I, as a warrior, tromped about the Geddyn countryside screwing as many women as I desired, you would not have said one word to me of it. Such action would be sanctioned by the laws of Tarryn as a warrior's privilege, a conqueror's right. You would have turned a blind eye and said nothing of it." "But this is different, Your Grace,” Lord Gael asserted. “Whoring is one thing, adultery is quite another." "You're gods-be-damned right it is different!” Dek roared. “The difference lies in that I lay with a woman who was meant by the gods to be my Cochianglt. She was proclaimed so by the Patriarch, himself! There is no adultery involved." "That isn't true, Your Grace. You...." "The bitch I was forced to marry against my will has made my life a living hell since the day we Joined. She doesn't want me—never has—but now she will attempt to move heaven and earth to see me kept from the woman I love just to spite me?" "There is more involved here than just the loss of affection between you and the Baroness,” Lord Assyl said. "Loss of what affection?” Dek thundered, pounding a fist on the bench's mahogany top. “There has never been any affection between me and Ynez Arabach to lose! I hate her—nay, I despise her—as much as she despises me!" "That is beside the point, Your Grace,” Lord Assyl said. “The Baroness has every right to request your concubine...." "Don't you dare to call her that again!” Dek hissed, eyes flashing green fire. "You must adhere to the letter of the law with regards to the contract, Your Grace,” Lord Gael said. He was sweating even more profusely. “Now

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that the Baroness has conceived you cannot be with any other woman. You must...." "Let me make something clear to you, Gael,” Dek said. “I am leaving this day to represent our country in a peace accord that has taken generations to see come into being. We are finally going to be able to bring our troops home and end the death and destruction. My mind should be entirely on that, seeing that to completion and not worrying about what you feeble idjuts might be attempting to do at the request of a deranged woman who should have been put out of my misery a long time ago!" "Your Grace, please be reasonable,” Lord Assyl said. “The Baroness has a valid point here. She is requesting the temptation you must not indulge in be taken from you so you might...." "Make no mistake about it, Fyrryn,” Dek snapped. “If you or your duo of lickspittles go after my woman while I am gone, before the gods and all that is holy I swear to you that you will live to regret it.” His hands clenched into fists on the bench's smooth top. “Not only will I retaliate against your wives, I will come after you with everything I have and completely destroy you and whatever wealth you have managed to acquire over the years. I will take everything you own and turn it over to the people." Lord Assyl's face bleached of color. “Your Grace, I beg you not to make threats...." "It wasn't a threat, Assyl. It was a solemn vow I just made,” Dek interrupted. “And not only will I destroy you and everyone you hold dear, I will bring Ynez up before the people on charges of consorting with witches and sexual perversion. I will drag that muff-eating cunt of a lover of hers back here from Galrath and have the bitch drawn and quartered before Ynez's very eyes before I order Ynez burned at the stake for heresy!” He pointed a finger at Assyl. “You tell that to your conniving Baroness, and you had best stay the fuck away from my woman!" That said, he pivoted and stomped from the room, his face set in such deadly lines of fury no one dared to speak to him as he stormed from the keep.

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Chapter Seventeen

What should have taken no less than a few weeks stretched into a month. A month stretched into two and then into three. Just before the start of the fourth month, Deklyn Yn Baase, the Laird of Drogh-gheay was beginning to growl at everyone who crossed paths with him. He was being forced to travel with the new provisional government representatives of Geddyn to every single province to give his stamp of approval on the men chosen to lead the newly formed democratic people's party. With every new county seat, every lonely inn room and silent meal he took, his homesickness for Tarryn—but more importantly for the woman he loved—grew until it was a chore for anyone to be in his company for any length of time. Though he sent daily letters to Maire and received a weeks’ worth back by mail packet every Monday, it was not the same as being with her and hearing her voice—things of which he was in desperate need. Sitting at a desk in still another cold, empty inn room with pen in hand and paper lying before him, he gazed out the window as rain ran in sheets down the pane. It had been raining for three days straight, and he was trapped in a quagmire of mud that prohibited traveling on to the next city where another boring rite of celebration awaited his arrival. "The Geddyn people have come to respect you for your generosity toward us, a defeated enemy,” Baron Wynth Ralston—the newly elected president of the democracy—assured him. “That you have not made excessive demands on our treasury and have returned our men to us from your jails has gone a long way in altering the way they have always viewed you. The celebrations are their way of thanking you for making our defeat more palatable." But Dek knew if he spent another week in Geddyn, he would likely go out of his mind. Although Maire's letters to him were upbeat and filled with love, he dissected them looking for even a hint of trouble. She—as well as Guy in his letters to both Dek and Jules—had sworn no trouble had shown up on Sheidaghan's doorstep, he was still worried sick about her safety. He feared what Ynez might do and remained in a constant state of uneasiness that he knew would not pass until he was home with Maire in his arms. A light knock at the door before it opened signaled to Dek that Jules had arrived to escort him downstairs to break the fast. "If this fucking rain doesn't stop, we're all going to be covered in mildew,” Jules complained. Dek's cousin had a blazing cold and wicked sore throat and had been out of sorts for a few days now. He came to perch on the bed beside Dek. “Writing the wench?"

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"Nay, I'm making my Çhenney list,” Dek drawled, referring to the late autumn festival of fire during which good little boys and girls received gifts from the Fire King. He shot Jules an irritated look. “Of course I'm writing Maire." "Tell her your men are seriously considering revolting against you, tarring and feathering you before we drag you home in chains,” Jules grumbled. “Your attitude is beginning to wear thin." Dek tossed his pen to the desk top and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “You're no less antsy to return home than I am, Yn Baase,” he reminded his cousin. "Then why not just tell Ralston we've done enough public relations for him and strike out for Norvus Harbor come first light?” Jules questioned. “We've done enough good deeds for the people of Geddyn." "Why not strike out this morn? The carriages couldn't make it through the mud but our mounts could,” Dek countered. He glanced at the pouring rain. “I'd rather be riding in this muck and getting soaking wet rather than spend another excruciating day of campaigning for Ralston's party.” He snorted with disgust. “And make no mistake that is precisely what we've been forced to do." "That would work for me,” Jules told him. “If I have to shake hands with one more tribal chieftain, I might lose what little mind I have left." "Then see to acquiring horses, and we'll shake the Geddyn mud from our boots,” Dek ordered. "You mean it?” Jules asked, perking up. "Aye, I mean it,” Dek said. He unfolded his arms and pushed his chair back from the desk, stood to stretch his back. “Send word to Larson that we're on our way, and that he's to sail out as soon as we get there." "Aye, Your Grace!” Jules agreed and rushed to the door. He was out of the room before his cousin could change his mind. **** It was two in the morning several days later when the Céirseach sailed past Sheidaghan. Because it was so late, no lights shown in the windows but torches sputtered on the front porch and the sight of two armed guards standing watch eased Dek's mind as the ship sailed past. As he had been once before, he was tempted to jump overboard and swim to his love's cottage but Jules no doubt had thought of that and was standing with his cousin at the rail.

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"It's not going to be easy, Dek,” Jules said quietly. “Ynez is going to raise holy hell every time you go to Maire's." "Let her,” Dek said. “I'm not giving up the only happiness I'm ever to know." "Aye, but Ynez could make life worse for you than she already has." Dek shrugged, keeping sight of Sheidaghan as the ship rounded the cliff. He would watch the cottage until he no longer could, his gaze locked on the room where he knew his love lay sleeping. "Let her do her worst,” he told Jules. “I can survive anything as long as I know Maire is waiting for me." "At least you have the people of Tarryn on your side,” Jules said. He was leaning with his elbows on the rail, watching the silvery phosphorescence that undulated along the hull of the ship. “That will help." "I know it isn't going to be a cakewalk,” Dek said. “The only good thing that will come of this entire sordid mess will be the babe, and I intend to see he or she doesn't regret coming into this mad world of ours." Jules turned his head to Dek. “What will you tell him or her about Maire?" "I'll tell him the truth,” he said. “That Maire is my Cochianglt, and that even though I cannot claim her as my lawful wife, I love her with all my heart and always will." "And what will you tell him about his mother?" Dek sighed. “That I haven't decided on as yet. I suppose it depends on how Ynez treats the child. If she shows any love at all, I'll never speak ill of her to him. Nevertheless, if she treats him as I suspect she will, I'll let him know there is no love lost between his mother and me.” Now that Sheidaghan was out of sight, he turned to lean his back against the rail. “If it's a girl child, I suspect she'll treat her very differently than she would a son. Chances are she'll dote on a female and ignore a male. Only time will tell." "Motherhood has a way of changing women,” Jules said. He grinned. “I should know." "Aye, I suppose you should." "Mayhap it will be for the better with the Baroness." "Mayhaps pigs will learn to fly, as well,” Dek mumbled. “That's far more likely to happen that Ynez becoming a warm and fuzzy bear mama."

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Jules laughed then began telling his cousin a tale of how Seannie's mother had become a fiercely loyal mama bear once the boy was born. They were still discussing Seannie and his mother when the harbor at Drogh-gheay came into view and caught sight of the big red ship lying at anchor there. Dek groaned. “That's all the hell I need,” he snarled. “Why the hell can't that man mind his own business and leave me to mine?" "He believes you are his business,” Jules replied. “You knew he would show up sooner or later once he received news the Baroness was expecting." "Aye, well if it is his intent to take Maire from me, he'd best be prepared for a battle the likes of which his feeble mind can't even consider!” Dek warned. He saw the AnÉilvéis guards at the pier and knew they had already recognized his flag ship. One was pointing at the Céirseach and he groaned. "If you're thinking of slipping over the side and swimming for a rowboat, you'd best think again, cuz,” Jules cautioned. “I believe they are there to make sure you don't do just that." "Fuck ‘em,” Dek said. “I've had about all of his shit I intend to take." Once the Céirseach docked and the gangplank was lowered, Dek was the first one off, making a beeline to the man he recognized among the mercenaries. "Welcome home, Your Grace,” Damian said, bowing. “His Beatitude...." "Stow that crap,” Dek snapped. “I know what the hell he wants.” He walked right past Damian and started up the long, twisting cobblestone walk that led to the keep. Falling in behind the Baron, the AnÉilvéis guards—there were six of them other than Damian—formed a close phalanx around Dek. The significance of their maneuver was not missed and was rewarded with an enraged growl from the Laird of Drogh-gheay. He snapped his head around to glare at Damian. "Did he attempt to see my lady?” he demanded. Damian's lips twitched in what was obviously a smile attempting to be restrained. “He did, Your Grace, but he was turned away.” The mercenary gave Dek an admiring look. “He was not happy about the situation but did not press the issue." "He's smarter than I thought,” Dek muttered.

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"If you will pardon me for saying so, Your Grace, but His Beatitude is very fond of the lady in question,” Damian commented. Dek grunted but did not remark on the statement. By the time he reached the keep, he was in no mood to do anything save head for the library and the strongest goblet of Chalean whiskey he could find. He was in the act of finding the potent potable when Damian cleared his throat at the door. "The Patriarch asked that he be awakened as soon as you arrived home, Your Grace,” he informed the Baron. "Oh, by all means, wake him up,” Dek said before tipping the goblet back. “Let's get the show on the road." "As you will, Your Grace,” Damian said, bowing. Dek had just long enough to polish off the first goblet of whiskey before the Patriarch appeared in billowing cashmere robe and velvet slippers. His corpulent bulk stretched the lush material to bursting over his ponderous girth as he hobbled into the room. "So you're back,” Dek grumbled. He was sitting with a leg hooked over the arm of a very comfortable chair, sipping more of the fiery Chalean whiskey. "We are, indeed, Deklyn,” the Patriarch replied and took a seat across from the younger man. “You had a pleasant trip home, we hope." Dek looked around the room then back at the Patriarch. “Tell me: how many people do you see in this room?" His Beatitude the Ecumenical Patriarch Keish Buillovvee's lips tightened. “We do not understand your question, Deklyn." The Baron smiled nastily. “It's an easy enough question. How many people are in this room?" "Two." "Me and you?" "Unless you know something we don't." Dek took another sip then lowered the glass to rest it on his thigh. “There's just one of you and one of me, is that correct?" "It is."

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"Then stop with that shite when you're talking about yourself,” Dek snapped. “It is an affectation that wore thin long ago." The Patriarch's porcine eyes narrowed. “You are being especially rude tonight, Deklyn. We...." "I!” Dek yelled. “There is no we. There is only you!" For a moment the older man said nothing, and then he shifted in his chair and—with some difficulty—crossed his legs at the ankle and settled back in the overstuffed comfort of the seat. "I don't like your tone, young man. Pray do not forget to whom it is you are speaking,” he chastised. "I will grant you all the respect you are due, Your Beatitude, but if you continue to speak of yourself in that royal nosism, I am going to leave you here to talk to the other people in your head,” Dek told him. A thin eyebrow rose above the small eyes of Keish Buillovvee. “Will you indeed?” His mouth twisted in a tight smile. “Do that and I will install your arrogant little ass in your own dungeon until such time as you beg—on bended knee, nay on your belly!—for my indulgence and forgiveness.” He leaned forward. “Do we understand one another, Deklyn Yn Baase?" Rubbing a hand across his forehead, Deklyn sighed heavily. “Why are you here?” he countered. He had no doubt the Patriarch would attempt to have him thrust into a cell but there would be hell to pay if he tried it. "You know perfectly well why I am here. Do me the courtesy of not pretending otherwise." Draining the goblet, Dek twisted around to place the crystal drinking glass on the table beside him. “I will not give up my woman so if you came here with that in mind, we're going to have trouble, me and you." "You and I,” the Patriarch corrected the younger man. “And that was not my intention." Dek looked over at him with brows furrowed. “No?" "No,” the Patriarch replied. “Since last we.... “He pursed his thin lips. “Since last I was here, I have learned some things in relation to your ladywife that makes the contract susceptible to a different kind of interpretation of religious law." "You learned she prefers girls to boys, eh?” Dek said with a mirthless laugh.

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"That is part of what we learned,” the Patriarch replied then held up a hand to forestall any complaint. “We, as in the clergy of the Archtribunal in Bergen. I am sure you know we took the witch woman back with us when we left the last time." "Maire mentioned it, aye." "Well, in questioning the witch, we learned something that disturbed us greatly and were not the Baroness now carrying the heir to the Tarryn throne, would have nullified the marriage contract forthwith." The puzzlement intensified on Dek's face. “I'm sorry but I don't understand. What could you have learned that would have made you consider setting the marriage aside? Surely, you already knew about her sexual proclivities and the trucking with heretics before you left Drogh-gheay. I don't...." "The witch informed us—after a very strenuous bout of questioning—that she had performed an abortion for the Baroness,” said softly. “An abortion of your child." Dek's jaw sagged open with disbelief. He stared at the Patriarch, unable to speak. "Not only did she perform that abomination, but she provided the Baroness with herbs and potions designed to keep your lady-wife from conceiving. It was not until you brought the lovely Maire home to Tarryn that the Baroness came to the witch and asked for her help in aiding her to conceive an heir. It is our opinion—that of the Archtribunal—that she did not wish to lose neither the title of Baroness nor the lands she brought to the marriage." "I gave her those gods-be-damned lands back!” Dek said. “I don't want or need them!" "I believe the title is of more concern to her than the lands, Deklyn. She does not wish to become a person of disinterest to the people of Tarryn. To have the title taken from her would be to have her declared a nobody in her eyes." "She is a nobody,” Dek snapped. “The people despise her almost as much as I do." "This is true and had she not conceived, I would have gladly set aside your marriage to her but now?” He spread his pudgy hands. “Now, I can do no more than instruct your Tribunal to look the other way when you are with your Cochianglt."

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"You would do that?” Dek asked. "I will do that, Deklyn,” the Patriarch stated. “The perfidy your lady-wife perpetrated against you and the people of Tarryn was long before you found Maire again. It was she who broke the covenant, not you. Were it possible to divest you of this unhappy marriage, believe me, I would do so but, unfortunately, our hands are tied now there is a child on the way." Relief spread through Deklyn's soul. He put a hand to his temple where a wicked headache had started. "You should get to bed,” the Patriarch suggested. “It is late and you want to look better than you do at this moment when you give Maire the news on the morrow." There was moisture in the young Baron's eyes when he looked at the Patriarch. “Thank you, Your Beatitude." "I am not your enemy, Deklyn,” the overweight clergyman said. “I never have been.” He waved his fingers. “Now, shoo! Get some rest." "May I see you to your chambers, Your Beatitude?” Dek asked. "Nay, I think I will sit here a moment to consider prying myself out of this very comfortable seat. Run along now." Realizing he was being dismissed, Deklyn went to the Patriarch and genuflected, bowing his head in respect. “Forgive me for my earlier rash behavior, Your Beatitude,” he asked. Keish Buillovvee laid his palm on the young man's bent head. “There is nothing to forgive, Deklyn. We love you as the son we never had." Dek raised his head to find the Patriarch grinning at him. He returned the smile then got to his feet. Although he knew he climbed the stairs to reach his chambers that early morn he would have sworn his feet never touched the treads. **** Having lost the meal she had consumed at suppertime and now experiencing a terrible bout of heartburn, Ynez was pacing her room when she heard the door to her husband's chambers open and close. She put a hand to her burgeoning belly and rubbed lightly. "It seems your bastard of a father is home, little one,” she said. In her mind, it was a precious little girl who was nestled in her womb and when she

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spoke to ‘her', she often called her by the name she had decided to call her— Angelique. Another round of nausea suddenly hit her, and she turned, sprinting for the chamber pot, gagging horribly as nothing but hot bile trickled from her gasping mouth. She strained and strained until she was exhausted then stumbled back to her bed, collapsing on the mattress with an arm flung over her eyes. "You had best be a girl, Angelique,” she said. “If you turn out to be a boy, I'll drown you in your bath...." The moment she felt it, Ynez knew precisely what it was. Her child had kicked her! She sat up with a gasp, staring wide-eyed at her belly. Once more, the babe moved inside her and for the first time in her life, Ynez Arabach was overcome by an emotion she had reserved only for Miriam. Hand shaking, she put it to her belly and almost immediately, the child flexed in her womb. "Oh,” Ynez said, tears gathering in her eyes. She rubbed the spot. All she could think of was to share this glorious feeling with someone—anyone! Her eyes went to the wall that separated her room from her husband's. She hesitated. She truly had no desire to see Deklyn, to speak to him, but this monumental thing that was happening to her—and it happened again!—was causing such strange emotions inside her, she felt an overwhelming urge to share. Pushing up from the bed, she left her room, not even bothering to knock on Deklyn's door but barging in and going straight to him. He was in the process of taking off his belt when she intruded and shot her a nasty look. "I'm in no mood for your infernal shite, Ynez, I...." "Feel!” she said, hurrying to him and grabbing his hand, wrestling it toward her with more strength than he knew she possessed to lay his palm on the rounded expanse of her stomach. Slightly disturbed that she was showing already, he tried to pull his hand back but the babe took that moment to kick forcefully against its mother's stomach, and he stilled, a look of stunned surprise shifting over his tired face. "Did you feel it?” Ynez asked, pressing his hand tighter to her belly. He lifted his gaze from her slightly protruding stomach to her face and blinked. She had an ethereal look about her that shocked him as much as feeling the child move. Her face was glowing, her eyes alive with an emotion he had never seen her exhibit.

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"Deklyn, did you feel it?” she insisted. "Aye,” he whispered for the babe moved still again beneath his palm. His fingers tensed on her belly. "She's going to be a lively one,” she said. He eased his hand from hers, still feeling the sensation of his child moving under his palm. “You've decided it's a girl,” he said. "I have all the signs,” she said. “According to the midwife.” She lifted her chin. “I have decided to name her Angelique for she will be my little angel.” Once more tears came into her eyes. “I will be a very good mother to her and teach her everything I know." He was afraid she would. “What if it's a boy?" Ynez shook her head, flung out a dismissive hand. “It will not be.” She turned to go, dismissing him now that she had what she wanted. Dek watched her leave with mixed emotions of his own. One part of him was overjoyed at having felt his child move for the first time, to know the babe was alive and well inside its mother's belly. Another part of him was filled with sadness that the child was not Maire's. He went to bed with a headache and spent the remainder of the night staring up at his ceiling. **** "Will you be riding out this morn to visit your leman?” Ynez asked him at the breakfast table the next morn. Dek's jaw tightened. “Don't call her that, Ynez." Ynez cocked a shoulder. “I will call her what I will." "Not in our presence, you won't,” the Patriarch stated, sending her a stern look from the head of the table. "I am entitled to my opinion,” Ynez defended. "Aye, you are, but it will be hard to speak with a broken jaw,” Dek said softly as he scored the ham on his plate. He looked up to give her a hard look. “Or without a tongue." Ynez pursed her lips. “You talk a good fight, Deklyn, but we both know you would never...."

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"He might not, but we are a different matter,” the Patriarch told her. “We are not your friend, Baroness. Were you not carrying the Baron's heir, even now you would be in our dungeon awaiting trial for your heretic crimes.” He speared her with a look colder than Dek's. “We suggest you hold your tongue else be relieved of it. A tongue is not needed to be Baroness or mother." Raising her chin, she pushed back her chair. “I find I have lost my appetite,” she said. When neither man rose to assist her, she looked around for a servant but none was in sight. Clenching her teeth, she got out of the chair, and as soon as she did, a sudden wave of dizziness hit her. She grabbed for the chair back, her face pale. Dek glanced at her, looked down at his plate then did a double take. Lines formed between his brows. “Are you all right?” he asked. A cold sweat having broken out all over her body, Ynez felt the first cramp squeeze her belly and pressed her hand there. Her eyes widened as the pain increased. “Deklyn?” she questioned. The next pain doubled her over, and she cried out, staggering. Had she not had a death grip on the chair, she would have fallen. Scrambling from his chair, Dek raced around the end of the table in time to catch her before she collapsed. "Get the healer!” he shouted, scooping Ynez up in his arms and sprinting for the door. The Patriarch had difficulty getting out of his chair but his roaring voice brought servants running into the dining room. He ordered the healer fetched. Racing up the stairs with his wife, Dek carried her into her room and laid her gently on the bed. She was writhing in agony—holding her belly—and he was at a loss to know what to do. "Deklyn, do something!” she pleaded with him, her face stark white beneath a sheen of sweat. He looked about him then ran into the bathing chamber to get a cold cloth. It was all he could think to do for her. Bringing it back, he sat down on the mattress and placed the cloth to her face. "Daragh will be here soon,” he said. Ynez grabbed his arm—digging her nails into his flesh. “It hurts!” she wailed. “Deklyn, it hurts!"

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He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “Try to lie still,” he said, feeling helpless. Such things were a woman's domain and he was completely lost within it. He looked around as Daragh came hurrying into the room. "Out,” Daragh ordered. He had brought a midwife with him, and she took the Baron's arm and urged him to the door, closing it in Dek's face. The Patriarch had hobbled up the stairs—huffing and puffing, bending over with his hands on his pudgy knees in order to catch his breath. “I should be in there,” he gasped. “Just in case." Dek stared at him. “In case?” he repeated but the Patriarch waved him aside and entered the chamber with Archbishop Mongey close on his heels. Once more, the door closed, shutting Dek out. The sounds coming from behind the door made Dek's flesh crawl. Ynez was howling as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels. He paced in front of the door with guilt riding him with razor sharp spurs. With every wail, he flinched, feeling regret and shame in equal measure. He knew she was losing the baby, and he could not help but wonder if his indifference to the child had helped cause its destruction. Pressing his back to the wall, he slid to the floor and covered his face with his hands. One part of him was feeling overwhelming remorse while another felt intense relief. The war between those parts unmanned him and tears flooded his eyes. "What kind of man would feel relief that his child is dying?” he whispered. When the howling stopped, Dek lowered his hands halfway down his face. He listened carefully but there were no sounds coming from the room. The door opened and Daragh came out drying his hands on a towel. "There was nothing I could do,” Daragh said. “She aborted the fetus." "Is she...?” He stared up at Daragh, glanced at the Patriarch who slipped past the healer. Archbishop Mongey followed behind like a little dog at his master's heels. "She lost a great deal of blood and is still bleeding.” Daragh told him. “My guess is there is a tear in her womb that opened up with the baby's kicking last eve. I've knocked her out and will go in to do a hysterectomy now. I wanted you to know." Dek's forehead creased. “A tear? How? Surely the babe's kicking wasn't that powerful."

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"I'm told she had an abortion a few years ago,” Daragh said. “The womb might well have been punctured then and was weak in that spot. I won't know until I have a look at it." "Come downstairs with me, Deklyn,” the Patriarch said. “Sitting at her door will accomplish nothing. There are arrangements we must make in regard to the burial of your son." Dek flinched. “My son?" "Get up now and come with us,” the clergyman insisted in a stern voice. Feeling numb, Deklyn pushed up from the floor. He watched Daragh enter Ynez's bedchamber, felt the finality of the whole thing as the door closed still again. "You are not at fault here, Deklyn,” the Patriarch said. “Do not for one moment consider such a possibility." Dek looked at him. “I didn't want the babe,” he said. “This is the gods’ way of punishing me." "Nonsense!” the Patriarch snapped. “They are not punishing you. If there is punishment to be meted out, They are punishing her. Now. Come along and let us see to what needs doing." **** It was a quiet ceremony two days later that was held privately in the keep's day chapel with the interment of the little body in the family crypt. Ynez was still abed and the only other members of Dek's family attending were Jules and Guy. The two archbishops and the auxiliary priests as well as the Archmandrite and Presbyter stood quietly flanking the altar as the Patriarch celebrated the funeral mass. As soon as the interment was over, Dek left the suffocating confines of the crypt. He wiped at the tears streaming down his face. Despite what both the Patriarch and Daragh had told him, he felt responsible for his son's death. "What name do you give him, Deklyn?” the Patriarch had asked. “Your lady-wife would not provide one." Dek had stared at the Patriarch. Pure, unadulterated agony drove straight through him. It was not something he'd ever considered for he had never thought to have a child, a son, an heir to replace him when his time in the world was o'er. He shook his head. “I don't ... I can't...." It had been Jules who had given the little one his name.

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"Sloane Yn Baase,” he'd said quietly, slipping an arm around his cousin's back. “That is the Baron's middle name." "Sloane, it will be,” the Patriarch agreed. Cutting across from the courtyard from the chapel, Deklyn went straight on to the outer bailey and the stables. Not bothering to take the time to saddle his mount, all he took was the bridle before he led the animal into the gray gloom of the morning. Once the bridle was placed, he vaulted into the saddle and drummed his boot heels into the horse's flanks. No one got in his way as he raced away from the keep and took the road that led to Sheidaghan. **** News had reached Maire of the miscarriage and the emergency operation that had taken away Ynez's chances of keeping hold on her husband not long after it occurred. Though the reports of what had happened saddened her, she could not help but feel encouraged that now Deklyn at last would be free. As soon as she saw him racing toward her, she felt her heartbeat accelerating. When he reined in ten or so feet away, she realized he'd been crying for his eyes were red and puffy but there was a hesitant smile on his face. "You heard?” he asked and at her silent nod, he slowly dismounted, walked the beast to the hitching post to loop the reins over the crosspiece. "How is she?” Maire asked. She was worried about him for he looked tired and his shoulders were drooping. "She'll mend,” he said. “She has refused to see me which is just as well, I suppose.” He turned to her and held out his hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “I'm free, Maire." "You've spoken to the Patriarch?” she asked. "He signed the paper last eve dissolving the marriage, had me sign it, then he took it upstairs for her signature.” He looked away. “She refused to sign it but His Beatitude said it didn't matter. It's a done deal. The paper bears his seal and the signature of the entire council." "The marriage has been put aside,” she said. "It has.” His fingers tightened around hers as he began walking with her toward the cottage. "What now?” she questioned.

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"She has asked to be allowed to join the Mantis at Galrath and even though the Patriarch tried to dissuade her, she bid him petition the Sisters to admit her." "Will they?" Dek shrugged listlessly. “I don't know and I really don't care but the Patriarch believes they will. She will need to sign over those precious lands of hers to the convent." Maire frowned. “She'll not want to do that." "She'll have no choice if she is to become a nun. There is that vow of poverty thing. Once she's behind the gates of Galrath, she'll have no use for property or the revenue gleaned from it." "And us?” she asked, holding her breath for his answer. "The bans of our Jovnal are to be posted for the first time this Sunday.” He stopped, reached out with his free hand to cup her chin, turning her face up to his. “That is if you will have me as your husband." She tilted her head to one side. “I don't recall you asking me, milord,” she told him. He smiled tiredly then—still holding her hand in his—went to one knee before her. He kissed her hand then laid it against his heart. “Maire Barnes, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" She placed her other hand on his cheek. “Aye, milord. I would be pleased to become your wife." He lowered his head for a moment, and she felt his sadness and guilt. She knew he was striving not to show the happiness he had pushed aside because he was blaming himself for the infant's death. She knew him well enough to know for him, to show joy while he should be in mourning would be wrong. "I baked a ham for lunch,” she said, dragging his mind from his sorrow. “With red-eye gravy for the grits." He raised his head. “Grits?” he said, his face twisting. He shuddered. “No, no grits." "Not even one?” she teased, drawing him to his feet then hooking her arm through his. She held her index finger and thumb close together. “Just an itty bitty grit?"

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"Not even a smidgen of an itty bitty grit,” he replied as they continued walking. “Not even a shadow of a smidgen of an itty bitty grit or a hint of a shadow of a smidgen of an itty bitty grit, tarrishagh." "Have you ever eaten grits, milord?” she challenged, a twinkle in her eyes. He shook his head. “No, nor sand, either." She leaned against him. “You've no sense of adventure." "Mayhap not,” he agreed, surprised at how easily she had lifted his spirit.

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Epilogue

The courtyard was filled to overflowing with people. A bright crimson carpet had been rolled out from the steps of the chapel to the pathway down which the carriage would roll. Sprinkled atop the carpet were thousands of pale pink rose petals. It was a bright, sunny morning with just a hint of autumn in the air. A light breeze bringing with it the scent of the sea played over the hundreds of Tarryns who had gathered to greet the Cochianglt of their Baron. Standing on the steps of the chapel with Guy to one side of him and the Patriarch on the other, Deklyn had never felt so nervous in his entire thirtyodd years. He continually shifted from one foot to the other, plucked at his ceremonial uniform, tugged at his tie until Jules stepped up to swat his hand away. "It took me the gods’ own time to get that knot right,” Jules snapped. “Leave it be!" "Where is that carriage?” Dek asked and when no one answered, he looked about helplessly. His hands were shaking. His mouth was dry. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. "Stop that infernal fidgeting, Deklyn!” the Patriarch hissed at him. “She's on her way." "The way from Sheidaghan to the keep is lined with hundreds of our people,” Guy reminded his cousin. “I told Hank to drive slowly so they could see her." Dek groaned. “Why did you have to do that?” he whined. Overhead a pair of seagulls soared on the thermals then banked sharply toward the harbor. Their nosy squawking garnered Deklyn's attention for a moment, then he started to run his hand through his hair. He didn't get the chance for Guy snagged out a hand to grab his. "Leave off!” Guy said. “You want to look regal, not like a scarecrow with hair spiked in all directions!" "I'm dying here, Guy,” Dek complained. "No, you are not,” Guy grumbled, “but I may kill you if you don't stop acting like a child."

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"Child is right. I half expect him to start pulling at the crotch of his pants and telling us he has to take a pee,” the Patriarch muttered. Dek cut his eyes across to the clergyman and could have throttled him. He hadn't thought about such a thing but now that it was mentioned, it was like letting a cat out of a bag. He ground his teeth, feeling pressure building in his bladder. He groaned again. "Here she comes!” a guard yelled from the barbican. “Here comes the Baron's Cochianglt!" The sound of harness jingling was loud on the morning air and Deklyn felt his heart speed up. Like everyone there he was craning his neck to see the white carriage Jules had designed especially for Maire's joining day to appear. He knew it was being pulled by six matching white horses wearing gleaming brass tack and the vehicle would be adorned with dozens of pale pink roses. "Breathe,” Guy said quietly, putting a hand to Dek's shoulder. Dek wasn't sure he could. His throat had closed up, and he was shaking like an untried youth. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and swallowed nervously. The moment the first horse came prancing under the raised portcullis, he thought his knees would buckle. "Breathe,” Guy repeated. “In. Out. In. Out." Those closest to the two men giggled for those words were the only other sounds save the clop of hooves and jingle of harness to be heard as the carriage came into the courtyard. "I'm gonna be sick,” Deklyn whispered. "You'd best not,” the Patriarch warned. He adjusted the folds of his crimson robe. “We'll not have it, Deklyn." Rolling to a stop before the chapel as the horses flung their heads where white plumes adorned their bridles, the carriage was a priceless piece of work. The painted white enameled doors bore the gilded Yn Baase family crest and the oversized wheels had garlands of pink roses embellishing the gilt-rimmed spokes. Along the high-rolled gilt sides, pale green ribbon fluttered in streamers from beneath clusters of the roses. Hank sat perched atop the driver's seat decked out in a dark green uniform, top hat sitting cocked at a jaunty angle on his head. Beside him Caro wore a silk gown of the same shade of green, her broad-brimmed silk hat a fabulous creation of ribbon, silk flowers and pale green net that dipped to just below her nose. However, it was the woman sitting in the topless carriage that drew Deklyn's eye and kept it upon her. She was looking at him with such love—

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such glorious love and promise—in her beautiful eyes that he felt his knees threatening to buckle still again. Two scarlet-clad AnÉilvéis guards stepped forward to open the door of the carriage and pull down the flower-bedecked steps. It was Damian—the captain of the AnÉilvéis mercenaries—who held a white-gloved hand out to Maire for her to descend the carriage steps. "Oh, sweet merciful goddess,” Dek whispered when she stood, her satin gown falling in delicate scalloped folds around her. "Breathe,” Guy advised. "I can't,” Dek said. “Look at her, Guy. Look at her. She takes my breath away." Every eye there was on the beautiful woman in the coach. The gown she wore had been crafted by her own hand and was the most beautiful thing any woman there had ever seen. It was pale green with a high collar fashioned of Chalean lace. The long sleeves were made from the same lace and came to a soft point over the tops of her hands. Lace edged the deep scallops of the skirt and tiny crystal beads had been sewn across the bodice in a crosshatch pattern and were scattered along the hem. In her upswept hair was a circlet of the sparkling beads and from the circlet a wispy pale green net fell to her waist, veiling her glowing face. "Beautiful,” Dek heard the Patriarch say. “Surely the most beautiful bride I have ever seen." A hint of green silk slipper showed beneath the hem of her gown as Maire came carefully down the carriage steps. With one hand in Damian's and the other lifting her full skirt, she looked graceful, regal, and a fitting bride for the man who waited at the end of the crimson pathway for her. Maire held her head up though she felt as though she might melt into a puddle of warm goo at any moment. Her knees felt rubbery and her mouth was dry. Her heart was stuttering beneath her breasts and seemed to skip a beat with every step she took. She kept her eyes on Deklyn but when the little girl stepped out of the crowd and curtsied to her, she stopped, looking down into a pair of shy cornflower blue eyes. "For you, milady,” the little girl said, holding out a single blood-red rose. "Nuala!” a woman who must have been the child's mother gasped, reaching out to draw her daughter back. Maire held up a hand then sank gracefully to the carpet before the child. “Nuala, is it?” she asked.

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Bashfully, the little girl nodded, the rose still clutched in her hand. "How thoughtful you are, Nuala,” Maire said. She took the rose then drew the child forward to give her a light kiss on her pudgy little cheek. “Thank you for your gift. I will press it between the pages of my diary and keep it always." The little girl smiled broadly. “You're pretty,” she said then ducked behind her mother's dress. "Not as pretty as you,” Maire said, allowing Damian to help her to her feet. She looked about the crowd. “Thank you all for coming, for welcoming me. This is the happiest day of my life." Cheers went up all over the courtyard and Dek could stand it no longer. He left the safety of the chapel steps and hurried toward his lady. He wanted no other man's hand in hers save his own. He wanted to sweep her up in his arms and carry her as quickly as he could into the chapel, to the altar, and rush the Patriarch's words over their Joining. When he reached her—put out his hand to take hers—he had to refrain from crushing her to him. "Are you ready to make me an honest man, milady?” he asked, his eyes locked with hers. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Aye, milord,” she said then lowered her voice so only he could hear. “We'd best hurry before the babe arrives." Dek blinked. “Excuse me?" "Too late to ask now, milord,” she said, gazing at him with so much sweet adoration he felt his heart swell. He stared at her for a long moment then all the color bled from his face as realization set it. He blinked again, yet again, and then began to smile. The smile became a grin. The grin gave birth to a whoop of joy that had everyone around them laughing. "What the hell is he doing?” Jules demanded as his cousin swept Maire up in his arms and started toward them. "I believe the Black Baron is in a hurry to see this Joining said,” the Patriarch replied. “And I believe we'd best accommodate him else he's going to bowl us over in his haste to get it done!” Chins wobbling, porcine eyes shining, the fat man moved quicker than he ever had in his life, leading the procession into the chapel and the happy ever after ending for which he had prayed so fervently for Deklyn Yn Baase.

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The End

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