King Dom Comes (7 page)

"What
my future husband thinks of me is none of your concern, Master Pirate. I
suggest you go back and clean the piles left by the horses, or whatever other
menial labor you perform, and remain far from my presence."

"You
think me to be a pirate? I am amused."

"Be
amused elsewhere. Be gone with you," Shannon ordered.

"Be
gone with me? Aye, a thorough strapping on the bare buttocks would serve you
well," the man muttered under his breath.

"A
seat of stinging nettles would do you even better," Shannon countered. She
hurried to the cabin that would be hers for the journey and closed the hatch
behind her. Her hands trembled as she recalled the sinister way in which the
crewman's eyes had devoured her. Thankfully, she would soon be on dry land, and
far away from the ship, the unbearably rude captain, and his lackwit crew.

Shannon
poured herself a goblet of wine and drank heavily. Another followed, and yet
another. Soon, she was swaying as much as the ship did in the rough waves, and
her stomach felt as though she had eaten spoiled meat. She felt her gut seize,
and ran from her quarters to the rails. There she placed her head over the side
to empty the contents of her stomach.

"The
woman has not her sea legs," Captain Barton laughed. "Feeding the
fish be one way to keep her mouth silent. It seems as though King Neptune grew
as tired of her airs as the rest of us."

 
More laughter was heard. Shannon closed
her eyes as another heave of misery took over.

"Leave
the girl be," a deeper voice with the unusual accent commanded.
"Remember your misery on your first day at sea."

"She
deserves the misery. She has brought this upon herself. Perhaps she will learn
manners now."

"Aye,
but there are more effective ways to ensure civility. Girl? Sit down and watch
the horizon. Put your face to the wind and drink this."

"I
desire no more wine," Shannon coughed. "It is the wine that brought
me to this state of wretchedness."

"No,
it was your overdrink that did so. Sit down upon the deck and drink. Now."
His dark eyes met hers, locking tightly into her gaze.

"No."

The
man looked genuinely surprised at her refusal. "You refuse to obey
me?"

"I
refuse to do anything any man orders me without a proper explanation,"
Shannon said hoarsely, leaning back over the railing. "I was taught by my
surrogate father to challenge anything that is unfamiliar. And this, Sir
Pirate, is most unfamiliar."

The
man stared at her for several seconds, clearly surprised by her words.
"Very well, my lady. Please, sit and drink. This will settle your stomach.
It is made of pennyroyal, ginger root, and wormwood steeped in honey
water."

He
held out his hand to assist her. With the change in his tone, Shannon placed
her hand in his and allowed him to carefully lower her to the smooth, damp
deck. The condition of her elegant dress was forgotten as she sat cross-legged
and tried to focus her eyes on the distant horizon. A wineskin was held to her
lips. Shannon sipped, immediately gagging at the flavor of the beverage.
"Are you trying to poison me?" she coughed.

"If
I were to do that, I would have made it taste pleasant to guarantee you
finishing every drop. Drink more."

 
"It is disgusting."

"It
is helping, though. Is it not?"

"Yes,
it seems to be. Thank you," Shannon said, rubbing her forehead. She
accepted the wet rag he handed her. "No more wine for me."

"Not
during the first time at sea." The man squatted next to her, crossing his
hands between his spread knees. "You would have known better had you
traveled by water before. What is your name?"

"Shannon
McCleary. Yes, this is my first ocean journey, and I am pleased to learn it
will be a short one. My legs were designed for riding atop a stallion, not
folding in half on an unstable deck."

Riding
a stallion? Dom's mind slipped into a place that no gentleman should go. But
then, the only ones who accused him of being a gentleman were his sworn
enemies. "I am most pleased to meet you, Mistress McCleary. Yes, this
route is a swift one. If the wind picks up and remains in our favor, we might
even arrive before the high moon."

"I'm
praying for a monsoon, then. High moon is not for seven days." Shannon
groaned. "Why must we go this route? France would have been closer."

"Your
journey requires that you be surrounded by allies of the king. The English and
French are not pleasant bedfellows to Moldavia."

"And
how does a peasant pirate know these things?"

"I
told you. I watch closely and listen carefully."

"I
see. Will this misery end?" Shannon gagged again.

Dom
handed her the wineskin. "It will if you follow directions and do not
exercise an obstinate nature."

"I
happen to be quite skilled in exercising an obstinate nature."

"That
remains to be seen. When one is inflexible, they tend to break much more
quickly than those open to change."

Shannon
groaned, closing her eyes. "The only thing I desire right now is to
die."

"No,
you do not." The man's tone grew dark.

Shannon
opened one eye, "Have you a name?"

"Moarte."

"No
other?"

"That
is how those closest refer to me, madam."

"And
what of your enemies. What do they call you?" Shannon asked, sipping more
of the vile liquid.

Dom
looked at her, his vision seeking to find the depth of her soul. Her eyes
simply looked back at his like pools of cold water. "They call me Moarte
as well," he said softly.

"What
does that mean?"

"It
is something you do not seek."

"I
asked you a question. What does Moarte mean?"

He
uttered a single word. "Death."

***

Dom
stood quickly, and turned away from the stricken woman. He need to regain
control of his thoughts and try to understand why she was unaffected by his
gift. For a split second, he was ashamed for breaking the promise he'd made to
his father. He had given his word to never attempt to persuade anyone but an
enemy. But—was this girl a victim of his father's meddling, or did she
have an agenda for her own benefit?

The
only thing he could read from her had been terror when she stared back, yet she
refused to give into her fear. He admired that. She spoke with a practiced tongue,
as was expected when one was raised in the Orders of Truth. The religious sect
was known for its immense library, and had gained the support of scientists,
cryptographers, linguistic scholars and physicians. The members of the Order
acted as bridges between science and faith; believing all, yet also believing
none. However, the secret 'extra-curricular' education offered by the Northern
Ireland convent was only known to either the members, or supporters, of the
Order. His father, the late King Malkai, had been a supporter. And now, by the
responsibility of birth, he was a supporter as well. Not only financially, but
intimately. A supporter of a pagan worshipper who was able to deflect his gift.
What had Father done?

The
weary man leaned against the portside bow to look out over the waves. Closing
his eyes, he lifted his face to the midday sun and inhaled the salty air. He
had missed the fresh wind blowing on his face and, for the first time in
months, felt strong and healthy again. His steward was correct as well; hiding
in the shadows and allowing his body to fall into sickness was not the way to
protect his people, his country or his future. What was it about this girl that
the old king believed could help his world? Had his father known that the woman
was immune to his son's gift as well? How would she respond to his other
abilities?

Mikel
had also told him that the girl was said to be fair. Shannon McCleary was not
beautiful in the ways described by proper society. She had, in fact, many
flaws. Her skin, instead of being the palest white, was kissed by the sun and
glowed with a tinge of gold. Freckles flecked adorably along the bridge of her
tiny, pert nose. Her shoulders did not gently slope as those of a woman
unaccustomed to work; they were strong and square, across the span of a
generously endowed bosom. Her brow was naturally arched and not disfigured by
the tweezing favored by ladies of noble birth, nor did she display a
fashionable high hairline of blond locks. Instead, her fiery red, knee-length mass
of gently curling hair framed her forehead in a graceful widow's peak.

Large,
round, azure-blue eyes, half-hidden beneath sweeping kohl-black lashes gave her
a sleepy, yet exotic appearance, which was so unlike that of the plain,
unpainted eyes of the higher class. And her lips—he felt his manhood stir
thinking about them. Berry-red and swollen as though stung by a bee, her lips
framed a set of unusually white, straight teeth. Even the pink blush of her
cheeks was achieved without the help of a cosmetic, although, he chuckled to
himself, at the moment those lovely cheeks held a slight twinge of seasick
green! Her figure was pleasing; although again, not in the way of modern
society. She was tall and willowy, her waist so small that he could wrap his hands
around it, and her breasts plump and high.

Dom
ran his hand along the polished railing. His father had described Shannon's
mother to him; how she looked, how she spoke, but mostly about her wild streak
combined with innate gentle goodness. It had been those qualities that had made
the old man fall in love with her. Dom recalled the stories told about the
maidens of the Emerald Islands; druid women were known to be as unpredictable
as the weather, and just as exciting, and he found himself becoming curious.
Dom glanced over his shoulder. Shannon had not moved except to draw her knees
to her chest. She had her arms wrapped around her legs, her face buried between
them, and was rocking herself. Shaking his head, he approached her. This woman
was to be his wife, and needed to learn to trust him to care for her.

"Let
me refresh that cloth for you," he said softly.

Shannon
looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Had she been crying?

"Thank
you. I am not accustomed to being looked out for. Only watched."

"Why
watched, Mistress McCleary? Do you have a penchant for mischief?"

"Aye,
that I do," Shannon sighed. "So much so that no one wished to
accompany me on the journey to my new home. I know nothing of Moldavia or its
people, nor do I speak their language."

"Moldavia
is a beautiful country. Much warmer than the green isle, and fed by beautiful
rivers. The people are inviting and hospitable, and always make room at the
table for a stranger. Most have been educated to speak English out of
necessity."

"The
village I was from used to be that way. Then the missionaries came in and
planted seeds of fear and hatred."

"Not
all who believe in the ways of the church are like that. Good, kind people do
exist, even in this part of the world. My father…" Dom caught himself.

"Yes?"
Shannon looked up. "What about your father?"

"He
is gone. He was a good, righteous man who was loved and respected by all he
met."

"I
have no family. I am alone in this world," Shannon said sadly. "My
mother passed when I was but a child, and I was raised by the sisters. I called
the king 'Father' for he cared for me as though I was his own. He and my mother
were very much in love, but she refused to return with him to his
country."

"Why
would she make such a choice? Surely she knew he could not relinquish his
throne."

"She
was of the land. Her strength and faith were drawn from the soul and spirit of
nature. Her clan was the last of the true druids, and she honored the old ways
in healing and dance. She was burned in our hut before she could pass the blessing
of the clan on to me."

"I
truly am sorry. Allow me," he offered his hand to help her rise.

Shannon
looked into his eyes as his hand folded around hers. "Death is kind,"
she said softly.

"It
can be. It can also be cruel, calculated and unforgiving. Let's walk to the bow
and feel the wind on our faces. It will wash away your pain as well as your
sickness."

"Can
the wind wash the bitterness from a broken heart?"

"Aye,
it can. That and much, much more."

Shannon's
legs wobbled as she stood upon the wooden dock belonging to the Danish
seaboard. In her arms was a bundle that had been unceremoniously handed to her
by one of the king's men, along with an order to refresh herself in an inn
named the Golden Herring. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of fish, dead
barnacles at low tide, and insect-ridden seaweed that promised to raise a worse
stench once the sun began to rise.

 
"Is the aroma of the docks not to
your liking, Mistress?"