WindBeliever (18 page)

Nevertheless, he ground his teeth at the answer.

“I presume the man asked directions on how to get there, Father. I don’t know whom he asked.”

The Tzar growled at his son. “Who mentioned the training to him, Christophe Mikel?”

Mikel sighed. “One of the guards, I suppose.”

“You’re not going to get him to admit he had anything to do with it, Father,” Peter laughed.

He turned an admiring glance at his little brother. “So, the man likes competition, eh?”

“The tougher, the better,” Mikel said.

“He thrives on challenge, you think?” Peter was grinning widely now.

Mikel, not realizing his earlier words had been heard by his brother, nodded. “Positively flourishes with it.”

Peter looked up at the ceiling. “And it’s your opinion that if he had someone with whom to compete for Cat’s favors, he might see the error of his ways and decide to go after her?”

“When you’re the only establishment in town, your customers begin to take you for granted,”

Svetlana observed. “They think you will always be there and there’s no rush for them to purchase your wares.”

“No variety, no interest,” Nadia agreed.

“But there have been dozens of men through here, Peter, who have asked for Catherine’s hand this past year!” the Tzarina reminded her son. “Prince Conar all but ignored every one of them.”

Mikel snorted. “Not a single one of those silly twits were good enough to empty Conar’s chamber pot. Why should he take note of them!”

“Mikel!” his mother gasped, squinting in warning to her younger son.

“What my silver-tongued sibling is trying to say in his usual ‘delicate’ fashion is that Conar saw nothing in those men to concern him with their attention to Catherine. He knew, just as Mikel and I did, that Cat would chew those men to shreds, spit them out and then go on her way the same as before,” Peter remarked.

“Precisely,”

Mikel

agreed.

“And just what is it the two of you are suggesting, then? Do you want to have a tourney for Catherine’s hand? Have those men prove they are worthy of being her husband?” the Tzar scoffed. “In the hopes Prince Conar will be inclined to prove they aren’t?”

Peter turned to Mikel and something silent passed between the two brothers. When identical, devilish smiles appeared on their faces, their mother’s maternal warning system activated as it always did.

“What are you thinking, boys?” she asked worried.

Mikel, as usual, turned a carefully blank expression to his mother. Peter, on the other hand, smiled. His long lashes slipped down over the brightness of his eyes for just a second, long enough to clear the deviltry from those hazel orbs, then he looked up at his mother’s stern expression with a carefully blank one of his own.

“Don’t give me those looks!” their mother warned. “What is it you are planning, Petya?”

“We think perhaps what has been lacking in your and Father’s pursuit of Prince Conar’s affections for our sister is a challenge.”

WINDBELIEVER

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Page 82

“A manly challenge,” Mikel amended.

“Exactly,” Peter said as he gave his brother a quick look. “Cat isn’t much of a challenge with her mouth, but if you put a man before Conar ....”

“A man with whom he can identify” Mikel interrupted.

“A man who is on an equal footing with him.”

“Whose talents and intelligence rival his own….”

“Who will give him a reason to vie for Cat’s hand.”

“Who’ll be striving to win the competition just as keenly as Conar will.”

“Who will give our Serenian visitor a run for his money ....”

“Then,” Mikel said with a wry glint, “you just might get Conar’s attention.”

“Or rather Cat will,” the Tzarina said, smiling. She understood her sons better than she did her daughters and she nodded her approval. “It just might work.”

The Tzar stood up, put his hands behind his back, lowered his head, and began to pace. No one said anything, waiting instead for his reaction, although they all looked at one another as the head of the household, and the regent of their kingdom, made his own decision about the boys’

plan.

Thomas Steffensberg stared down at the fieldstone flooring at his feet, frowning at the pattern, counting cracks that should be mended, broken tiles which should be replaced. He nudged one with the toe of his house slipper, clucked his tongue with disapproval when the tile moved. He glanced back at his wife.

“Needs to be repaired, dear,” he pronounced.

Charlotte clenched her jaw, nodded, but said nothing.

The Tzar resumed his pacing. He stopped to examine the raged leaf of a philodendron, stroked the glossy surface, clasped his hands behind him once more and walked over to one of the many banks of windows facing out into the garden. He stood contemplating the sweep of windows, looking up, down, side to side. He looked over his shoulder.

“Panes need washing, Lottie.”

The Tzarina let out a long, long sigh. She clenched her hands in her lap, buried them in the folds of her gown and forced a rigid, polite smile to her lips.

Peter shook his head.

Mikel pursed his lips to keep from laughing.

The girls stared with anticipation and slightly parted lips.

“Well, as I see it,” the Tzar said in a soft, drawn out tone as everyone sat forward in their chairs, “the woodwork could use a new coat of paint, as well.” He looked at Peter. “See to it, son.”

“Yes, Father,” the young man agreed, his face keen with disappointment.

“A few need caulking.”

Peter ground his teeth together. “I’ll order it done tomorrow.”

“Might as well have the glazer replace this pane here.” He reached out to push against the glass. “It’s loose.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Steis, Father.”

“To whom would you send the invitations?”

Peter’s brows shot upward into the dark gold of his hair and he slowly turned his head to first his mother, who was nodding, having understood her husband’s bent of mind better than his children, and then to his brother, who was silently shaking his head at his father’s obtuseness.

“Surely you had someone in mind, Thomas Peter?” the Tzar admonished. He turned around WINDBELIEVER

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Page 83

and fixed his eldest son with a polite look. “Or have I underestimated the extent of yours and your brother’s scheming?”

Peter cleared his throat and ran his finger along his collar which suddenly seemed too tight.

Would he ever fully comprehend his father’s way of going about things?

“Well, I thought perhaps since we have exhausted the aristocracy of the Outer Kingdoms and the Upper Basin, we could perhaps issue an invitation to ....”

“To the Inner Kingdom emirates,” the Tzar finished for his son. His scowl was fierce. “You know how I feel about those tower-worshiping pogs, Thomas Peter.”

“They don’t worship towers, Father,” Mikel said with a groan. “We’ve explained that to you.

They face in the direction of ....”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” his father answered impatiently. “I know what you said, Christophe Mikel.” He squinted at his son. “But that doesn’t make it so.”

“We pray before the Blessed Mother’s statue, but we don’t worship her,” Mikel said defensively.

“Be careful,” his mother crooned beneath her breath.

The Tzar strode to his eldest son and glared down at him. “You were thinking of sending out a proposal to that friend of yours. What’s his name?”

Peter ground his teeth. “Sajin, Father. Prince Sajin Ben-Alkazar.”

“Yes,” his father drawled the word out in one long hiss of disdain. “That one.”

“I thought of Prince Jaleel of Dahrenia,” Mikel added.

His father turned to give him a look of wonderment. “You are acquainted with those of the Rysalian tribes?”

Mikel shrugged. “Only by reputation and I have heard he is a grand warrior.”

“A mincing pog,” his father snapped. “He’s pretty enough to be a girl. Cat needs a man not a sissy!”

“Then what of Prince Guil Ben-Shanar Gehdrin?” Peter asked. At his father’s pointed look, Peter nodded. “He, too, is a Rysalian, but he is also one of the richest men in the Inner Kingdom Emirates. In Rysalia ....”

“Where he has a reputation for being the most foul of lechers,” his mother injected and when everyone looked at her with surprise, she lifted one dainty shoulder. “I hear things, too.”

In defense of a man he had met only once in passing but had taken an immediate liking to, Peter stood up and faced his father. “Give me one good reason why we should not invite Prince Sajin here to try for Cat’s hand!” He looked his father in the eye. “I have never heard one bad thing said of Sajin. He has a flawless reputation among his people and he is, indeed, a warrior to be reckoned with as the Hasdus found out when they tried wreaking havoc on Alkazar lands.”

The Tzar pursed his lips as he watched his eldest son’s face for a moment. Finally, he sighed.

“I have heard nothing against the man. It’s just he’s a pog.” He looked imploringly to his wife. “I don’t want a pog for a son-in-law.”

“If Conar McGregor takes the bait, Father,” Mikel explained reasonably, “you’ll have a Serenian Windwarrior, instead.”

“What if this Sajin whatever doesn’t feel inclined to ask for Mary Catherine’s hand?” The boys’ father frowned. “How many wives does the man have already? Those pogs can have a score or more if they’re so inclined!”

“None. He doesn’t believe in the polygamous system of his ancestors. He wants only one when he marries.” Peter took a deep breath and then exhaled it. “Let me send for him, Father.

Once he meets Cat, he’ll see the challenge there. If he can win her hand, wouldn’t you agree he WINDBELIEVER

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Page 84

deserved her?”

The Tzar frowned. “No man deserves Mary Catherine’s wretched tongue.” He looked at his wife, saw her nod her agreement and gave in ungraciously. “Then send for the pog, Thomas Peter, but ...,” he pointed a finger at his son. “if this doesn’t work to our advantage and I am forced to give my daughter’s hand to a pog, I shall send you to the man’s court as my representative!”

“It will work,” Peter vowed, meaning to see that it did, although being Ambassador to the court of the Alkazars might not be all that bad.

The Tzar snorted and then waved his hand. “Well, send for him.

“I ....” Peter blushed. “I already have.”

Before the Tzar could explode, his wife stood up and walked to him.

“Thomas. Be reasonable. You are training Peter to be Tzar after you. He is only exercising his natural leadership talents.” She smoothed her husband’s back. “This might well be what we have needed. After all, what harm can it do?”

What harm indeed?

WINDBELIEVER

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Page 85

Jasmine ran her hands through the black curls on her lover’s head and sighed deeply. The man’s hair felt like spun silk. Soft, luxuriously so, and so sensual that her fingers tingled at the touch. And his hair smelled of lime, pungent and clean. She looked down at his face.

By the Prophetess, the man was handsome! She caressed his features with her cinnamon-colored gaze and liked well what she saw.

Beneath the overly long, shaggy black curls was a high forehead with just a hint of worry lines spanning the width. Bushy black brows, long, thick black lashes fanned high cheekbones and a dusky olive complexion that, on a woman, would be called flawless. Behind those closed lids, she knew his dark brown eyes were shining, alive, full of both intelligence and laughter. The small, straight nose was bold and manly. The dusky rose of his full lips, the gentle curve of them, made Jasmine’s heart flutter when they twitched. As they were doing now as he opened his eyes and looked up at her and she recognized the humor in his expression.

“If you’re going to devour me, Jasmine,” he drawled in his soft, husky voice, “at least make sure I’m awake to enjoy it.” He reached up a strong sword hand to draw her head down to his.

When Sajin Ben-Alkazar’s lips touched her own, Jasmine felt a flood of heat and moisture ooze into her womanhood. Something primitive, primal, stirred in her loins and she drew in her breath as his tongue struck like lightning between her parted lips. She groaned, a sigh of surrender, and darted her tongue against his. She faintly heard his low chuckle of amusement then felt his other hand molding itself around her right breast.

“Ah, Sajin!” she breathed against his mouth. “Do not torture me so!”

If he wanted her, she was his for the taking, as she always had been. But Sajin knew better.

One taste of this sweet little virgin’s tight tunnel of pleasure would see him shackled to her, hand and foot. He didn’t think he’d like Guil Gehdrin as a brother-in-law. Slowly he pulled back from her and smiled.

“It is I who am being tortured, Jasmine.” He reached for her hand and drew it down to the juncture of his thighs where the evidence of his statement boldly exhibited itself.

Jasmine felt the bulge of his straining manhood against her palm and quickly jerked her hand back, her face flooding with a heat of embarrassment.

“You are such a brute,” she pouted, rubbing her hand down her silk-clad thigh.

“And you, my lovely little cousin, are a tease!” he grinned. He sat up, away from the sweetness and temptation of her delectable body and rested his back against the tent pole. He crossed his legs and looked across the way to the servant girl who was acting as chaperone for him and the lovely Jasmine Gehdrin. His warm, inviting smile made it clear where the servant would be spending her night.

“Are you really going to go to that horrid place, Sajin?” Jasmine asked, not missing the undercurrent of sexual tension between the man she worshiped, and meant one day to have, and the brazen serving slut who, even as Jasmine glared at her, cast demure eyes to the tent floor.

“I need a vacation,” Sajin answered. “Besides, I look forward to seeing the Outer Kingdom.

It is an honor to be invited there, sweeting.”

“Oh, pooh!” Jasmine grumbled. “What honor is there in going to such a barbaric place?”