WINDKEEPER (12 page)

"Let go." Her voice was low and deceptively soft; her tone was calm.

He snaked out his hand and gripped her chin. "I haven’t decided what it is you want from me, woman, but when I do, you may be sorry you ever laid eyes on me."

"I said let go," she warned, green eyes glaring at his icy blue smirk.

"When I’m good and gods-be-damned ready."

One moment he was holding her against the wall, his lower body thrust hard against hers; the next, he was kneeling on the floor, his manhood cupped protectively in his shaking hands. He stared up at her, disbelief running rampant in his shocked eyes. He could only stare at her as she snarled down, "Are you ready now, Milord?"

She stalked to her room, slamming the door behind her and threw the bolt with a loud clunk.

Having a door slammed in his face was bad enough. Being kneed in his privates was worse; but being treated so by a woman was something entirely different. He knelt there, gasping for breath, squeezing his eyes shut to the ghastly pain in his groin, and could have strangled the bitch.

"Bitch," he mumbled as he painfully pushed himself from the floor.

He was so furious that nothing mattered to him but the slamming of his door with enough force to put a crack in the lintel. Hearing the wood split, he grimly smiled and stumbled to his bed, crawling into its soft protection much as a child would. He snatched a pillow and buried his angry face in the plump thickness.

Conar jumped, sitting upright with a jolt in the bed. His mouth was dry, his heart thudded painfully in his chest. Sweat oozed from his pores and ran down his temples, from under his arms, down the center of his chest. He ran a trembling hand over his face and sighed.

It was the old dream; the nightmare; that godawful memory lodged in the back of his subconscious. It came periodically to turn his nerves to mush and to remind him that something lay in wait for him just beyond his peripheral vision. It lurked there, ready to consume him if he ever once let down his guard. He could feel it hovering about him even now.

He flung away the bed covers and swung his legs over the edge, sitting there, his head in his hands, trying to calm his heart and nerves. He sucked in a wavering breath and slowly let it out. He could still see that horrible face glaring at him; feel the cold flesh of the man’s fingers on him. Feel the pain; the helplessness.

Mentally shaking himself, he stood, closing out the picture, forcing it away.

He started to reach for the bedside tumbler of water, but a sudden heavy knocking at his door spun him around and flattened him against the four-poster of the bed.

"Your Grace!" a woman’s voice cut through the night silence. "Your Grace! Hurry!"

He reached for his sword, a purely instinctive act, and jerked the door wide.

Gezelle flinched. With a will all their own, her green eyes traveled down Conar’s naked chest, flicked quickly, all the way down to his bare toes. "Oh," was all she said.

"What?" he shouted. When she did not answer, he took her arm, his body fairly quivering with rage. "What the hell is it, woman?"

Her head bobbed back and forth as he shook her, but she couldn’t find her voice. Only a squeak of mild protest forced its way from her gaping mouth.

Afraid the girl had been struck with some horror, his first inclination was to shout at her to come to her senses. But remembering Liza’s stern reprimand, he knew harsh words and violence would only drive her deeper into her terrified shell. With great effort, he lowered his voice and shook her again, but more gently.

"Is it the lady?" he asked and got no answer. He started to go around the servant, but the girl found her voice.

"Milord! Your clothes!"

Glancing down at himself, he realized he wore nothing save the night air. His mouth snapped shut and he snarled in embarrassment. Spinning around, he stomped into the room, closing the door just long enough to drag on his breeches.

In the hallway, Gezelle couldn’t move. Her mind was filled with the naked splendor of a man she had fantasized about so many times. Seeing the young Prince standing in the doorway, sword raised, face filled with fire and combat, had etched itself into her fertile imagination forever; seeing him without a stitch of clothing was etched into her very soul. She looked up as he flung open the door, buttoning his breeches as he strode forward, sword tucked under his bare arm.

"Is it the lady?" he asked again, more annoyed than ever at the beet-red flush on the girl’s face.

Gezelle felt like fainting. She would have if he had not taken hold of her arm once more.

"Mam’selle!" he said with exasperation.

She blinked, feeling the warmth of his hand all over her trembling body. She could only nod.

"Show me!"

Gezelle found her voice and pointed a finger to Liza’s door. "She’s having a nightmare, Your Grace. She called out your name. I couldn’t wake her."

Conar had nightmares of his own from which his family could not awaken him, so before Gezelle could say another word, he had the door to Liza’s room open and was at her bed, flinging his sword to the floor, reaching down for her.

"The water!" she cried. "Conar, the water!"

He took her in his arms before his knee ever bent the mattress. "Liza!" he commanded in a soft, stern voice. "Wake up. ’Tis but a dream, Sweeting."

She clung to him in her sleep, her body pressed tightly to his. Her hands clawed frantically at his shoulders and she gasped for air as though she were drowning.

"Conar! Help us! He can’t hold me much longer! We will fall!"

"I am here, Sweeting. Here beside you." Conar crooned to her, stroking her gleaming black hair, sweat-drenched along her temples from the horror in which she had been thrust.

"Conar! The ledge! The ledge is breaking away! Help us, Conar! Please, help us! I don’t want to leave you!" Her hands griped him as though she were being torn from his embrace.

"Liza!" his said, his voice raising. He pulled her face away from his chest and planted a soft, insistent kiss on her forehead. "I am here, Beloved. You are safe, now!"

Her eyelids fluttered open and her green eyes focused on him. "Conar?" she questioned, unsure, her voice wavering.

"Aye, I am here, Sweeting." He touched his lips to hers in a soft caress of protection.

Galen’s voice intruded, harsh, strident as he rushed into the room.

"What’s happening here?" He gripped his own sword, his knuckles white as he advanced toward the bed. "Has someone done hurt to Liza?" He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, but Conar knocked it away.

"Don’t you dare lay your filthy hands on this woman!" Conar snarled.

Galen’s face turned ugly with contempt and rage. "By what right do you give me such an order? This woman is not yours!"

"Nor is she yours! Keep your hands off her!"

He would have retaliated, but Galen could see how Liza shivered with fright, could see the deathly pallor of her skin. He turned hostile eyes to Gezelle. "Get my physician!"

"She doesn’t need a physician," Conar told him, gathering the frightened girl closer as though he could keep anyone from ever touching her again.

"Aye? She only needs you, is that it?" Galen shouted, all semblance of civilized behavior gone from his furious face.

"She has what she needs. She has me and you can get the hell out of here!"

"You know better, Prince Conar! She can’t have you and you sure as hell can’t have her!" His voice went low and dark and contemptuous. "The Tribunal will see to that!"

If he could have reached his twin, Conar would have gutted him, but the quivering girl sensed his anger and clutched at him, clinging furiously. He could feel her thundering heart beating against his ribcage.

"You are frightening her more!" Galen snapped.

"She had a bad dream," Conar thundered. "Nothing more. If you’ll get out of here, maybe she can go back to sleep!"

"Milady, please," Galen pleaded, seeing how the angry words he and his brother were flinging at one another was upsetting her. He lowered his voice to a soft, caressing croon. "Please let my man look at you. Perhaps he can give you something to help you rest, if nothing else. I like not the paleness of your flesh."

Galen wanted desperately to take the girl into his arms. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, keep her safe. When Liza nodded acceptance, his look turned hard with victory as he glowered at Conar. "I’ll send for my physician."

"I’ve already sent for him," a voice spoke.

Conar looked past Galen and saw the burly Master-at-Arms standing in the doorway, his scarred face a study of deep worry. His gaze strayed to Conar, then slid slowly away.

"Thank you, Sir," Liza said quietly to the Master-at-Arms and the burly man nodded.

"That will be all," Galen snapped at Gezelle as she hovered near the bed. "You are no longer required here."

"She stays," Conar said.

Galen turned on his brother with a fierce glower of rage. "Is that so? And since when do you order my servants about this keep?" His spine was taut with challenge; his voice laced with contempt.

Conar smiled at his twin, and it was a smile so evil and so filled with promise, that Galen took a step backward. "The girl belongs to me, Galen, and I wish her to stay."

"She is my servant!" Galen screamed. "This is my keep!"

"No, Galen," Conar said in a reasonable, pleasant voice. "This is my keep." His voice was steady and calm, but shot with triumph. "All the people who serve here, and that includes you, belong to me." He stopped smiling and his eyes went glacial. "It is high time you remembered that, Galen McGregor."

Seething with rage, humiliated by being put in his place, especially in front of Liza, Galen stalked from the room, knocking aside the elderly physician who was just entering. "See well to the lady," he hissed as he thundered down the hall to his chambers.

Conar was ordered from the room, the door closed in his face, as the physician looked to his patient. Twice he would have opened the door if the Master-at-Arms, who stood vigil, had not stepped directly in front of him, silently reminding his Overlord that the physician did not want the young Prince in the room.

When the Healer was through, he came into the hall. "I have given the lady some sleeping powders to take if she should need them. She doesn’t think she will, but they are there for her. Taken with a small amount of wine, the powders are most effective." He pinched his hawk-like nose between his thumb and forefinger and sighed. "The lady will need wine, in any case. It will help her relax."

"I’ll see to it," Conar promised.

"Call me if she should need me," the physician said quietly. "May I suggest you get some sleep, as well, Your Grace? You do not look well." Bowing a head filled with a shock of thick white hair, the old man, his joints crippled and twisted with advanced age and arthritis, hobbled down the stairs on knees whose cartilages had been devoured with time and disease.

Conar was annoyed at the Healer’s observation of the way he looked, although, if truth were told, he felt sick to his stomach. He looked at the Master-at-Arms. "Get the lady some wine."

"I will stand guard at her door."

"Belvoir," Conar began, suddenly remembering the man’s name.

"I will stand guard, Your Grace." He folded his massive arms over his barrel chest, his face carefully blank. His eyes said there would be no discussion. Prince or no Prince, he meant to stay. "The girl can go."

Conar glared at him, realizing the man was not to be intimidated. He sighed. "You think she needs a guard in this keep?"

"I will stand guard."

Looking at the man’s uncompromising face, Conar shrugged. He reached for the handle of Liza’s door, but stopped. "Have it your way, Belvoir, but no one would dare harm the lady while she is in this keep."

"I know they will not, Your Grace."

Conar shook his head. He didn’t doubt the man’s answer for a moment.

"Thank you for your loyalty, Belvoir," he said and saw the man nod once before looking away.

Liza lay in the bed, her long hair fanned out around her on the silk pillowcase. She smiled wanly at Conar as he sat beside her. "I am sorry to have caused you trouble, Milord."

Conar caressed her cheek with his thumb. "No trouble, Milady. Do you think you can sleep now? No nightmare would dare bother you with Belvoir outside your door." He smiled.

Liza’s eyes crinkled with merriment. "They’d be too afraid to enter the room with that good knight there to protect me."

"Aye." Absently, Conar’s thumb smoothed down her cheek and across her lower lip. He scanned that lovely fullness and then slowly raised his eyes to hers. "I am only a heartbeat away from you, Milady."

Her face flushed. "I am grateful, Milord."

"You have had this dream before?"

She glanced up at him. "Many times."

"And called my name to rescue you? I am touched."

She blushed. "My knight of the realm to the rescue, of course."

"Of course."

"I will be fine now. Truly I will. Go back to bed, Milord."

He wasn’t sure she was telling the truth. She wanted to be no bother, to be no cause of his own sleeplessness, but he feared she would be. For many nights to come.

Turning over his hand, he drew his scarred knuckles, knuckles that had encountered many a hard jaw and even harder wall, down her soft cheek. Speaking over his shoulder, he ordered Gezelle to fetch wine from the study.

"And bring me a tumbler, as well," he asked. He had a feeling it would be a long, long night.

After Gezelle had slipped quietly from the room, Liza turned to Conar. "Please go back to bed, Milord. I promise I will have no more nightmares this eve." Her sweet smile melted his heart with its beauty.

"You promise?"

She raised her hand and crossed her heart. "I promise, good sir."

He returned to his room, passing Belvoir, who stood against the wall beside Liza’s door. He mumbled a good eve to the Master-at-Arms and closed the door to his room, leaning against the portal for a long while, wondering why he had not kissed the lady good eve. He had wanted to, felt she would have liked for him to, but something had stopped him, had almost seemed to warn him away from her. He felt again the unease that always troubled him at Norus. His eyes narrowed into slits of worry. What was it about this place that set his teeth on edge? It was more than the old legends. It was more than the nervousness he always felt while visiting here. It seemed to spread over him this night with an all-pervasive stench that smothered him.