WINDKEEPER (42 page)

Hern flicked a glance over the oatmeal. "Baby’s food." He turned his back and started to walk away. "Ten minutes, brat!"

Conar nodded, his mouth jammed full of oatmeal to keep himself from snarling.

"And don’t make me come get you," said Hern, leaving his parting shot as he stomped out the side door.

"Are you up to that?" Legion asked as he strolled into the kitchen from the hallway.

Conar had to swallow hard to rid himself of the sticky goo in his mouth. He shrugged as Legion occupied the chair Hern had vacated.

"He’s determined to make sure I’m fit. If I’m not, he’ll be the first to know." He pushed away his oatmeal bowl, his appetite gone.

"No, little brother," Legion reminded him, "you will."

* * *

Conar took the stairs to his chambers very slowly and very painfully. He ached all the way from his head to his toenails and back again. He had more than a few bruises on him that weren’t there earlier in the morning. His head ached, his back throbbed, his knee cramped and his nose was still sticky from dried blood in his left nostril.

He slammed his door with his booted foot, wincing as his pulled knee muscle screamed in protest. He caught the startled look of some Lady-in-Waiting he did not recognize as he hissed a particularly vulgar obscenity when the door bounced back open from the force of his kick. She dropped into a deep, respectful curtsy, her elegant neck bent, her pretty round face red with embarrassment at his unseemly language, but he chose to ignore her, not to apologize for his vulgarity. He slammed the door in her surprised face.

One of The Toad’s toadies, he thought viciously and kicked the door just for the hell of it. He groaned in agony as the shock of the kick ripped through his knee. "Go tell your Mistress Princess Bitchlet what an ill-tempered ogre she will soon be shackled to!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. He heard a sharp gasp outside his door and it brought a wicked grin of pleasure to his full lips. "Take that to Her Gracelessness!" He chuckled as he moved away from the door.

Flinching, he jerked off his clothing, then plopped down on the silken coverlet. Lying naked on his back, his hands behind his head, he glared at the ceiling.

There wasn’t a muscle in his body that didn’t hurt. Hern had seen to that. Being tossed over the man’s hard shoulder too many times to count, landing on his backside so often his tailbone was numb—the only part of him that didn’t hurt—Conar had decided he wasn’t in the best of shape, after all. He hadn’t needed Hern to bellow his confirming opinion in front of thirty raw recruits. It was bad enough to be put down when there was no audience; but to be put down with an audience was hell on one’s ego.

"Sissyish!" Hern had proclaimed before striding away.

Angrily, he flung out a hand and gripped the amber silk coverlet in frustration as he mouthed the insult that had been hurled at him. His dark thoughts filled the room, giving the air a decided chill. As if things hadn’t started out bad enough this morning, he had been forced to endure Hern’s planned humiliation later when a sidesaddle had arrived with a note that said: Compliments of the Warrior Knights of the WindWarrior Society.

On top of that, one of the servants had told him, as Conar hobbled up the steps into the keep, that King Shaz was looking for him.

Not of a mind to meet with his future father-in-law, Conar had hobbled down the steps and went around to the back of the keep, scurrying inside like a scalded dog lest Shaz or one of his minions see him.

Disgusted with his cowardice, he clenched his teeth to keep from bellowing.

All that after the heartbreak he had discovered earlier that day.

He had ridden out before dawn, not having had more than two hours sleep, and returned to Ivor Keep in the hope of finding Liza. He had ridden back in a near insane rage, pushing his steed to its limits, when no trace of his lady could be found at the old keep.

Her clothing, her toiletries, her portrait—one he had had commissioned the summer before—were gone. He stood a long time, gazing at the empty place where the portrait had hung, angrier than he had ever been. Not only was she gone, he had no visible, tangible proof that she had ever been there.

Slamming against the cook’s chair, his mood as black as her old cooking pot, Conar had returned to the keep in a worse mood than when he had left. In silence, Sadie had sat a hot bowl of oatmeal, his boyhood favorite, in front of him and he began to eat, not really wanting the lumpy mess, but eating it for lack of anything else rational to do. "And then Hern had to come along," he said aloud, "and beat the crap outta me!"

Now, glaring at the ceiling, he was almost as angry at Hern as he was with his situation. When a discreet knock sounded at his door, he didn’t bother to answer. He was in no mood to be bothered. Even less in the mood for company. After the second knock, the door quietly opened and he lifted his head to see who would dare intrude without permission. Snorting as he recognized his visitor, he laid his head back down.

"Have you no care for my privacy, Mam’selle?"

Gezelle firmly shut the door behind her, studiously avoiding looking at his nakedness. "I thought you might like someone to talk with, Your Grace."

"Gezelle!" he warned.

"Milord," she corrected. "Do you wish me to go?"

He shrugged, not answering her.

Advancing into the room, Gezelle stood before the blazing fire and warmed her hands. "Has she gone for good this time?" she asked softly, not looking back at him.

"Why would you ask that?" he snapped and then flipped over to lie on his stomach.

She smiled at the fire. "I think you’re mad at the whole world today and there is only one person capable of causing such intense anger in you." She added a log to the fire. "Did you enjoy playing with Hern today?"

Conar snorted, his disgusted breath sounding loud in the room.

"Want a back rub?"

"If you want to."

Gezelle smiled as she walked to the bed. He would never condescend to ask her to rub his aching back; would never deign to let anyone know he was hurting. That was the nature of the man.

"I think I have a few spare moments," she replied. Her gaze swept over the smooth perfection of his back, avoided the faint crisscrossed lines along his shoulders and buttocks and settled on the bright gold of his hair. "Did she say anything to you before she left?"

"Nothing of consequence," he replied, refusing to think of Liza’s last words to him telling of her love.

Gezelle sat beside him, nudging him further over in the center of the big bed. She had long since lost any fear she had of him. She placed his needs before her own. Putting one small hand on his shoulder, she felt the hard-bunched ridges in the muscles.

"You are as tight as a drum head, Milord."

"Rub hard, then. You know how I like it."

Gezelle nodded. She knelt on the bed, straddling Conar’s back and sat on his firm, lean flanks. With infinite care, she began to knead the tight flesh along his shoulders.

"Would it have helped if she had said goodbye?" she asked as he sighed with the pleasure she hoped her hands were having on his aching muscles.

"No, because she knew I would have done everything in my power to stop her." He let out a small groan as her fingers found a spot that hurt worse than the others.

Her fingers moved into the thick gold of his hair, massaging the scalp with tight little circles. Working her way down the column of his neck, she leaned forward, putting pressure on the area where neck and shoulder met. She looked closely at the white lines over his shoulders and frowned. "Milord?"

"Um?"

"What caused these marks?" She had often wondered, but had never asked.

He was almost asleep, her fingers working magic on his tired and sore body. "What marks?" he mumbled and then realized what she was referring to. "They aren’t important."

"They must have hurt you," she said and traced one wavering line from his shoulder blade to his hip. "What did this to you?"

"I’ve known hurts much worse, Mam’selle," he countered, wanting to avoid the subject.

"And endured them, as well, haven’t you, Milord?"

He stared at the far wall. "That I have."

Gezelle looked at his profile and felt her heart aching for him as her body often did. "She knew the only way you would ever be free of her would be for her to leave without you being able to stop her."

He let out a harsh breath. "Aye, and she was right in sneaking away, I suppose?"

"In her way it was the best thing to do. She has given you your freedom."

Conar twisted, almost unseating her. He reached up and gripped her shoulders. "But I’m not free of her, sweet one. I will never, ever be free of her, nor do I wish to be."

"You must forget her, Milord." Gezelle saw him flinch. "Or at least try to do so."

He moved again, bringing Gezelle on the bed beside him. He pushed himself up and pressed her into the soft mattress, looking down at her with hurt.

"She is with me everywhere I go." Taking one of her hands, he slammed it against his chest, over his heart. "She will be here with me for the rest of my miserable life!"

Gezelle brought up her free hand to caress the hot flesh on his cheek. "Be thankful for what you shared with her and get on with your life."

"I need her, Gezelle."

"It was not your destiny to—" His warning hiss stopped her.

"Don’t say that! Don’t you dare say anything to me of destinies! I will hear no more talk of my gods-be-damned destiny! I am sick to death of it! From now on, I make my own destiny, Mam’selle, and the gods help any man or woman who thinks to stop me!"

With gritted teeth, he pulled her beneath him and his mouth slammed down over hers in a punishing kiss that stunned them both.

Conar had never once looked with anything close to passion at Gezelle and the girl was shaken to her very core. Never once in all the times she had come to his room and massaged him had he ever taken advantage of her or the situation. Her trust in him was explicit. He had always been the perfect gentleman.

"Gezelle, help me, please!" he begged, his lower body grinding against her’s, his mouth trailing hot kisses down the column of her throat. "Please, I need…"

Although his touch thrilled her, it alarmed her as well. She had never known a man’s body and his was one she’d often dreamed about. He was breathing against her hair, his lips touching the soft wisps that grew along her temple. She knew what he needed. Knew what he wanted. She was not ignorant of the ways of men and women. His hand was sliding down her thigh and she felt a heat in her loins that both surprised her and made her weak with a need she could not name.

"Milord?" she questioned, knowing he was not even aware of who lay beneath him. He didn’t want her for herself; he was trying to take his frustrations out on the nearest female body and hers happened to be available.

But Gezelle knew an intense longing for this man deep in her soul, and even though terror filled her mind, passion filled her body with a quickening she found breathtaking.

"I need…I want…please, Gezelle," he said with tight emotion, his hands insistent on her shoulders and then her breasts.

As his hand moved inside her bodice and his thumb stroked her erect nipple, Gezelle sucked in her breath and nearly passed out from the hunger building within her.

"I need you, Gezelle," he whispered. He moved his hand to her chest and pulled away the top of her gown to free her breast. His mouth closed around one rosebud peak and Gezelle moaned deep in her throat.

She knew this young man had never had to beg for sexual pleasures, but she could hear a warning in his pleas for release. Instinct cautioned her he would take her with—or without—her consent, if she tried to deny him. She could feel his power surging through his taut body and she knew he was well beyond controlling his lust.

"Aye, my sweet Milord," she whispered, lifting up her arms to his shoulders. She heard him groan in relief as she embraced him.

Conar’s mouth slid up her throat, across her chin and slanted across her lips. His tongue invaded her mouth and sent white-hot sparks of arousal coursing through her. She whispered his name against his mouth, needing her longing fulfilled. Her hands went to his hair, pulling, gripping, pressing his mouth harder to hers. She drew on his conquering tongue, heard him growl deep in his throat and then softly clenched her teeth around him. The immediate shudder that ran through his body thrilled her, and she let him go, watching with fascination as he pulled back his head to stare down at her.

"I love you, Conar," she whispered. "With all my heart."

He was beyond hearing. The blood pounding in his temples drowned out her words. There was a soft feminine body beneath him with a warm scent, so like Liza’s, her unbound black tresses, so like Liza’s, her seductive green eyes, so like Liza’s, spurred him to a height he had not reached in a long time.

Nudging her thighs apart with his knees, he pulled up her skirts and settled between her legs, his shaft seeking the spot that would allow him some measure of peace. He brought his hands down to her firm rump and positioned her against him, prodding her with the steel tip of his manhood. He felt her arch against him and he hastily shifted himself to thrust. With one quick stab, he impaled himself upon her, heedless of her cry of pain, mindless of the slight obstruction her maidenhead offered. He drove home with a lunge that made her scream with pain as he went deeper still, driving relentlessly into her with frenzied thrusts that made the bed’s headboard strike the wall.

Gezelle’s release came at the exact moment his did and she clung to him, stunned by what she had experienced. Other women had told her the sexual act was pleasant, but this was beyond pleasure. This was ecstasy! She stared up at him and was amazed they were both still alive. Their bodies were slick with perspiration, wet with the heat of passion. His cinnamon-scented flesh was intoxicating despite the sweat from his exercise with Hern, and now this. She inhaled deeply the smell of him and knew she would forever remember the exact aroma of their lovemaking.