WindLegends Saga 9: WindRetriever (37 page)

There was an immediate grunt of acceptance to her condition.

Conar worked his aching jaw as the gag came off. He had no intention of doing anything to make the woman, or her damned servant, silence him again.

"Did you have any food this past eve?" she asked as she carefully took the almost-full chamber pot to the door and sat it outside the chamber in the hall.

"No," he whispered, his throat so dry he could barely answer. He licked his chapped lips.

"No food."

Sybelle frowned. "Are you hungry?"

"Thirsty," he answered.

She went back to the bed and poured him a cup of water, held his head up so he could drink.

Her gaze scanned his sweaty face, lingering on the fullness of his lips as he lapped the water from them when he'd had his fill. It was not in her nature to be gentle. She was not a gentle woman.

But his helplessness had cracked the hard shell she'd built around her heart. It was more than pity she felt for him and the unintentional pain she had allowed Chaim to inflict upon him had started the crack widening.

"More?" he asked, tilting his head up in pleading.

She cupped the back of his head, touched by the dampness of his thick hair at the nape of his neck. Such a strong neck, she thought. So powerful, so completely masculine. There was strength in that thick column of muscle and sinew.

"Thank you, Sybelle," he whispered when he'd had his fill.

She eased his head back onto the pillow. His meekness was more than she had bargained for. His surrender to her authority more that she had been prepared to accept, and his capitulation more than she was capable of handling.

"My brother will leave early tomorrow," she informed him. "If you do no bring attention to yourself until he does, as long as you do as you are told, McGregor, I will keep Chaim off you.

Otherwise, I make no guarantees."

"I understand," he said. He turned his head into the pillow. "I won't give you any more trouble."

"I will leave the covers off you unless you think you will need them," she said, her gaze going back to the thickness between his legs of its own accord.

"I would appreciate it," he said quietly, thankful she was not going to tuck those heavy covers around him again.

"I will see you in the morning," she said in acknowledgement of his gratitude. Sybelle had almost reached the door when he called out to her, in a voice not meant to arouse anyone's interest save her own.

"Sleep well, Lady," he told her.

When she had closed the door to her own chambers and sank down upon her cold and Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 165

lonely bed, Sybelle Bath-Alkazar experienced an emotion so strong, so powerful, so demanding, she shivered from it.

"I want him," she said in a voice filled with surprise. "I want him."

It stunned her to realize that she wanted him so badly her hands were shaking. Angered her that she had no control over her rebellious body and roaming eyes. The sight of his bold maleness, the strength and power and sheer male beauty of his sinewy body, made her weak with a pulsing need she had never known existed. It drove her to licentious thoughts as she sat there, shocked at the things she was feeling for a man she professed to hate. Such thoughts interfered with her plans to avenge Jaleel Jaborn's death. Such thoughts, combined with the moist dreams which woke her with panting gasps and sweaty sheets and moans of frustration, should have shamed her. But instead, they thrilled her.

"You are no better than all the other women he has seduced," she accused herself. "No better than that whore Rachel."

Yes, but you want him just as all the others have, she told herself. You want him and can not deny it. There can be no mistaking the emotions that flood your being when you are in close contact with him. It was lust. Pure and simple lust. Catherine had once told her the Serenian's

'body was a gift from his pagan gods, meant to pleasure a woman and make her feel more a woman than she ever had before she had known his touch'.

And Sybelle wanted that touch upon her own body. She wanted those strong thighs clamped alongside her own. She wanted to feel those powerful hands caressing her, lifting her to accommodate the thrust of his manhood.

She shivered, wrapping her arms around her. When had her hatred for him turned to want?

When had her vengeance become need? Whenever it had happened didn't seem to matter, she answered those telling questions. What mattered was that she wanted him.

And she meant to have him, his body hard and willing, submitting to hers.

The problem now was how she was going to accomplish that with a man whose physical strength was deteriorating more with every passing day and whose mental and emotional needs were becoming almost childlike in their helplessness.

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Nicholas Beriault shaded his face from the hot Inner Kingdom glare glancing off the crow's nest and cursed. He was a week overdue in Asaraba and in a foul enough temper to have already sent two of his men to the brig and another to the ship's doctor with a broken nose.

"Get that damned cargo loaded, Nathan! We don't have all the bloody day to waste here, man!" Nick yelled at the top of his lungs.

Nathan Newkern rolled his eyes at the First Mate and ordered the man to hurry his shipmates up. "He's on the rag," Nate commented wryly, glancing up to the quarterdeck where his half-brother was strutting back and forth, glaring at whoever ventured past him.

The Lady Monique, Nick and Nate's barkentine, was riding low in the water, her cargo holds filled with coffee beans, sugar cane, and spices from Diabolusia. Her four masts soared higher than the Inner Kingdom dhows with their lanteen sails, dwarfing the smaller boats.

Whenever the Lady Monique, named after Nick's mother, sailed into one of the Inner Kingdom harbors, she drew notice and many an envious eye among the other sea captains who had docked there.

"How long will you be in Basaraba, Lord Nathan?" the Dockmaster asked as he scribbled something down in the book he carried.

"Just long enough to drop off this cargo. We're on our way north to Asaraba." Nate warned one of his men not to bother Lord Nick, then turned back to the Dockmaster. "Why are you frowning so, Jaffir?"

"There are troubles up there, Lord Nathan," Jaffir answered. "Have you not heard of the Samiel? The insurrectionists who are attempting to free Rysalia's slaves?"

Nate nodded politely, not interested in such matters since he and Nick did not transport slaves. "Word spreads from port to port. We heard something of it in Odess."

"I hear your old friend, Azalon Ben-Hasheed has involved himself with those ruffians,"

Jaffir commented. "The man will get himself beheaded just as easily as will the one calling himself Lord Khamsin."

"Azalon?" Nate asked, his thick reddish-blond brows leaping up into the curls of his darker red hair. "Why would a reasonable man like Ben-Hasheed get himself mixed up in such matters?"

"What matters?" Nick growled as he strode heavily down the gangplank. He scowled at Nathan, then turned a heavier grimace to the Dockmaster. "Can't your men off load this shit any faster?"

"He's doing the best he can, Nicholas," Nathan sighed. Between them, Nate was the more easy-going of the two, the less intense, and the one least likely to wind up in a confrontation.

"What's this about Azalon?" Nick asked, ignoring the soft reprimand from his half-brother.

"Remember hearing about the Samiel?" Nate inquired. "Azalon has joined them."

Nick nodded. "A man of conscience is our Ben-Hasheed. I can see him doing such a thing."

"It will get him the death penalty if he is caught, Lord Nicholas," Jaffir quipped. "The Serenian, too."

Nick's frown deepened. "What Serenian?"

"The one who leads them, Lord Nicholas," Jaffir answered. "The one who also led the Wind Force in the Outland."

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Nate's gaze shifted to Nick and he found his brother staring at him. There was suspicion forming in Nick Beriault's deep green eyes and a mulish set to his mouth that Nate knew all too well.

"What's a Serenian doing in Rysalia?" Nate asked to forestall the fury he saw building on Nick's rapidly-darkening face.

Jaffir shrugged. "He was sold to a slaver and ...."

"Conar McGregor?" Nick interrupted. "That is who you are talking about, isn't it? The rightful king of Serenia?"

"Yes, Lord Nicholas," Jaffir answered, somewhat taken aback by the vehemence of the man's question and the immediate snort of contempt that came from him when his inquiry was answered. "Do you know of him?"

Nate stepped in front of Nick and faced Jaffir. "You say he was sold to a slaver? Here, in Basaraba?"

Jaffir nodded. "Yes. To Lord Khan Subet. But Lord Khan sold him to the Lady Sabrina for the highest amount ever paid for a slave."

"No doubt the woman thought him worth it," Nick growled. "Most do."

Nate was quick to ask the Dockmaster what had happened to the Serenian after being sold to the woman.

"He escaped," Jaffir said with a chuckle. "No doubt highly displeased and ashamed of what she intended to have done to him."

Nick pushed his half-brother aside. "Meaning what?" he snarled.

Jaffir took a step back from that steady Diabolusian glare. He had a healthy fear of Lord Nicholas Beriault and suspected most men did who had dealings with the tall, golden-haired sea captain.

"The Lady Sabrina owned several brothels in Rysalia," Jaffir replied, watching Beriault's green gaze sharpened. "Plus the breeding farm where she took the Serenian."

"Breeding farm?" Nate choked, his own green eyes widening. "You don't mean ...."

"The bitch took Conar to put him out to stud," Nick answered, his lips twitching. "By the gods, but that's rich, Newkern." His normal grimace turned soft with humor. "That is rich!" He elbowed his brother and started to chuckle deep down in his wide, barrel-like chest.

"But where is he now?" Nate questioned, not finding any humor in Conar McGregor's predicament.

"Who knows?" Jaffir replied, lifting one shoulder with typical Inner Kingdom acceptance of fate. "Leading his men somewhere near Dahrenia. That is where they say his stronghold is. At the ancient fortress of Abbadon."

Nate whistled. "He took the fortress?"

Jaffir nodded with respect. "The man is good, Lord Nate. They say he is invincible."

"Maybe not invincible but damned close to it," Nick chuckled. He reached out to slap a meaty hand on his brother's shoulder. "What say you we take a trip to Abbadon, Nathan?"

"They will not let you in, Lord Nicholas," Jaffir was quick to point out. "Only men of the Samiel are allowed within those walls."

"Oh, they'll let us in," Nick grunted. "I've no doubt of that."

"Diabolusians?" Balizar snorted, then spat on the ground. "I'd as soon trust one of them Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 168

heathens as trust a cobra. I say we send them on their way."

"Did they say what they wanted?" Sajin asked Asher, who was in charge of the security at the fortress.

"Only that they wished to see Azalon." Asher shook his head. "If I didn't know any better, I'd swear the bigger of the two was kin to Khamsin. They have the same look about them."

Balizar pushed away from the stable wall. "Conar ain’t got no relatives from Diabolusia,"

he pointed out. "His daddy didn't go looking in that hell-hole for women."

"Nick was born in Serenia," Azalon said, looking from Balizar to Sajin. "Could it be he's one of Khamsin's bastard brothers?"

"Half-brother, you slimy Hasdu turd," came an explosive snort.

Sajin's hand went automatically to the dagger at his waist, but one look at the man striding confidently toward him, another man close on his heels, stilled his fingers on the hilt.

"How did you get in here?" Asher gasped, looking behind the two strangers. There were guards in attendance but there had been no cry of alarm.

"We're McGregor warriors," Nick snapped. "We go where we want to go." Sensing the man was in charge, his attention went straight to Sajin. "Who are you?"

Taking his hand from his weapon, Sajin fused his gaze with the big blond man's. "I am Khamsin," he said.

"Shit no, you're not," Nick spat. He switched his gaze to Balizar, looked past him, then that fierce green scrutiny slid back to Arbra with a snap where it settled with disbelief. Astonishment crashed down on Beriault's rugged face.

"If he ain’t Hern's twin, I ain’t Kirk's," Nate said dryly.

"You knew my brother?" Balizar asked, trying to see the resemblance to Conar Asher said was in the face of the bigger of the two men. He couldn't see it, but he suspected the others did.

"We trained under that vicious old tyrant," Nick growled, daring Balizar to take offense at his words.

"And have the scars to prove it," Nate put in quickly to forestall any trouble his brother might be causing.

"Who are you?" Balizar asked, deciding to ignore the challenge that had been issued.

"Nathan Newkern," Nate answered, striding forward to put out a hand to Balizar. "One of the legion." He gripped the older man's wrist. "Nick and I are two of the many sets of twins our father foisted off on the world. I have a brother, Kirk, and Nick has ...."

"Had," the bigger man snarled.

"Aye," Nate corrected, "Had a twin named Bennett."

"I don't remember no Newkerns as being part of the royal family," Balizar said suspiciously although he had taken a liking to this red-haired man with the friendly green look.