WindLegends Saga 9: WindRetriever (43 page)

did not miss the frown of annoyance on Sybelle's lovely face.

Better than a dirty limerick
, he thought with a stab of intense grief.

Sybelle leaned toward him and whispered. "It is time to go, McGregor."

Conar winced, nodding his agreement. He got up from his chair, held out his hand to her and helped her rise. Tucking her arm into the crook of his elbow, he escorted her from the garden amidst a thunderous clatter of hands applauding them.

"May your troubles be little ones!" the Holy Man called out to them.

The Serenian stopped dead still in his tracks and looked down at the woman beside him.

She was gazing up at him with a slight smile, her lips twitching.

"The thought had not crossed your mind, McGregor?" she asked him.

It had not, he thought with a wild burst of panic. He knew this woman was older than himself, older than Sajin, who was forty-three now, by five years. Could a woman nearing fifty still be fertile? Still be able to conceive?

As though she had read his mind, he saw her nod.

"Quite capable and more than likely to, McGregor," she said, pulling on his arm to lead him away. "Does that please you?"

No, he thought bitterly. It did not. The last thing he wanted was a child to spring forth from this unholy union.

Sybelle knew what was on his mind. It hurt her, but it did not stop her from praying each night that she would quicken with her lover's seed. She had long since wanted a child and who better than this magnificent warrior to give her one? He had proved that his progeny was of sturdy stock. How could he not give her a perfect child?

"It would be dangerous for you, Sybelle," he said through clenched teeth and he meant it.

"What do you care?" she found herself snapping back at him.

He answered her from his heart. "Because Liza lost a child of mine and nearly died because of it. Another woman I cared for bled to death after giving birth to one of my sons." His hand tightened on hers. "I would have no more women die because of me."

Sybelle tilted her head so that she could see his face. There was misery in the strong planes of that handsome face. Misery and truth and she was touched.

"Don't worry, McGregor," she told him. "The Sisters will protect me."

"As the Multitude protected Liza?" he shot back, looking down at her with bitterness. His thick tawny lashes fanned the heat of his gaze. "Are you more loved by the Amazeen than my lady was by the Daughters of the Multitude, Sybelle?"

To hear him call the dead woman his lady enraged Sybelle, but she knew for as long as Conar McGregor lived, there would never be another woman he would ever truly love as he had the Oceanian princess.

"Do not let it concern you, McGregor," she muttered. "If I die, you will be free of me."

"But not of the guilt," he stated.

They were at her door. He had as yet to enter the sumptuous quarters of his new bride.

Beyond the opened door, he could see a luxurious display of opulence. He wondered if he should carry her over the threshold as he had carried Catherine the evening they were married on board Sajin's ship.

"I absolve you of any guilt," Sybelle snapped as she let go of his arm and entered her chambers.

He followed her slowly, amazed at the luxury which adorned this silk-clad suite of rooms.

Everywhere he looked, there was gilt and crystal, gold and silver and brass. Fine carpets spread out Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 193

on the stone floor and magnificent tapestries hung from thick brass poles along the walls. A fountain bubbled in one corner of the room. Sweeping plants hung from the ceiling, cascaded down the walls, trailed from stone planters, or else sprang up from huge terra cotta pots which sat in groups of three about the huge living quarters. Through one sweeping arch, he could see her bathing chamber and was awed by the pool with its blue reflective waters that were as smooth as glass.

"You may make use of it if you desire," she told him as she began to untie the sash of her robe. "I am going to."

Conar walked to the bathing chamber and stood beneath the arch, gazing at the massive size of the place and the verdant splendor before him. He could not help but compare it to the bathing chamber in the Wind Temple at Serenia. He would have been hard pressed to say which one was the lovelier of the two.

"Help me, McGregor," Sybelle demanded, walking to him.

He turned. She was holding out her arm to him and he realized she had been having trouble removing one of the many gold bracelets which adorned her slender arm.

"The clasp is stuck," she told him.

His fingers were cool on her flesh, Sybelle thought, as she stared at his bent head. She reached up to touch the gleam of his golden hair. He looked up, catching her gaze, then returned his concentration to the clasp. He seemed very aware of her touch as she smoothed his hair back from his forehead, but made no comment nor moved away from the caress.

"I have never seen a man with the color of hair you have," she commented, thrilling to the feel of the coarse silk through her fingers. "I would imagine many a woman has envied you such a shade."

He shrugged. "I wouldn't know." The clasp came free and he extended the bracelet to her in the palm of his hand.

Sybelle slid her hand into his, covering his palm with her own then wrapped her fingers around his thumb, smiling as his hand flexed instinctively to grip hers.

"Come bathe with me," she said in a husky voice, not making it a demand, but an invitation.

Conar drew in a deep breath, exhaled, then answered her. "If you would like."

"I would," she whispered.

He had always been an astute man. Nothing much had ever missed his notice. And when he had made a bargain, no matter how detestable he found it or how much it went against his grain to keep to it, he had always tried to make the most of it. He had always tried to see the good in every situation, even when there was none. Sybelle was his wife, for better or worse, and he would treat her as she deserved to be treated if for no other reason than that she was Sajin's sister.

The Kensetti princess' brows drew together in puzzlement as she looked up at him. There was something passing over his face that she was hesitant to name. Could it be resignation she saw settling in those wondrous blue eyes? Could that be submission that was turning his lips soft and pliable? Was he relinquishing his stubborn heart to her? Was that what his hand sliding up her arm was trying to convey?

Conar's fingers cupped her chin and pulled her face to his. His lips were gentle as he brushed them against her own. When he drew back, his gaze was steady as his hands went to the clasp at her shoulder and he unbuckled the jewel ornament to let her robe fall in a soft pool at her feet. He smiled at her sharp intake of breath.

"Undress me," he told her and let his hands fall to his sides.

A part of her wanted to rip the clothes from him. To drag him down to the floor and ravish Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 194

him. Never had she felt such wantonness as was invading her body at that moment. Never had she felt the wild instincts of the Amazeen warrioresses that flowed through her veins to capture and subjugate the male. To bend that captive to her will and thoroughly enslave him. Her hands trembled with the need to overpower him and imprison him within the silken folds of her body.

"Slowly, Sybelle," he warned her, gauging the depth of her passion as he looked into her face. "Remove them slowly."

With fingers shaking so badly she could barely untie the sash of his robe, slide the linen from him, Sybelle undressed her husband with all the care she would have given a newborn.

Despite the lust which bid her take him, urgently and passionately, she kept a tight rein on her desire, and finally managed to have him naked before her hungry gaze.

"Now," she heard him say as he reached for her, drawing her nude body to his. As their bodies touched, Sybelle groaned, reaching up to clutch his shoulders in a fierce grip.

"Take me, McGregor," she ordered him. Her mouth latched onto the thick column of his neck and she slid her heated body along his.

"You can wait," he said, dragging her arms from him with no little difficulty. He stepped back, putting her away from him. "We have all night."

She wanted to jerk her wrists from his grip as he stood there holding her hands together in front of him. Even as he slowly lifted her hands and placed a soft kiss on each of the knuckles of her thumbs, she wanted to shove him down and straddle him, impale herself on his rigid flesh.

"I can't wait," she panted, thrusting her hips toward him. She pulled against his hold.

"Yes, you can," he answered her and his use of the foreign affirmative, a word not his own, made the statement that much more seductive.

Conar could see the effort it was taking for her to allow him this brief moment of authority.

He was all too aware of who was the master, who the slave, in their relationship, and he instinctively knew that the only control he would ever have over this female would be in the bedchamber. He had every intention of maintaining that slim control.

"Touch me," Sybelle pleaded with him, unable to be so close to him and not feel his powerful body on hers.

"No," Conar answered, shaking his head. "You touch me." He let go of her hands.

Lust flared in Sybelle's dark eyes and her fingers curled into claws. She reached for him, her intent to throw herself on him, but the look on his face warned her he would not allow it. He was standing there, his gaze fused with hers, his body relaxed, yet he was in command of the situation and she knew he understood that. Slowly her fingers straightened and she took a hesitant step forward, reaching to lay her hand on the hard muscles of his chest. She smoothed her hand over the sparse pelt of fur between his breastbones, then shuddered as one stiff pap passed beneath her palm.

"Kiss me," he ordered her, still standing as impassively as he had been, his hands lax at his sides.

Her palms slid up his chest, onto his shoulders, and she drew him to her, standing on tiptoe so that she could mold her mouth to his, but he drew back, unwilling to let her kiss him as she had meant to.

"Gently, Sybelle," he told her. "Like a butterfly's wings passing over a flower.

It took every ounce of her control to place her lips so tenderly against his own hard planes.

She tasted the wine from their meal on his mouth. As she plied her lips along his, she became aware of the heat of his body touching hers, of the stirring of his manhood between them. She drew back and looked at him. There was a glow in his pale blue orbs that had not been there the Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 195

moment before. Perhaps the way to his heart was through this innocent seduction rather than through wild and unbridled passion. No doubt he had taken Elizabeth and Catherine with such gentleness. She smiled at him.

"You like it this way, McGregor?"

Conar nodded, but he didn't answer. He was too busy trying to tame the urgent need in his loins to take her and be done with it. To get it over with. To get away from her.

Sybelle's smile widened. So this was the way to hold him, she thought. He had not enjoyed their violent copulations when she had taken him before. He had made that obvious to her.

Perhaps this was a man who did not need the allure of rape in order to take pleasure in a woman's body?

Well, she mused as she trailed tiny kisses down his throat and chest, she would play this game with him when it suited her. There would be times when she knew she would still want to have him in her with uncontrollable thrusting. There would be times when having him bound to her bed, helpless and at her mercy, would be a need she could not put aside. And there would be times when she would make him kneel before her, begging for the release she would finally give him, pleading with her for the use of her body. But for now, this tenderness would suffice.

With a sly smile, she dropped to her knees before him and did what she had long since wanted to do.

Conar stared straight ahead of him, going back in time to the Briar's Hold Tavern. To Dorrie. To the impersonal pleasure the tavern maid had given him that long ago day. Sybelle's mouth had no more appeal to him now than Dorrie's had then and his reaction, as release claimed his body, was the same. His lashes flickered for just an instant before the hardness and the jaded glow settled once more in his azure orbs.

Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 196

Sajin couldn't help but laugh at Nicholas. The man was like an enraged bull let loose in a china shop. Everywhere he turned, destruction followed. Conar's half-brother had managed, single-handed, to have them banned permanently from every monastery in Rysalia and two in Kensett. Even if their souls had depended on it, Sajin seriously doubted the holy men would allow them inside the grounds of the monasteries ever again.

"So where is he?" Nick was bellowing as he stalked around their campsite. "If he ain’t in the monasteries, then where is he?"

"Did it ever occur to you, Nicky," Nate asked in a dry voice, "that he was and just didn't want to be found?"

"NO!" Nicholas Beriault shouted, startling the horses and making them whinny.

"Or that something else could have happened to him?" Asher asked quietly.

Every man sitting around the campfire looked at Asher.

"Such as?" Rupine questioned his nephew.

Asher poked at the fire with stick. "I can't help but wonder if there is more to his disappearance than we've been taking into consideration." He threw the stick into the fire, clutched his hands together and looked up, scanning the faces circled around him. "Have any of you thought about Mahmed Allajon?"