Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WesternWind 01 - Wynd River (22 page)

desk and turn a mean glower on the young women seated there. For their part, the women ignored him,

going about their business as if he wasn’t wearing a hole in the carpet. Now and again they would turn

their eyes to Aingeal and smile encouragingly, but not once did they bestow that friendliness on the

Reaper.

Aingeal was looking at the silver-haired woman when that lady’s head went up and she tilted it to one

side as though listening. Her gaze flickered to Aingeal then to the Reaper.

“Lord Cree,” the young woman spoke, her accent very pleasing. “You are being dismissed for the day.

Lord Kheelan requests you return at nine tomorrow morning.”

Cynyr marched up to the desk and slammed his palms on the top. “You’ve got to be kidding!” he

snapped.

Aingeal was up and beside her man in a heartbeat. She took his arm and tried to pull him away from the

desk. “Cynyr, let’s go.”

“Hell, no, I’m not going anywhere!” the Reaper snapped. Anger was emblazoned on his handsome face.

“Why can’t I see them today?”

“Lord Kheelan has his reasons,
mo tiarna
,” the silver-haired woman said. She was looking directly into

the Reaper’s furious stare. “Accommodations have been set aside for you and your lady. Giles, your

guide, will show you the way.”

The man who had escorted them to the High Council mezzanine appeared almost as though by magic.

He smiled at Aingeal then held his hand out for them to accompany him.

“So I’m supposed to go away like a nice little boy and not cause any problems, eh?” Cynyr snarled.

The blonde spoke up. “If you wish to keep your lady, aye.” When Cynyr’s glare fell on her, she did not

flinch. “That is what was decided, and you will do as the High Council bids.”

Before her husband could explode, Aingeal jerked on his arm and pulled him away from the desk. She

was hissing at him in such a low voice neither the women nor the guide could hear, but the silver-haired

woman—the only psychic among the three young women—smiled.

“Good on you, Lady Aingeal,”the silver-haired woman whispered in Aingeal’s mind.

Aingeal looked around and winked at the pretty woman.

* * * * *

The fourth floor quarters to which their guide took them were luxurious. Bright and cheerful, the

accommodations were elegant, its furnishings expensive and carefully chosen. A relaxing color scheme of

deep burgundy, moss green and creamy beige was carried throughout the residence. Along the sitting

room wall was a long bank of windows that overlooked the center court with its pristine lake. Dark green

velvet drapes had been pulled back to frame the view and the windows were open to admit a cooling

southerly breeze that carried on it the scent of jasmine. Plush, upholstered settees in beige moiré flanked

the row of windows and two very comfortable chairs sat to either side of a large marble fireplace.

Between the chairs was a lovely teakwood table with an inlaid tortoiseshell top. A desk with chair sat in

the corner at the other end of the room surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. On the floor was an

exquisite rug done in green and beige with a large floral border in a sumptuous deep-wine color.

“The bedroom is through that door,” the guide said, handing Aingeal the key to the quarters, for the

Reaper was standing at the windows, his back to them. “The bathing suite adjoins the sleeping area. We

have tried to think of everything you might need but if we have missed anything, there is the bell pull.

Someone will come right away.”

“Thank you, Giles,” Aingeal said, smiling.

The guide was barely out of the room before Cynyr exploded.

“The gods-be-damned hell if I’ll just sit here all night and wonder what the fuck they’re going to do to

my life!” Cynyr shouted as he turned around.

“Don’t use that word around me again, Reaper,” Aingeal warned. “Donal used to say it all the time and I

find it very nasty.”

“Do you realize they might try to take you away from me?” he asked, his face pale.

Aingeal shook her head. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Damn straight it won’t!” he growled, and reached for her.

Sweeping her up in his arms, he headed for the door that led to the sleeping chamber. Lifting his foot, he

kicked the closed portal—splintering the doorjamb and knocking the door off-kilter.

“Cynyr, really,” Aingeal said, her face pinched as she looked at the destruction her husband had

wrought.

He carried her to the large oaken bed and threw her down, falling on her before she had a chance to

berate him for his childish behavior.

There was nothing childish about the mouth that slanted possessively over hers, nothing childish about

the hungry tongue that thrust between her lips to claim her. His left hand was on her breast, kneading her

tender flesh, his leg thrown over hers. She could feel the prod of his shaft against her hip.

“I need you,” he said, sliding his mouth from her lips to her cheek to her neck.

“I know,” she said gently.

Cynyr flung himself from the bed and began ripping at his uniform. The black silk shirt tore, buttons

popped as he shrugged it from his wide chest. His eyes were locked with hers as he worked at his belt,

unbuckling it and snapping it through the belt loops with a sinuous dragging sound that brought moisture

to Aingeal’s loins. Not even bothering with the buttons on his fly, he ripped the britches open then waved

his hand, ridding himself of britches, boots and socks all in one motion. No respectable Reaper would

wear underwear.

Aingeal sighed. She had to learn that trick. There she lay attired in a proper gown—her movements

restricted by the multiple layers of fabric covering her. Her pretty mauve gown with its rows of lace was

hiked up around her knees and she could barely move. She hadn’t wanted to wear the damned thing, but

the demand had come from the attaché who had met them at the train station.

“Madame must be attired properly,” the stiff man had informed them, “when meeting the High Council.”

Cursing nastily, Cynyr had pulled her into an alley, waved his hand and there she was squeezed into a

suitable gown. At least he had foregone the corset as well as the ridiculous-looking bloomers that fashion

dictated. She did, however, find herself clad in silk stockings beneath her comfortable elastic-sided black

boots and a lacy chemise that fit her like a glove.

“Damned nuisance!” Cynyr snarled, and with a shaky curve of his arm divested his wife of her clothing.

Lying there on her back, propped up on her elbows, Aingeal found herself flattened naked on the bed,

her husband’s brawny body pressed against hers, his knees pushing hers apart.

“I need you,” he said again.

“Well, stop doing that and save your energy,” she said.

“You just don’t forget anything, do you?” he said in a whiny tone.

She enveloped him in her arms and held him, her newfound strength warring with his to keep him from

taking her with the violence of which he seemed perfectly capable right then.

“Shush,” she said, soothing him. She wasn’t about to allow him to take her in the condition he was in.

“I won’t let them take you away from me,” he said, and collapsed upon her, the side of his face between

her breasts.

“They are not going to,
mo tiarna
,” she whispered, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. Her left

hand was caressing the raised scars on his back.

“They’re going to try,” he said. He was caressing her shoulder, his thumb fanning an arc across the satiny

flesh.

“Let them try all they want,” she said. “I’ll fight them tooth and nail.”

Despite the anger and fear in his heart, Cynyr smiled. A vision of his lady—broadsword in hand on a

rolling deck slicing away at Lord Kheelan—lightened his mood. He lifted his head and looked up at her.

“You gonna fight for me, wench?” he inquired.

“Damned right,” she stated, and kissed him on the nose.

He slid up on the bed until he could claim her mouth once more. His kiss this time was gentle, loving, and

did not carry with it the desperation he had felt only moments before. Tenderly his lips plied hers. He

softly bit her lower lip then soothed it with his tongue.

“Evil brat,” she named him, then took his head in her hands to give him a kiss he would feel to the soles

of his feet.

Cynyr snaked his hands under her, grasped her buttocks, flipped over and then snuggled her atop him,

her delightful breasts pressed to his hard chest. Their kiss was a heady experience. It rocketed through

the both of them to set their hearts to pumping excitedly and sending heat curling in the lower part of their

bellies. His hands roamed up her bare bottom and caressed her waist, moved up to spread along her

upper back. The satiny expanse of her flesh enthralled him, underscoring his desire to possess every inch

of her body. Running his palms over that smooth, warm skin, he shivered from the extent of his love for

his lady.

Aingeal’s legs lay outside her husband’s and the very core of her was poised over the steel length of his

erection. She could feel the hard rod flexing against the curls at the juncture of her thighs. Rising up until

just the peaks of her breasts lightly touched his chest, she pressed her lower body closer to his, grinding

gently against him.

“Ah, wench,” he said on a long sigh, closing his eyes to the delicious torture his lady was administering.

“Are you calm now, Reaper?” she asked, and when he opened his eyes to gaze into hers, she cocked a

delicate brow.

“Ride me, wench,” he said in a husky voice. “Break me to saddle.”

His words sent tremors of lust down her sides to gather in the pit of her womb. Taking a deep breath,

she reached behind her for his wrists and pulled them from her, spreading them wide along the top of the

bed. There were no brass railings for him to grip this time so he gathered a handful of the pillows in each

fist.

Very, very slowly, Aingeal lightly stroked her fingertips down his arms from wrists to shoulders, her nails

gently grazing his flesh. She could feel goose bumps popping up on his skin and sensed a light shudder

run through his chest. Her eyes held his captive as she eased her fingernails along his collarbones, down

his sternum, only to spread out to each manly pap and pluck it between her thumbs and index fingers.

“You are killing me,” he whispered, his nipples hardening into stony nubs.

“What a way to die, though, eh, Reaper?” she replied.

Continuing her journey down his body, she lightly raked her nails from his nipples across to his sides and

trailed them down his rib cage. Once more she felt the lustful spasm trill through his chest and saw him

yanking against the pillows he was gripping. She heard him begin to pant and smiled.

Dragging her nails slowly upward from his waist to just beneath his outspread arms, she caught the harsh

intake of his breath then watched him squeeze his eyes shut to her torture.

“Tell me,” she said, “what you want to do to me.”

Cynyr’s eyes snapped open. There were crimson flames leaping in those golden depths—a rapidly

growing conflagration.

She drew her knees up to sit astride his hips, his penis trapped behind her in the sweet concavity of her

ass. The warmth of her core was spreading across his pubic mound to heat up his balls. He could smell

her love scent and the odor was driving him mad with want.

“Tell me,” she repeated, her fingers gently tweaking his erect nipples.

“I want…” He stopped to run his tongue over his dry lips. “I want to thrust into you so hard, so deep

you’ll feel it in your tonsils,” he told her.

Her stomach did a funny little squeeze and she bent down to kiss him, sliding her tongue over his lips,

circling them then slipping quickly inside his mouth before straightening up.

“And?”

He was on fire with wanting her. Writhing beneath her, he wanted to sheath himself inside her velvety

heat. The tip of his cock was oozing—his balls were throbbing.

“I want to keep thrusting into you until you scream with pleasure.”

“And what of you, warrior?” she asked. “What can I do for you?”

He let go of the pillows, reached down and grabbed her hips. He lifted her and impaled her upon his

rock-hard shaft. Grinning evilly as her eyes went wide, he arched upward, increasing the depth of his

penetration.

Aingeal’s quick intake of breath told him he had touched a very interesting place within her anatomy. He

held himself up as she began to grind her fiery cunt upon him, rotating her hips, sliding up and down, the

cadence of her breathing increasing with each passionate revolution.

Her head was thrown back, the carefully arranged twist at the back of her head disheveled, one long

curl draped lovingly over her bare shoulder. She shook her head and the remaining locks tumbled down

her back and spread out like a silken cape. She arched her back and her breasts pushed forward, the

pert nipples standing up like little pebbles set in a round of pale caramel.

He wanted to suckle those dusty peaks. Just the sight of them made his mouth water. His fingers were

digging into her hips as she rode him in sweet abandon. It was more than he could do to lie still and let

her have her way with him without touching her, so he reached out to cover her breasts with his palms.

“Aye, Reaper,” she said, her breath coming in short, little intakes.

He slid his fingertips over the sensitive peaks and tweaked them just as she was fingering his. He