Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (20 page)

Patrick quirked a brow. “If he's been watching her, I haven't seen him doing it."

“He's doing it right now,” Tarnes guffawed. He pointed with his pipe stem.

The men looked aft and, sure enough, caught their shipmate staring avidly at the slender girl. When he

became aware of their scrutiny, he turned away, the high flush of the wind, or his embarrassment, staining

his cheeks.

“Well, I'll be a horned toad's wart,” Weir mumbled. “He was watching her!"

“Gonna do more than watch her, is my guess,” Tarnes quipped. He smiled crookedly at Weir's look of

annoyance. “You can't keep her a little girl forever, son."

“Nor the hounds at bay for much longer,” Patrick warned. “If not Syn-Jern, then some other buck who's

gonna take notice that Genevieve isn't a child anymore."

“Hell,” Weir groaned. “I don't know nothing about being a parent. What do I do?"

“Let nature take its course is my advice, Cap'n,” Stevens advised. “The lad's a good man and since he's

interested and the lass don't seem to be disinclined to take notice of him, I'd say just sit back and watch

the sparks fly."

“Well, I don't want no sparks flying!” Weir snapped.

“Don't see as how you can prevent it, son,” Tarnes told him. “Looks to me like the fire's being fanned

pretty hot. And it don't look like either one of them is doing anything to tamp the flames."

Syn-Jern was coiling a length of heavy hemp around his bare arm and shoulder. The months at the Cay

had turned his body to a rich, deep bronze color and had put distinct delineation in the rippling flesh. The

man had gained forty pounds, all of it sleek muscles that bunched under the only garment he wore above

his waist: a sheen of sweat.

“Have you ever seen Genny wear a skirt when she's been with us on the Lass, Weir?” Paddy asked,

keeping his avid gaze on Syn-Jern.

Weir sighed heavily. “You know I haven't. And I've never seen her take so damned much time doing her

hair every morning, either!"

“Or wearing perfumes and the like?” Tarnes put in.

“Perfume?” Weir groaned.

“Lavender, I think,” Tarnes replied. “Or lilac. I don't know the difference ‘tween the two."

“Lilac,” Stevens assured him. “I smelled it."

“Why would she...” Weir began, then shook his head. He knew why his sister was doing all the strange

things everyone had been mentioning to him since the Wind Lass set sail for Chrystallus.

“He's noticed her,” Patrick commented under his breath.

“Hell, man!” Stevens snorted. “He knew the very moment the lass moved away from the rail!"

Weir watched as Syn-Jern laid aside the coil of rope and stood talking to Genny. Although neither he

nor the men sitting with him could hear what was being said, the unmistakable body language told him all

he needed to know.

Genny wrapping a tress of hair around and around her finger:
"Am I interrupting?"

Syn-Jern shaking his head and digging his hands into the pockets of his cords:
"No, not at all."

Genny swaying just a little to the pitch and roll of the ship, her skirts swishing around her bare feet:
"Nice

day, isn't it?"

Syn-Jern glancing up at the rigging, squinting into the sun:
"Aye. Hot, though."
He, lifting a hand to arm

away a film of sweat from his brow.

She, watching that arm as hungrily as a starving woman at a banquet set for her alone:
"Can I get you

some water?"

He, raking his gaze down her shapely figure:
"You can get me anything you'd like, Milady."

Genny smiling up at him through her lashes:
"You can have anything you want, Milord."

“Stop!” Weir growled, startling the men around him and causing Syn-Jern and Genny to look his way.

Syn-Jern smiled as his companion's brother tripped heavily down the ladder to the cabins below decks.

His eyes met Genny's and he laughed. “I don't think he likes me talking to you, Sweeting,” he said.

Genny tore her gaze from the thick pelt of hair covering Syn-Jern's chest. “Weir still sees me as a child.”

Her hands clenched into fists within the hidden folds of her muslin skirt. “He doesn't want to see I've

become a woman."

“A man would have to be blind not to notice,” he replied.

Her heart did a funny little flip in her chest and she found herself staring into his swarthy face, caught and

held by the heat of his intense gaze.

“Are you afraid of my brother, Lord Sorn?” she asked breathlessly.

“No."

The one word was an invitation and she knew it. A quiver began in her belly and spread down her

thighs, lingering for a moment in a place that almost brought a groan from her parted lips. She swallowed.

Syn-Jern folded his arms over his naked chest and regarded her. The sun had kissed her dusky

complexion and left roses in her high cheekbones. The wind blew loose strands of sleek black hair and

set it to fluttering against her temples. Nature had expertly endowed Genevieve Saur from the top of her

shining hair to the tips of the toes peeking from the hem of her skirt. If he but put his hands on her waist,

there was no doubt in his mind that he could circle it with room to spare. Should he put his hands on the

lush ripeness of her jutting breasts, he could...

Mentally shaking himself, Syn-Jern turned away, braced his suddenly sweating palms on the mahogany

rail, and stared at the ocean. “Did you want something, Milady?” he asked.

“Like what?” she asked, her gaze roaming over the perfection of his profile from bold nose to cleft chin

to rippling hair and back again before finally settling on his full lips.

Heat flooded Syn-Jern's lower body for he could feel her assessing him. He wanted nothing more than

to turn, jerk her to him, and mold his fevered body to hers. It didn't matter that half the crew was

watching them. It didn't matter that her brother was only a whistle away, no doubt pacing the deck and

wondering how to handle Syn-Jern should the need arise.

“Did you have a reason for seeking me out?” he inquired.

Genny watched the vein in the side of his neck pumping furiously and her woman's intuition told her he

was just as affected by her nearness as she was by his. That impish demoness that resides in every

woman reared its trouble-making little head.

“Do I need a reason to seek you out, Milord?” the demoness asked in a husky voice.

Syn-Jern made the mistake of allowing his gaze to dip to her mouth where her tongue darted to wet her

lips. A groan started deep in his chest and he had to force himself to stand still.

“Do you know what you're doing?” he whispered. He stared at the moist fullness of her mouth, unaware

that his breathing had become shallow and too fast.

“What am I doing?” she whispered, fascinated by the rise and fall of his thick, wide chest and the tiny

droplets of sweat that clung like flashing diamonds to the crisp hair matted there.

“You're playing with fire, Genny Saur,” he told her.

She moved closer, oblivious to the stares that were aimed their way. Her hand trembling, she put it on

his damp chest.

Syn-Jern closed his eyes, squeezed them tightly shut. “Oh, god, woman, for the love of Alel, don't!” But

he made no move to step back or remove her hand from his flesh.

“Why not?” she asked. Her palm smoothed over his skin. Before he could unman himself before her and

the entire crew, he snatched her hand from him, but kept it imprisoned in his own fierce grip. “You're not

supposed to do that!” he reprimanded her.

“Why not?” Her fingers moved within his grasp until she was holding his hand. “Don't you like it?"

He thought his knees would buckle. It had been ten long years, almost eleven, since he'd bedded a

woman. His body was sending signals his brain refused to heed and he trembled violently.

“A young girl like you shouldn't..."

“I'm not a little girl, Syn-Jern,” she said in a husky tone.

His name on her lips was a caress, a tender stroke that was nearly his undoing. He let go of her hand,

moved away, putting distance, safety, and the obstruction of a stack of canvas between them. When she

made to follow him, he held his hand out to stop her.

“Lady, stay!” he grated.

Genny raised one dark eyebrow. “I am not a canine to be ordered to heel, Milord!"

He shook his head. “There was no insult intended, but unless you wish to get an up close and personal

view of what you've done to me, I suggest you stay put!"

“What have I done?” she asked, her innocence showing in her puzzled expression. “I but touched you,

Milord Sorn."

“And in the doing gave rise to a problem, Milady,” he whimpered.

Genny's brows shifted toward one another. “In what way have I caused you a problem?"

There wasn't a man on deck who wasn't aware of Syn-Jern's predicament nor would a single one of

them have gone to his aid.

“Milord?” Genny questioned, craning her neck to see why he was standing so awkwardly behind the

camouflage of the canvas.

“Go away, Genny!” he begged her. “Just go away."

Her feelings hurt, Genny's face crinkled. “Have I offended you in some way?"

“Dammit! You've aroused me, lady!” he hissed. His hands were before him in a desperate attempt to

hide the evidence from her. When her gaze slid downward, his own personal male demon pulled his

hands away and allowed her to see what her innocent touch had wrought.

“Now, do you understand?” the demon demanded.

Genny wasn't as naive as most of the men thought her to be. She'd listened when the women of Montyne

Cay spoke of their husbands and lovers; and although she didn't understand most of what they were

discussing, she did recognize the telltale signs of a man's sexual need. Seeing the thick bulge in Syn-Jern's

breeches brought a crimson heat to her face. “Oh,” was all she could say.

“Aye,” Syn-Jern agreed. “Now, go away!"

She forced her gaze to his face. Past the panting chest. Past the wildly throbbing hollow at the base of

his throat. Past his parted lips to the hot need blazing in his midnight eyes. For a long moment she simply

stared at him, thinking him the most perfectly beautiful male she had ever seen; then she smiled, her lips

stretching seductively into an invitation as old as time, itself.

Syn-Jern blushed to the tips of his own bare toes. His manhood leapt. His heart thumped so hard he

thought it would burst from his heaving chest. “You can't be serious!” he gasped.

“I am not a child, Syn-Jern Sorn,” she told him. Her gaze was as hot as the fires under a crucible. She

slipped her tongue along the smoothness of her upper lip. She took two steps, stopped, and looked over

her shoulder. She raked him with a look that belied her inexperience and youth. “I am a full-grown

woman who knows precisely what she wants.” A tiny smile tugged at her lips. “And this woman wants

you, Syn-Jern Sorn."

The crewmen had long ago stopped what they were doing to watch the man and woman sparring. Even

though they could not hear the words being spoken, there was no way they could miss what had been

offered.

“Sweet Merciful Alel!” Tarnes breathed, fanning himself with his cap.

“Is that our Genny?” Neevens asked in an awed voice.

Stevens clamped his mouth shut, oblivious to the ache his sagging jaws had begun to cause. He watched

his young friend, took in the way Sorn was standing, smiled at the moment he knew the lad had made up

his mind. “Go for it, laddie,” he whispered. “Just go for it."

Patrick frowned. He wasn't quite sure what had just happened between Genny and Syn-Jern, but he

knew he should be hurrying down to Weir's cabin to inform him. He would never know what kept him,

and the rest of the men, right where they were as Syn-Jern skirted the stack of canvas and followed

Genevieve Saur.

“Ought somebody to do something?” Neevens asked of no one in particular.

“Like what?” Stevens scoffed. “They're grown."

“She's a girl!” Tarnes protested. “Spent most of her life in a blasted convent."

“All the more reason to leave her alone."

“And he's been shut away from women for ten years!"

Stevens threw out a dismissive hand. “Like I said: all the more reason to leave him alone."

“But...” Tarnes looked from Patrick to Neevens to Patrick again. “What do we do?"

Patrick gave a fatalistic shrug. “We leave them alone."

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Weir stared at the door to his cabin. He had heard the creaking of the hatchway ladder. First, the light

steps that could belong to no one but his sister; then the heavier tread—bootless—of someone following

her. With the opening of his sister's cabin door, the poignant silence that followed, the squeak of wood

planking, the gentle closing of the door, Weir Saur knew Genevieve was not alone.

He sat there, wondering if he should intervene, giving himself a dozen reasons why he should, a dozen

reasons why he should not. There was a thump and he flinched, then he laid on his cot to stare at the

beams overhead.

No sounds came from Genny's cabin: no squeaking of the bed; no giggles; no muted voices, hushed and

guilty; no thumping against the wall that separated the cabins.

But he knew Syn-Jern Sorn was next door. As surely as he drew in a ragged breath and released it, he

knew the man was there.

If he should get up, go to Genny's cabin, demand entrance, he knew one of two things could happen:

One. He could prevent from happening what he knew was about to happen and possibly save his sister