Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (23 page)

about her husband and couldn't. She took that as a good sign that he was perfectly safe.

* * * *

“I'm unarmed,” Syn-Jern whispered.

“Put your hands behind you."

Syn-Jern blinked with surprise and almost made the fatal mistake of turning his head to see the speaker.

If he had, he'd have impaled his throat on the sharp tip of the spear. As it was, he was shoved roughly to

the side, caught unaware, and went sprawling on the cave floor with a none-too-light weight perched on

his back.

“You're women,” he accused, his face stained with embarrassment.

“I said to put your hands behind you!"

He complied quickly for even though the spear point was gone, a dagger blade now lay across his

windpipe. In the length of time it took his attacker to push him down and straddle him, his head was

pulled back by the hair, exposing his throat to the blade's bite.

The constriction of the leather strap around his wrists as a second attacker tied his hands behind his

back was painful; it cut into his flesh and made him wince.

“Put your legs together."

He didn't wait for that order to come again, but drew his ankles close and felt them being tied just as

tightly as his wrists. When he was bound, he was jerked from the cave's floor as easily as if he had been

a sack of feathers and dragged backwards.

* * * *

He had no sense of time as he sat slumped against the cave wall. He tried to flex his wrists, but the bonds

held and only got tighter as he strained.

“You will cut the circulation off altogether if you persist,” one of his captors warned.

He believed it for his fingers were starting to become numb already.

“Can I have some water?” he asked.

The bigger of the two women who had taken him prisoner dipped a gourd in a bucket of water.

“Get on your knees."

Syn-Jern clenched his jaws. “Why is that necessary?"

His captor turned away.

“Wait!” He was thirsty, as well as cramped in the position he was sitting. Swallowing his anger, and his

humiliation, he struggled until he was kneeling.

The gourd was brought to his lips and he drank deeply, emptying the vessel. As it was removed from his

mouth, he licked his lips and looked up with a plea that could not be mistaken.

“You want more?"

“What do I have to do to get it?” he grated, seeing humor in the dark faces peering at him.

A slight smile stretched thick lips. “Just say ‘please'.” The smile became a grin. “You can do that, can't

you, pretty one?"

He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something he knew he'd regret. “Please,” he mumbled

through clenched teeth. As he drank, he studied his captors.

They looked like mother and daughter with the same dusky coloring. They wore their long, coarse black

hair gathered at the crown of their heads and hanging to their shoulders in many thick plaits. They had

high cheekbones, thick lips, and long, graceful necks that were adorned with row after row of silver

chains. They were wearing short white gowns that barely covered their upturned rumps.

“Who are you?” he asked and when they did not answer, he rephrased his question.

“We are Necromanian,” the older informed him. “But we are of a sect that encompasses many

nationalities and races."

“What sect?"

“She will tell you when she arrives."

“She?” he grumbled. “Is this how you women get your kicks?” he snapped. “Taking men hostage?"

“Only those She bids us take."

“Lucky me,” he mumbled.

“She singled you out,” the older woman told him. “You should be grateful."

“Well, I'm not!” He strained against his bonds, grunting with frustration and pain when the knots held and

tightened even more.

“Stop doing that, Milord, or we will be forced to stake you to the ground!” the older one warned.

Syn-Jern blew an angry breath from his nose, but did not reply. These women were a mystery to him.

If they'd wanted to hurt him they certainly could have before now. If it was their intention to kill him, he

knew he'd sense the danger; but they appeared reasonable enough, for female bandits. They had not

turned venomous looks on him or, with the exception of making conditions whereby he could take water,

they had not misused him.

“What's her name?” he asked.

“The Great Lady?"

“Whoever,” he scoffed.

“Rowena,” the older one stated.

“Rowena what?"

“Simply Rowena."

“Well,” he grumbled, “does Simply Rowena intend on getting here any time soon?"

“What is your hurry, Milord?” the younger one asked.

“I've got to piss,” he threw at her.

The women exchanged glances, frowned, then looked at him.

“You'll have to hold it."

He squinted dangerously at them. “The hell I will."

The older one shrugged. “Then piss."

Syn-Jern's teeth came together. “In my breeches, woman?"

“If you feel the need,” she replied.

He would have made the worst kind of vulgar reply had not the arrival of a dozen more women silenced

him. They filed into the cave, their silent attention locked on him.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, the hair on his arms stirring.

“Milord Syn-Jern?” one asked, stepping in front of the others.

He was stunned she knew his name, but tried not to show it. He stared at her, caught, and held by her

extraordinary beauty.

The woman was tall—at least as tall as he—and she was exquisitely curved in all the right places. Her

flaming red hair, cascading almost to the floor of the cave, glowed around her ivory face. Emerald green

eyes held him prisoner behind thick red-gold lashes. Lush, red lips—full and moist—parted to show

small white teeth. She wore an abbreviated gown that fell just below her shapely derriere and plunged to

a breathtaking V between full, spectacular breasts.

“You are Syn-Jern Sorn, Duke of Holy Dale, are you not?” Her voice was as lovely as she was.

“Maybe,” he answered. “Who are you?"

“I am your mistress, Rowena."

* * * *

Genny turned in her sleep and mumbled. She dragged her coat to her, mindless of the dampness that

clung to the fabric.

She was dreaming of a place she'd never been, but one she seemed to know well. It was a land that

could come and go in the twinkling of an eye. A shadowy place. A land of shadows.

A shadow land.

“Syn-Jern,” she whispered, nuzzling the coat against her fevered cheek. “Be careful."

* * * *

“Mistress?” he snorted. “I think not."

“Oh, but I am,” she said. “We have known one another for centuries."

“I don't know you!” he snarled.

“Not as well as you once did, but that will be remedied,” Rowena replied. She nodded and the women

behind her moved as one.

Syn-Jern tensed as two of the women moved behind him, but he felt their hands on him, untying his

wrists and thought fleetingly of trying to escape; but there were too many of them and he had no weapon.

Two more moved to untie his ankles.

“Have I made an enemy of you, Simply Rowena?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the women

kneeling at his feet.

Rowena smiled. “I have always thought you entertaining, Milord Syn-Jern,” she said.

“I'm so glad. I...” he answered. He would have said more, but he was suddenly yanked flat on his back

and the women converged on him: two dragging his legs apart, pressing his ankles and knees to the

ground; two flinging his arms wide and forcing his wrists and shoulders into the sand. Before he could

voice his denial, they had him pinned securely, spread-eagled.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

“Cradle his head, Olivia,” Rowena commanded the older of his original captors. Her hands moved to the

wide belt at her waist. “We don't want him to hurt himself."

“Get the hell off me, woman!” Syn-Jern demanded. He tried to jerk his head from the woman who knelt

above him, but found his cheeks firmly grasped in two smooth, cool palms, his head held firmly in the

woman's silk-clad lap.

“We aren't going to hurt you, Milord,” Rowena said as she let her gown fall to the ground. “Merely

satisfy you."

He stared at her, her naked body gleaming in the light cast from the campfire. Surely the woman didn't

mean to...

“Don't you dare!” he seethed as she dropped to her knees between his spread legs.

“Throughout history, Milord,” Rowena informed him as she bent forward and put her hands on the

buttons of his fly, “the Daughters have had Consorts to do their bidding. In many of my former lives, I

chose you; I do so again."

“Get your hands off me, woman!” he shouted and started to struggle wildly.

Rowena sighed and lifted her gaze to Olivia. The older woman slapped a confining hand down over

Syn-Jern's mouth.

Smiling at the muffled threats, Rowena returned her attention to his fly and finished undoing the buttons.

She freed him from the confines of his clothing and caressed him.

“You are as manly in this life as you have been in all the others, Syn-Jern,” she said breathless.

Syn-Jern was wriggling fiercely in an attempt to get free. Even as she positioned herself above him, her

womanhood poised over an erection he would have sworn there that was no way in hell for him to

achieve, he could not believe that he was going to be raped by a woman.

“Do not take this so personally, Milord Syn-Jern,” she said as she slid her hot, warm body onto his.

“You have always belonged to the Daughterhood of the Multitude. Your body is ours! Just as the males

of your bloodline will always be ours."

[Back to Table of Contents]

He was at the rail, staring moodily out to sea. His back was rigid, his face set, his hands tightly gripping

the mahogany rail. He hadn't said one word in over two hours nor had he taken his attention from the

rolling sea. He had made sure everyone on board understood he wanted to be alone in his self-imposed

vigil.

It had been the morning after the storm when the silences began; the gloomy moods set in.

“Syn!” Genny had squealed and ran to her husband. She threw her arms around his neck and showered

kisses on his cheek.

“That's enough,” Syn-Jern told her, then gently pushed her away.

“Where were you?” she asked, searching his face before he turned away.

“Waiting out the storm,” he answered.

“We were worried about you,” Weir explained. “We didn't know if you had gotten hurt or—"

“I am fine!” he said in a curt tone.

Patrick stood, arms akimbo, and stared down his friend. “Then why are you acting like you've something

to hide?"

The anger that had erupted from Syn-Jern Sorn then had stunned everyone, left mouths dropped open

with shock. He had thrown a true temper tantrum, turning the air blue with his curses, and then stomped

out of the cave.

Genny stood where she was, her mouth open at the outburst. She exchanged a look with her brother.

“Something ain't right,” Weir said.

Genny clamped her lips shut then took out after her husband.

When the others made their way to the beach, they'd found Syn-Jern pacing the sand, plowing agitated

fingers through his hair.

“We have to leave this place,” Syn-Jern demanded. “Now. Right this minute!"

“May I ask why?” Weir queried.

“Because I said so, that's why!” Syn-Jern bellowed.

“What is wrong with you?” Genny demanded.

“Nothing!” Syn-Jern snapped, then squeezed his eyes shut, seemed to be trying to get a hold on his

temper. “Nothing, Genny. I just want to leave."

Now well out to sea, watching Syn-Jern Sorn crouched at the rail, the crew kept their distance.

“Something happened to him on that island,” Stevens told Tarnes. They were less than a day's sail from

Chrystallus and making good time.

Tarnes nodded as he studied Syn-Jern. He took the pipe from his teeth. “Been right snotty of late."

“With all of us ‘cept his lady,” Neevens commented.

“Tried that snappishness with her,” Tarnes informed them. He sniffed. “She put him in his place."

“Well, the closer we get to Chrystallus, the worse he seems to be getting,” Stevens said.

“Maybe it's just nerves."

Genny heard the men as she passed. They weren't gossiping about Syn-Jern, as he had accused them of

doing only the day before. They were simply worried about him. Just as she was worried. Though his

mood swings were a nuisance, they had not carried over into their relationship. In their cabin, he was as

attentive and pleasant as he had been before the storm. His lovemaking certainly hadn't suffered, if

anything, he was nearly as insatiable as she.

“Are you worried about something, Syn?” she'd asked him that morning, before the darkness had come

over him again and he'd gone up top.

“No.” He'd looked at her, his brows drawn together. “Do I seem worried?"

She thought about it for a moment and decided maybe worried was the wrong word to describe the

vigils at the rail. “You seem distracted, Milord."

“I've a lot on my mind,” he'd replied. “I've got things to do."

A small niggling of worry flitted through Genny. “You still intend to return to Virago?"

That had been his plan from the very moment ten years before when he'd been sentenced to Tyber's

Isle. Now, it had become not just a dream; it had become as necessary to his peace of mind as Genny

was to his happiness.

“I've got to go back, Genny. I've got to reclaim what those bastards took from me. And it isn't just me