Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (42 page)

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Rosa-Lynn was huddled against the wind blowing in from Wixenstead Harbor. It swirled around her legs,

plastering her skirts to them. The wind was so strong, she had to keep a hand on her bonnet lest the gusts

pluck it from her head. Her lips trembling with the chill early morning air, she was vastly uncomfortable

and ill at ease with the looks darting her way from the stevedores milling about. Doing her best to ignore

the low whispers and angry snorts, she stood at the end of one long quay, her eyes tearing from the ripe

wind, and stared at the black ship lying at anchor in the harbor.

Her spine as straight as the discomfort would allow, Rosa-Lynn tried to blot out the insulting words she

could hear coming from the villagers who were watching her with contemptuous looks. She had no

doubts about the way the villagers felt concerning her and Trace: they were hated worse than Innis

Hesar. If either of them were to fall into the water, the villagers wouldn't lift a hand to save them from

drowning. But Syn-Jern?

Would they do anything to help their rightful liege lord?

They certainly hadn't while Syni was living at Holy Dale, she thought. He had been as ignored as she and

Trace were despised. But had that been because he was Giles Sorn's son, she wondered? Giles had

been a thorn in the side of the Viragonians for many a year prior to his untimely demise on board the

Tamarind. He was not a good landlord and most certainly not a man who endeared himself to anyone,

least of all his eldest son, whom he had loathed.

“Syn-Jern,” she whispered, her conscience pricking her in ways she never thought to experience. “How

I wish I could speak with you, now."

Aye, she thought as she grimaced from a particularly rough blast of sea wind
, I stood in the dock and

swore his life away, yet why can I not forget him?
His sad eyes followed her into sleep each night and

his face was ever present in her dreams.

“Why, Syn?” she asked aloud. “Why can I not forget you?"

He had not been a particularly good lover; but then he had been inexperienced and unsure of himself.

He was not as handsome as Trace, but there was something endearing and sweet about his lack of

sophistication that had made it possible for her to endure his fumbling lovemaking.

And he had loved her with all his heart, she remembered with a catch in her throat. She had seen that

love glowing in his eyes, just as she had witnessed the deep hurt enter those midnight blue eyes at her

betrayal.

Rosa-Lynn groaned. Her guilt was a cruel master these days. She had betrayed perhaps the only man

who would ever truly love her; had sent him to prison to a life she knew would crush his spirit and maul

his body—a body she had found more exciting than she cared to admit.

“Whore."

The word reached her ears and she turned to see if she could pick out the speaker from among the men

loitering about; but every face turned her way was hostile and every mouth hard and unforgiving.

She faced the ship once more. “Oh, Syn-Jern,” she whispered and it was not the wind that caused

moisture to flood her eyes. “What did I do to you?"

A year ago, she thought—even a month ago—she would not have felt like this. But, since hearing of

Syn-Jern's escape and the terrible retribution meted out to him by the horrid prison transporters,

Rosa-Lynn Sorn's guilty conscience was becoming unbearable.

Rosa-Lynn choked off a sob and started back up the quay. Men stepped aside—not out of respect, but

rather to not be contaminated by her touch.

“Harlot,” they called her.

“Sorn's slut!"

A disgusted laugh hastened Rosa-Lynn's footsteps into a run and she shoved those who weren't quick

enough out of her way as she fled the harbor.

“Can't run away from what you done to him, dearie!” a prostitute yelled at her. “You be the cause of all

that boy's misery!"

“Aye, you run back to your whoremaster, bitch!” another prostitute taunted. “Reckon he'll give you what

you got coming to you!"

Loud, raucous laughter followed Rosa-Lynn to her carriage where a coachman stood slumped against

the door.

“Take me home,” Rosa-Lynn cried. “Now!"

The coachman didn't reply. He yanked open the carriage door and waited for her to climb in by herself,

refusing to offer her his assistance.

Seeing she would get no help, Rosa-Lynn snatched up her skirts and entered the carriage as gracefully

as she could. She was barely seated before the door was slammed.

* * * *

Trace paid no attention to his wife as she rushed by him on her way up the stairs. He yawned, wondering

what the dickens she was doing out of bed and dressed so early of the clock. That it was close to noon,

didn't matter to Trace Edward Sorn. Anytime before two was early for him.

Lumbering slowly down the stairs, he stopped on the bottom step, watching the activity of two of the

four servants he had managed to hold onto over the years and frowned. He put a hand to the banister

and ran his fingertips along the rolled edge. There was dust accumulating in the crevice, just as there were

dust bunnies lurking all over the manse. He raised his eyes to look at the tall mullion windows flanking the

double entry doors and saw streaks of grime and fingerprints on the glass.

His frown deepened as he continued into the dining room. No doubt the dishes were not as clean as they

should be, either, he thought.

When he was seated at the table, he lifted his fork, and peered closely. A snort of disgust shot from his

mouth and he tossed the food-caked utensil to the table.

“Sara!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The door to the kitchen opened and Sara Gill sauntered out, her shapely hips filling out her uniform

nicely. “Aye, Milord?” she asked in a bored tone.

“The gods-be-damned silverware is filthy!” Trace snarled.

“Is that a fact?” she countered.

“Look for yourself, woman!” Sorn growled.

Sara took her time reaching the table. She made no move to take the fork from her master, merely

looked down at it and shrugged. “Jobe's eyes ain't what they used to be,” she said in way of explanation.

“Then hire someone who can see what it is they are washing from my silver!” Trace demanded. “There

is caked food between the tines!"

“What folk you gonna get to work here, Milord?” she responded. “Ain't a single one what wants to do

that.” Her eyes narrowed as he glared at her.

“Especially not with that hellship bobbing out there in Wixenstead Harbor.” She pretended to shiver.

“And that ghost ship lurking about the waters of the Boreal."

“I don't want to hear that superstitious gossip, do you hear me, woman?” Trace snapped.

When he'd gone into town to hire an assassin to rid him of his hated half-brother, he stopped in his

gaming club for a round or two of cards. He'd listened to what was being said down at the club, felt the

appraising stares aimed his way, and dismissed the whole thing as peasant twaddle. A ghost ship, indeed!

He reasoned some enterprising bandits were merely trading on foolish superstition to raid the Tribunal

vaults. It was nothing to him.

“Suit yourself, Your Grace,” Sara muttered. “You can believe the tales of the NightWinds or not. That is

your privilege, Milord."

Trace ground his teeth. His hands itched to throttle the sassy wench, but she was the only cook he had

and offending her, misusing her, would only gain him an empty belly.

“Wash these utensils yourself!” Trace ordered. “I will not have my table unclean."

Sara merely blinked at him, saying nothing. It was a tactic she used often in dealing with the

son-of-a-bitch for she knew it unnerved him and made him madder still.

“Oh, go on with you!” Sorn finally proclaimed, waving her away. “It isn't worth arguing about!” He

snatched up the fork and began scrubbing it with his less-than clean linen napkin

“As you wish, Milord,” Sara drawled. She spun on her heel and marched back into the kitchen, a look

of triumph on her pretty face.

“Wait ’til he tastes this,” her helper, Jobe McCallister chortled. “You out did yourself on this meal, you

did. It oughtta make him sicker than a dog."

“Shush,” Sara cautioned. She glanced behind her, half-expecting the bastard to have followed her. She

took a bowl and scooped some of the stew she'd made from rancid beef for Trace Sorn. “This ought to

keep His Ugliness on the pot for an hour or two today."

“How is our boy?” Jobe asked as he tore a chunk of freshly baked bread from the loaf and placed it on

the plate of stew destined for Syn-Jern Sorn.

“Ain't seen him this morning, but I reckon he's fine else Bryce would have come fetched me,” she

responded.

“You knowed the Viper went down to the docks this morn,” Jobe stated.

“Aye, that was news the moment she asked Manley to hitch up the carriage,” Sara replied.

“Conscience getting the better of her, I reckon,” Jobe chuckled. “Wonder what she'd say if she knowed

the NightWind, hisself, is right under her nose?"

“Be quiet, Jobe!” Sara warned.

Jobe clamped his lips shut. It wouldn't do for the wrong person to find out about His Lordship.

“Fix me up another plate of this swill,” Sara whispered, “and I'll take it up to the Viper. And don't forget

to feed the decent stuff to Prince Tiernan. We don't want him getting sick!"

Jobe winked his agreement and shuffled to the stove. He began to laugh. What Sara had made for the

Eel and his slut would go a long way in making the two greedy fools pay for every wicked thing they'd

ever done.

The old man sobered.

“Well, everything but killing poor Otis Playe,” he muttered. He thought about that for a moment, then

shrugged. No one had really liked Playe anyway so his loss was no great burden on the folks of

Wixenstead Harbor.

* * * *

Rosa-Lynn did not respond to the knock on her door. She was stretched across her bed—her face on

her arms—as she had been since flinging herself on the silk coverlet half an hour before. The pale pink

material was stained with her self-pitying tears.

“Milady?” Sara asked quietly as she opened the woman's door. “Are you all right?"

“Go away!” Rosa-Lynn snarled. “Can you not see I am grieving?"

Sara smiled hatefully. “I have your lunch, Milady.” She bumped the door open with her hip. In her hands

was a tray with a large portion of spoiled spew, a thick slice of bread slathered with butter that was less

than fresh, and a salad of greens that had not been washed when they were plucked from the garden.

“You need to eat."

“I'm not hungry,” Rosa-Lynn declared, but she was sitting up. She licked her lips. “Is that stew?"

“Your favorite,” Sara pronounced. “Made with the mushrooms you like so much."

Rosa-Lynn ran her hand under her chin. “Was the beef soaked in wine?” she asked, her stomach

rumbling.

“Aye,” Sara agreed. “It was soaked.” In Kerm's piss, she thought wickedly.

The Viper licked her lips again and cocked her chin toward the little tray. “Set it there. Perhaps I'll have

a bite or two."

Sara smiled as she placed the tray on the desk. She knew there wouldn't be a crumb left by the time the

pig got through. She turned, her hands folded demurely at her waist. “Will there be anything else,

Milady?” she asked.

Rosa-Lynn scooted from the bed. Her one true weakness in life was eating. As much as she consumed,

Sara thought, it was a wonder the woman wasn't as big as a whaling ship.

“Is there no dessert?” the mistress of Holy Dale manse demanded.

Sara smiled. “I believe there is custard from last eve,” she replied. Actually the custard was left over

from three days before, but what did that matter? Sara thought.

“That will do nicely,” Rosa-Lynn stated. She seated herself and began to shovel the stew into her greedy

mouth.

“Enjoy,” Sara said quietly and turned to go.

“Don't forget the custard!"

Sara looked behind her. “Oh, I won't, Your Grace. Have no fear on that account."

As she closed the door behind her, Sara hoped the pig would choke on her vittles.

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“His Grace told me to tell you there was a man rescued from one of the Tribunal hellships last evening,

Milord", Sara said as she watched Syn-Jern eating.

Syn-Jern looked up from the wonderful stew. “That's good to know. What was his name, Mam'selle?"

“Don't know, Milord,” Sara replied with a shrug. “Just another poor soul destined for Tyber's Isle, I

suppose."

“He's lucky the NightWinds intercepted the ship, then."

“I hear tell he'd been whipped something awful,” she informed him.

Syn-Jern laid down his spoon. “What had he done?"

Sara shook her head. “Don't suppose it matters, does it, Milord?” she asked.

“It does to me,” he said and meant it. He cared about every prisoner aboard every one of those black

ships that plied the waters between Ghurn Colony and Tyber's Isle.

“Aye, I imagine it does,” she replied softly. She looked at his hands. “Do they pain you, Milord?"

Syn-Jern sighed. “Just when it rains like today,” he said and lifted the spoon clumsily. He spilled some of

the delicious stew on the front of his nightshirt and groaned.

“Here,” Sara said, her smile bright. “Let me."

Although he protested, she fed him every last morsel of the food she had lovingly prepared for him.