WindLegends Saga 9: WindRetriever (42 page)

Conar was about to ask her to let him cover himself when he felt the mattress dip and then grunted as she straddled him, settling her slight weight on his hips.

"I want to feel you, McGregor," she told him in a husky voice. "I want to ride you as you have ridden many a woman in your lifetime."

Sex was not something he cared to indulge in at the moment, but he knew he was not going to be allowed to protest. Her hands were all over his chest, caressing him, her fingernails dragging softly down his flesh.

"Sybelle...," he started to protest, but she bent forward and covered his mouth with hers, her tongue darting between his parted lips. Her breasts flattened against his chest and he realized she was as naked as he.

"I will have you, McGregor," she mumbled against his lips.

The last thing he wanted was to have her rubbing her firm rump against his manhood. The crispness of her nether curls pricked at his thigh as she slid down him and he ground his teeth against the immediate awakening of that part of him she sought. His hand went to the scarf once more.

"No!" she said, an edge of anger in her tone. "I will have you the way I want you, McGregor, or have you forgotten our bargain?"

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He let his hand drop back to the bed. "I haven't forgotten, Sybelle," he said. "And I doubt if you'd let me, anyway." His tone was that of a hurt little boy.

His words made her angry, as did the warning from the Lady which flitted across her mind like a stern reminder that this man had to be handled very carefully in order to bring him to heel.

With a flounce of annoyance, Sybelle swung her body from his and she got off the bed in a frustrated bound.

"Cover yourself, you Infidel dog!" she flung at him as she stomped to the chair where she had placed her gown.

Conar reveled in the ability to sit up, to reach down for the sheet. He should have felt weak, he thought, after so many weeks of inactivity. Of days without being able to move. But he didn't.

He felt refreshed, almost invigorated, as though he had not gone months without strenuous exercise to keep his muscles taut and firm. If was almost as though he had just been asleep for all that time and was now awake, ready to get on with his life.

"Don't gloat," Sybelle hissed at him. "You may be in full possession of your health and physical prowess, McGregor, but you are still accountable to me for what you have and what you are."

He turned his head toward her and could just make out her outline through the folds of the silken scarf. "I know that, Sybelle," he answered. "I will not go back on my word."

"I know you won't, either!" she spat. "Else I'll return you to that world of darkness you found so terrible!"

He didn't doubt for a moment that she would. If she could take him from it, she could send him back. And he knew the return trip would be worse than the first. He also knew he had to be careful with this woman. The wrong word, the wrong action, could be his undoing. He hung his head.

"Tell me what you want me to do, milady," he said softly.

Seeing that bright blond head bent beneath the weight of his sentence brought a lurch to Sybelle's heart. She ached to run her hands through that lush softness, to thread that silken mass through her fingers, to feel the weight of it in her hands. She took a step toward the bed, her body throbbing with need, but once more the Lady's warning touched lightly on her mind.

"Lie down, McGregor!" she snapped. Seeing him sitting there, so vibrantly alive, his wide chest rising and falling with every anticipatory breath as he awaited her command, brought a keen awareness of her darkest needs. When he obeyed her immediately, she nearly groaned with frustration. She had to turn away from the sight of him lying there, his hands beside his head, that silken scarf hiding the unmistakable allure of his glorious eyes.

Conar could sense her impatience and wondered what she was thinking. Had they been in Serenia, his own powers could have told him, but here, in the Inner Kingdom, he had no powers.

Not even the uncanny insight that had always been with him.

"Don't think of leaving this room, McGregor," she warned him. "If you do, I will have Chaim chain you to that bed."

"I won't," he answered.

She stood at the door, watching him for a moment, before hurrying from the room, her heart pounding with desire and her body wet with the need to know the powerful thrust of his sensuous body.

Conar sat up as her footsteps faded down the corridor from his chamber. His hand, now trembling, went to the scarf and slowly he pulled it from his face. The light was very intense and he squeezed his lids shut to block out the pain, but slowly, carefully, he eased them open until he Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 189

was able to see his surroundings with such clarity, such sharpness, that he marveled at the ability.

He swung his gaze about the sparsely furnished room and wasn't surprised to see that the room was decorated with very expensive-looking furniture.

With more calm than he felt, he eased himself up, holding his breath as his feet touched the floor, then he levered himself from the bed. His breath came out in a slow, relieved gush as he realized he could stand without falling. His first step was sure and unassisted by the foot post of the bed although his hand hovered close to the cannonball upright. His second step was surer than the first and he moved away from the bed, exhilarated by the fact that he didn't feel weak. A wide smile of relief spread over his face and then he flung his head back and hooted with delight.

Sybelle heard the sound as she hastily stripped her gown from her and plunged her heated body into the pool. She knew he was testing his newfound strengths and abilities and wished she could be there to see it, but something, no doubt at the Lady's command, had warned her that he needed time to adjust. Slumping down in the too-cool water, she let the harshness of her watery environment wash away the need that was running rampant in her body. There would be time to do with him as she wished.

Conar walked to the garden doorway and stood there, drawing in the early morning coolness and smells wafting down from the mountains. Although he had as yet to see the Capstans, he knew they were there for Chaim had once taken him riding up the twisting trail to a hidden pool where the two men had bathed beneath a waterfall. Chaim had described a beauty which Conar knew must rival that of his native Serenian Alps.

Padding over to an armoire in the corner of the room, he opened the doors to find several robes hanging there. Frowning, he pushed the heavy material aside and searched for some of his own things. At last, folded neatly at the bottom of the armoire, he found his cords and a cambric shirt. He put them on and felt better than he had in months. After tying his shirt, he raked his hands through his hair, grimacing at the tangles. His gaze searched the room, looking for a mirror, and when he found one, he went to it and stood there, smoothing down the wild tumble of his blond hair. Shrugging at his inability to tame the mess without benefit of a brush or comb, he was about to turn away when he met his gaze in the mirror and stopped, going as still as a statue. He stood there, unable to believe what he was seeing, then walked closer to the glass, reaching up to touch his reflection. As he realized that what he was seeing was real, he shivered, unable to believe what she had done to him as he slept.

Gone were the livid twin scars which had bisected his left cheek from the corner of that eye to his earlobe. The bright scarlet slashes had vanished and only smooth, tanned flesh remained.

His hand left the mirror to touch his restored cheek and as his fingertips moved over undamaged flesh, he closed his lids, his lips trembling. When he opened eyes, his gaze shifted to those orbs that had, the last time he had looked into them, been a dark, sinister blue. Now, they were as bright and pale as they had been when he was a child, as innocent-looking as they had been before he had been given into Kaileel Tohre's keeping.

"Oh, my god," he whispered, staring at his reflection.

How long had it been since he had looked as he did at that moment? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty years? It was as though the hands of time had been turned back for all the lines, the stamps of pain and grief and hurt had been wiped from the face which looked back at him. The man staring at him from the mirror looked no older than twenty, if even that, and surely no worse for the wear Conar had known for most of his adult life.

It didn't take him long to wonder if the flesh of his back was as smooth as the flesh of his cheek and he tugged up his shirt, turning so that he could see his back in the mirror. The scars that Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 190

had ravaged his back were no longer there.

Slowly he let his shirt fall. He tore his gaze from the mirror and walked back to his bed, sat down with a grunt of disbelief and stared into his hands, hands that bore no scars, no brands.

Sybelle had erased every imperfection that had marred him.

"Why?" he asked, looking up. He was at a loss to understand her motive. What did his appearance matter to her?

It wasn't until night began to fall that he understood. Or thought he did. When she appeared at his door, clad in the silkiest of gowns, her lush body outlined beneath the pale azure material which did nothing to hide her from his view, he thought he knew.

"I can not wait any longer," she told him on a breathless sigh as her gaze raked over him.

He could see the lust on her face, shining on her wet lips, pulsing in the vein at the hollow of her throat. She was devouring him with that heated stare, stripping him where he stood, and he knew at that moment why she had altered his appearance to her taste. His shoulders slumped and he reached for his shirt, drawing it from him.

Sybelle was unaware of the panting little breaths that were lifting her ripe breasts beneath the gauzy material of her nightgown. She barely heard her plea to him, unaware that to his ears it sounded unsure and filled with the fear of rejection.

"McGregor?" she whispered, searching his face for any sign of rebellion.

Conar sighed deeply, his heart breaking within his chest, then he held out his arms to her.

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He stood quietly beside Sybelle, his head slightly bent as the Holy Man chanted words he could not understand. Now and again, he would glance at Chaim and wonder at the look of delight on the servant's face, then look away again, unable to bear that joyous look when his own soul was being destroying by the ceremony binding him to Sybelle Bath-Alkazar.

"McGregor," Sybelle hissed at him, nudging him with her elbow. When his gaze met hers, she held out her hand. "The ring?"

He nodded and fished in the pocket of his robe to take out the simple thin gold band she had told him he would be required to place upon the third finger of her left hand. As the Holy Man looked on with a beatific smile of consent, Conar slid the shiny gold ring onto Sybelle's finger.

Glancing up into her face, he saw the glowing light of possession looking back at him and he had to look away.

"Do you have a ring for your husband, Your Majesty?" the Holy Man asked.

Conar flinched. He had been adamantly against this part of the ceremony and had made his objections known, but Sybelle had insisted. As she put out her hand to take his, he almost refused her.

"McGregor!" she mumbled.

One look at her face, tight with warning, and he extended his hand to her.

The ring felt cold as it slid over his flesh. As cold as the iron shackles which had once bound his wrists and ankles. It seemed to glow with an evil cast and he could see his dejected visage in the wide finish. Although he knew it was his imagination, the ring seemed to weigh his hand down, to cut into his flesh as though bonding itself to him. With a heavy heart, he wondered if he would ever be able to remove that tell-tale symbol of Sybelle's ownership.

"Husband and wife."

Those were the last words he heard before he was given a glass of wine to sip. Before he and his new bride stamped their booted heels on the fragile crystal wineglasses. Before the servants gathered around the white canopy under which he and Sybelle stood and shouted their wishes of good luck to him in the Kensetti language. From that moment on, the music and singing, the chatter of people in the main garden as they laughed and wished him well, was only a steady hum. He saw mouths opening and closing, nodded politely at smiles and pats on his back, but heard nothing beyond those three caustic words that burned into his brain like acid. Sybelle's hands, wrapped tightly around his left bicep, kept him at her side else he would have ran, ran and hidden where he could blot out those horrible words that were echoing through him. Ran and hidden from the woman who kept him prisoner in her heated grip.

The night wore on his nerves. He danced with her, supped with her, lifted his wineglass in toast after toast to her as each servant felt compelled to impart a word of congratulations to their mistress and her mate. When at last the Holy Man nudged him and nodded toward a freshly-filled wineglass, Conar stood up, his legs shaking, and lifted his glass in salute to his new bride.

"Milady," he said in a voice so soft and so lacking in inflection it did not miss his own notice, "may you know the happiness you seek."

If it was not quite what those gathered had expected to hear, or what Sybelle had wanted him to say, it was the best he could do. The wine as it touched his lips after the toast was bitter as bile and filled him with such a sense of hypocrisy, he nearly choked on it. When he sat down, he Charlotte Boyett-Compo WINDRETRIEVER 192