WindSeeker (37 page)

you do. You are answerable to your people in much the same way. Your behavior of late is appalling.

You have built walls around you; shut yourself off from everyone. Tell me what is hurting you. Let me

know how to help. How do I break down those walls?"

Conar felt something snap inside his head. He blinked, tossed the blond hair from his forehead. It was as

though he had come up out of a dark pool and could again see clearly. He focused on his father’s face,

wondered what they had been talking about, and was stunned that they were standing in the middle of the

garden in lightly falling snow. He gazed at the anguish on his father’s face, the tension in the still-powerful

body, and wondered what he had done.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Papa?"

It was as though someone had slapped the king with a slab of cold meat. Gerren’s mouth dropped open.

By the gods, Conar thought with shock. He had done something terrible. He was afraid to ask what. He

didn’t think he wanted to know what other awful deeds he was capable of doing. There was a noose

tightening around his neck, squeezing the life out of him, and he didn’t seem to be able to stop it. He

could feel an emotional dam building inside him, and in a detached way, he wondered when and where

the first crack would appear; when the flooding waters would pour out of his shattered soul to drown him

in the maddening surge. One moment he was blind to what had been happening, the next, every word,

every action, every shameful event rushed back at him, flooding his mind with the stench of evil. He

viewed the past half-hour as though it was happening again. "Sweet Merciful Alel," he groaned, "I

didn’t!" He buried his face in his hands.

"Conar?" his father asked, touching his son’s rigid arm. "What is it, son?"

He felt as though he were coming apart at the seams. "I’m sorry." His voice was filled with humiliation.

"Papa, I am sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me."

His son’s sudden vague, perplexed look did more to frighten the King than the vile temper of only a few

moments earlier. "Go inside where it’s warm." He stroked the boy’s arm. "Go to your room and I’ll send

Cayn to you."

Conar met his father’s look. "There’s nothing physically wrong, Papa."

"There well might be," his father contradicted. "It’ll do no harm for Cayn to look at you."

* * *

"Did Cayn examine him?"

"Aye," Gerren sighed as he sat in his favorite chair before the library’s roaring fire.

Legion laid down the book he had been reading. "And?"

"He can find nothing ailing the boy. No tumors. Nothing. Cayn assures me there are no signs of him

taking drugs, but damn me if he doesn’t act like he’s in another world most of the time!"

"The intensity of his anger is certainly unjustifiable," Legion stated. "One more outburst like last evening

and I’m going to beat the hell out of him and be done with it."

"I’m not sure that would help." Gerren chuckled. "Although it might make
you
feel better."

"Something’s not right, Papa. He gets worse every day."

"Could it be because of what happened to Liza with Galen?"

Legion shook his head. "I asked him and he said no."

"But you aren’t sure?"

"I don’t think he blames her, but I don’t think he can let it go either. It’s as though he keeps replaying it

in his mind and all that rage begins to surface. I don’t think he knows how to handle what he’s feeling. He

just lashes out at anyone or anything that upsets him. What else can it be?"

Gerren sighed. "It takes a strong man to deal with his woman’s rape. Especially when it has been by his

own kin. I never thought any of my sons capable of such evil." He shook his head. "Jah-Ma-El,

Galen—their treachery was bad enough. Now Conar’s behaving as though he has lost his senses. What

am I to think of how I have raised my children?"

"You aren’t to blame, Papa. What we do with your teachings as we age is what sets us apart from one

another. It is what individualizes us. If our morals are tarnished, you are not to blame."

Gerren laid his head on the back of the chair. "Perhaps a week or two in Ciona will help him sort out

whatever is bothering him."

Legion plowed a thick hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He wasn’t so sure. He lowered his hand

and scratched at his full beard. "I heard Brelan was in Ciona."

His father shrugged. "The chances of them running into one another are slim."

"It won’t help Conar if he sees him."

A snort of annoyance came from Gerren’s tired lips. "It’s high time those two boys settled their

differences."

Legion agreed; he just wasn’t sure now was that time.

* * *

Conar sat playing with his food. He didn’t want it, didn’t need it, and sure as hell didn’t find it palatable.

He spooned the oatmeal up and down, letting it plop down with a slurping sound, letting it splatter on the

table, drip down the side of the earthenware bowl. He swirled it around, made tunnels through it. Finally,

he spooned up a huge mound and shot it across the room where it landed in a sticky gob over Sadie’s

head.

"Either eat it or leave it, Highness!" she snapped as she came to stand over him, her fat, meaty hands on

her ample hips. "If you want something else, say so, else get out of my kitchen!"

He responded with almost immediate violence. With a swish of his hand, he swept the bowl off the table.

Oatmeal scattered in gray lumps on the freshly scrubbed planking and the earthen bowl shattered into

fragments. He snorted, his face tight with snotty smugness.

"Oh, that was just fine, it was!" she snarled, eyeing the blotches of sticky gobs. "It takes intelligence to

do that!" She folded her arms across her heavy bosom. "If you were a decade or so younger, I’d have

you on the floor cleaning it up!"

Conar stood, towering over the squat woman. He wiped his hands on the napkin in front of him, put his

hands on the table, and then leaned over, his eyes boring into hers, not surprised when the old lady didn’t

back away from his towering menace.

"You’d do what?" he whispered, his head tilted as he smiled a lethal challenge.

Sadie sniffed, her pug nose jammed up in the air as though she had caught wind of a not-so-pleasant

smell. "You heard me. I ain’t afraid of you. You might be able to make the others go to trembling in their

shoes, but you don’t scare me." She wagged a finger in his face. "You take your bullying tactics

somewhere else."

A smile full of deadly promise touched his full lips. "I’d be careful if I were you, old woman. Things

happen around here sometimes." He winked. "Stairs get slippery. Fires start in the kitchen all the time.

Wasn’t it just last week one of your scullery maids broke her leg?"

Her beady eyes narrowed with cunning. "Them things go for all the keep folk, now don’t they, Your

Grace?" Sadie turned her back on him. She picked up a tankard of milk she had been preparing and

started to bring it to her lips. "Why don’t you be a good little boy and play outside. Drown a kitten or

two. You’ll feel better." Her smile was full of retaliation. "You ain’t getting nothing more from me this

day."

He snatched the tankard from her hand, draining it in one swift draft. Wiping the sleeve of his tunic

across his mouth, he threw the tankard as far across the room as he could.

Sadie shrugged her fat shoulders. "Don’t make no nevermind to me, Your Grace. ’Tis your utensils you

destroy."

"Aye, and it might be one fat old bitch the next time!" he spat and stormed out of the kitchen.

Sadie MacCorkingdale smiled with spite. She spoke to the person who had been hiding inside the

pantry. "I don’t know what it is you’re giving him, but it sure ain’t setting well."

Her grandson picked up a freshly baked muffin and bit into the blueberry-filled bread. "Just see he gets

his medicine at every meal, Granny."

The old woman walked to him and tousled the bright blond hair. "Oh, I will, Robbie, don’t you worry."

The fat face filled with hate. "He’ll pay for what he done to your mama. We’ll see to that!"

* * *

Sexual hunger ached inside him. He fidgeted in the chair, his blue gaze hot on Gezelle as she arranged

flowers in a vase on his desk. He studied her delicate shoulders, evaluated the curve of her back,

enjoyed the tight sweep of her rump. A black tendril of hair had escaped her snood and floated beside

the gentle turn of her cheek. A tiny smudge of dust dotted the soft olive flesh and he wanted nothing more

than to lick it away. As she bent forward over the desk to rub at a stain, her breasts swayed in her pale

blue gown. His loins surged with need.

"How much longer are you going to be?" he asked and met her inquiring look as she turned.

"I’m finished, Milord," she answered, tearing her gaze from his. She knew that look all too well of late.

"Come here." His soft voice made her heart thud.

She hurried toward the door. "I have things I must do, Milord."

"Gezelle."

Her hand was on the knob when he called again.

Once more the soft, insinuating call, "Gezelle."

She glanced back at him, unsure, timid. He was lounging in his chair, one leg over the arm, bare foot

dangling; the other leg was stretched out in front of him. He was leaning on his elbow, chin in hand, his

head cocked at an angle as he stared. His naked chest gleamed in the candlelight. Her gaze darted to his

waistband where the top three buttons were undone.

"I have things to see to, Milord." She jerked open his door, her heart beating too fast.

"Gezelle!" It was no longer a request.

She dropped her head. "Milord, please. Now is not the time to—"

"Close the door, Mam’selle."

Without a word, she pushed shut the heavy oak panel.

"Bolt it."

She shot the bolt.

"Come here."

She couldn’t move. She knew what he wanted. She knew, too, what he would get. She held her breath

when she heard his chair squeak and knew he was coming for her.

Conar padded softly to her and withdrew her snood. He removed the pins and spread the black tresses

over her shoulders. Then he took her shoulders, turning her to face him. He backed her against the wall.

"Why do you always make me come to you?" he asked quietly. He lowered his head to nuzzle her cheek.

"Why is that, Mam’selle?"

"Milord, please. Not again this morning," she pleaded. It had been bad enough after the morning meal

when he had sought her out in her room as she dressed for the day. He had ravaged her and she was still

sore from his thrusts.

"You will not deny me, Mam’selle," he whispered as he ran his tongue along her earlobe, smiling as he

heard her quick intake of breath. He took the tender lobe between his teeth and worked it back and

forth.

Gezelle felt her resolve weakening, as it always did, at the touch of his wicked mouth on her neck, as he

kissed the soft indention beneath her ear.

"Someone will miss me, Milord." She put up her hands to push him away, but he took them and brought

her fingers to his mouth.

"I have missed you," he told her, licking her fingertips with his tongue.

"Please, don’t," she begged, feeling the heat of passion building in her lower body. As he moved against

her, his thigh brushing the heat of her lust, she felt her knees threatening to buckle.

"You want me," he whispered against her mouth. "I know you do."

"This is wrong, Milord. You know it is wrong."

"I know what I want."

"Milord, please, don’t!" she moaned, gasping as her belly filled with a hot stab of desire.

"Don’t tell me what to do, Gezelle," he warned. He drew the tip of her index finger into his mouth,

nibbled it with his teeth.

"Oh, god!" she moaned, her knees growing weak.

He let go of her hands and drew her to him, his hands molding themselves to her trim derrière. She

wiggled against him, trying to break free, and he brought her into hard contact with his lower body, his

manhood pressing against her belly.

"Shush!" he warned in a seductive whisper. His lips returned to her neck.

"Milord, someone will suspect us. I would be—"

"Nothing would happen to you, Mam’selle. I wouldn’t let it." He brought his head up. "I would call it

rape."

Gezelle shuddered. "No…"

He shrugged, stilling her. "They’d take a few inches of flesh off my back, but it would have been worth

it."

"Don’t say such a thing, Milord!"

"I know you want me. You know you do. You always have. Why fight me so?"

"If your father was to find out—"

"Hush!" he snapped. His eyes turned hard. He clutched at her skirt and lifted the muslin.

"Milord!"

He fumbled with the remaining buttons on his breeches as he held her against the door. "I told you to

hush!" He freed his manhood, then used both hands to lift her, positioning her on himself in one lithe

thrust.

Gezelle groaned deep in her throat, her hands burying themselves in the bright gold of his hair. Her lips

found his. She gave herself to him with the wild abandon that had become a way of life for both of them

in the four months since Liza had been gone.

She rode him, gripped him, let him take her without protest, and when it was finished and they stood

drenched in sweat, she held him to her.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow would be time enough to tell him. She kissed the sweet softness of

his blond hair and wondered what his reaction would be.

Chapter 2