WINDWARRIOR
By
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
© copyright by Charlotte Boyett-Compo, April 2009
Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, April 2009
Published by New Concepts Publishing
Smashwords Edition
ISBN 978-1-60394-293-5
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Chapter One
The war had been going on for decades with no end in sight and in Geddyn the dead outnumbered the living. To the west, the country of Merrimuid lay in ruins with no signs of life except for the carrion crows circling the devastation. To the north, the hills and valleys of Bassoil were a wasteland of charred huts and villages, the earth scorched. Along the eastern border, war-weary refugees poured into Treischt with their meager belongings, their starving animals, and their hollow-eyed children too weak to make a sound. Ragged shelters, lean-tos, and torn tents had sprung up overnight in the capitol city of Ghraih—taxing the charity of the already overburdened inhabitants.
However, what one had, they all shared until it was gone. One mother did not fill her baby’s belly so another mother’s infant would die of hunger. The female citizens of Ghraih worked together to keep one another alive while their men folk fought the encroaching threat from the south—the feared Tarryns led by the demon Deklyn Yn Baase, Laird of Drogh-gheay, the Black Baron of the WindWarrior Clan.
A curfew had been imposed in Ghraih for it was feared the Tarryns had sent warriors to inspect the defenses of the city. No woman was safe after the sun went down and only those who had an emergency reason for being on the streets or those who used their bodies to survive were out and about. Either was considered fair game to the invaders.
* * * *
"Well, what do we have here?" he asked, reaching out to catch her arm as she hurried past. "What are you doing out so late of a night, tarrishagh?"
She could smell the liquor on his breath and tried to pull her arm free. "Let me pass, milord. Please."
"Come into the light and let me see you, dearling," he insisted, his words slurred.
His brogue was that of the invading troop, driving fear deep into her gut.
"I’m not a prostitute," she said, twisting her arm now in an effort to get free. "I work at the hospital and …."
"She’ll do, my brother," another male voice said. "I don’t have to look at her face to take my pleasure of her."
"Watch your tongue," the first man said. He backed her up against the wall, pinning her there with his muscular body. "How ‘bout a kiss, tarrishagh? Can I have at least that much of your sweetness?"
Though she tried to evade his kiss, he dipped his head and slanted his mouth over hers, his tongue probing hotly at lips she kept tightly pressed together. That seemed to amuse him. He raised his head, squinting to see her face in the shadows of the alley. "You taste of cherries," he told her.
She put her hands to his chest and pushed, pleading with him. "Milord, please. There are plenty of women available to you. Please, let me go."
"Never," he said, grinding his lower body against her.
The press of his erection frightened her even more. She struggled against him but she was no match for his strength.
"She’s a whore," the other man said. "It’s just a matter of agreeing to her price." He reached down to drag the skirt of her gown up.
"No!" she hissed, beginning to fight him in earnest as his fingertips touched the bare flesh of her thigh.
"Stop that," her captor said, batting his companion’s hand away. "I want another kiss, pretty one."
She tried to knee him in the groin yet that only made him laugh as he wedged himself between her thighs, trapping her legs to either side of his.
Straining to get away from him, she heard him laugh, and before she knew what he was doing, she was hanging over his shoulder with his arm like an iron band clamping her legs together.
"Help!" she screamed. "Help, me!"
Nevertheless, no one came to her rescue as her abductor took her deeper into the alley and through a door his companion opened. The room was dark. It smelled of gunpowder, and when she was lowered to a soft mattress, she bucked, trying to scramble away.
"Oh, no, you don’t," he laughed, grabbing her ankle and dragging her beneath him. He pinned her down with his heavier weight between her legs, his fingers tight around her wrists as he pressed her hands to either side of her head. "I just want a kiss. Nothing more. You taste so good."
Once more, his mouth covered hers, his tongue sweeping over her closed lips. The second man struck a match and the smell of sulfur filled the air. She blinked against the harsh intrusion of light that hurt her night-adapted eyes as he put the flame to an oil lantern. Golden light filled the small room.
"Ah, she is exquisite, Reese," the man above her said in a soft, awed voice. His eyes roamed over her face.
"What difference does that make? She’s a cunt to be used so use her."
"No," the man staring down at her said. "She is an angel to be cherished."
For a long moment, she stared at her attacker. It was a handsome, boyish face with a deep cleft in the chin, and smiling lips that she beheld. His teeth were white and even, his nose straight. Long, thick lashes fanned over dark eyes that were filled with merriment. Broad shoulders bracketed a strong-looking neck. He did not bear the common traits of a Tarryn trooper. This man was nobility.
She tried appealing to that nobility.
"Please, milord, I am not a whore," she said, her bottom lip quaking.
He let go of her left wrist and laid his palm to her cheek, caressing her tenderly. "I am sure you are not, tarrishagh," he whispered. "And I am no rapist. I just want a few moments of your time to ease my loneliness." He tilted his head to one side. "Is that too much to ask?"
She was mesmerized by the sheer male beauty of his face and the press of his heavy body was doing strange things to hers. There was a clenching in her belly as he smiled gently at her, stroking the backs of his fingertips down the side of her face, sweeping the pad of his thumb over her lips.
"So beautiful," he said. "The most beautiful woman I’ve seen in years."
He lowered his head to claim her lips once more and this time he coaxed her into opening her mouth to him. His warm tongue slid between her lips to stroke hers. The feel of it was so heady she felt the breath leaving her lungs on a long sigh.
"Give yourself to me, tarrishagh," he whispered against her lips. "Let me give you pleasure."
She knew the Tarryn word he spoke meant beloved and its meaning went a long way in unlocking the hold she had on her control and to dissolving the fear running through her blood. His voice was so soft, so gentle, his eyes filled with tenderness. His mouth was sinful as he brushed his lips over hers in a silent plea to succumb. And his face! His face was that of a god, and she felt as though she was being pulled down into the heat of his dark eyes.
"You feel it, too, don’t you? I don’t know why but I want you as I’ve never wanted another woman," he told her, his lower body rubbing over the juncture of her thighs. Beneath her gown, her body oozed with heat, her juices flowing for the first time in her young life.
"Get on with it," the other man hissed with irritation. "We haven’t got all night."
"Give yourself to me, dearling," the handsome one said again. He trailed his hand to her bodice to cup her breast.
She arched her back—thrusting her breast into the strong, warm hard—and groaned. Nineteen years old and never been kissed, never touched or held, or even had a sensual look aimed her way all combined to make her ache for something she didn’t understand. It was being offered to her from those beautiful dark, beseeching eyes that would not look away. That looked into her very soul. That made her willpower dissolve. That drew her like a magnet.
He kneaded her flesh then dipped his head to place his hot mouth over her straining nipple through the fabric of her gown.
"Oh!" she cried out, her free hand going to the thick ebony of his hair. She held him against her as heat flooded her lower body and her belly clenched once more.
"I want you," he said huskily and his hand moved down to the skirt of her gown, inching it up until his palm was against her inner thigh. "I need you. Please don’t deny me."
She moaned. The calloused hand caressing her thigh—moving up until the fingers touched the leg band of her undergarment—made her tremble, her breath catch. Instinctively she lifted her hips in invitation to that questing hand, and she heard him growl low in his throat. Before she could take another breath his fingers slid beneath the leg band and across the heat of her core.
"Milord!" she gasped.
His mouth was on her breast again, suckling her nipple through the fabric. His fingers were stroking the folds of her secret place, causing tremors to vibrate down her spine. She writhed beneath his touch. It was setting her aflame with a need she had not known existed.
"I want you." He pressed the tip of his finger inside her warm core.
And she was lost.
"Aye!" she said. She would have given him anything at that moment for he was sending unbelievable waves of sheer ecstasy through her entire body.
"Do you want me?" he asked.
"Aye!" she repeated and pressed his mouth hard to her bosom.
"You’re sure? I won’t take you against your will."
"Please, milord!"
"You heard her. Fuck her and get it over with, man!" his companion snapped.
Her lover removed his fingers and tugged at her undergarment. "Help me here, sweeting. Lift your hips," he ordered.
All she wanted was that heavy body to work its magic with hers to soothe the ache he had started. She arched her hips for him to pull the undergarment down her hips. She lifted her leg at his nudging. She squirmed as he hiked her gown up higher, pushing it above her hips so the cool air fanned over her heated center. His fingers were brushing at his own clothing and the moment she felt the hard prod of him, the weeping wetness of his cock probing at her sheath, a semblance of sanity returned. For just a second she tried to form the word ‘no’, but he was gliding his shaft along her folds and she instinctively lifted her hips in offering even as he clamped down lightly on her nipple through the fabric with his mouth.
"That’s it, tarrishagh," he said through clenched teeth. "Give us both what we need."
The vibration of his voice as he held her nipple between his teeth sent waves of pleasure down her sides. He was pushing against her, stretching her. The tip of him was inside her and the heat, the slickness quickened her breath.
He released her nipple and moved up, slid his left hand beneath her rump to better position himself, his teeth now nipping her chin before he slanted his lips over hers and pushed his cock to the hilt inside her.
The unexpected pain between her legs shocked her and she pushed against his shoulders, tearing her mouth free to scream.
"Shite," he said. "She was a …."
The other man moved to clamp his hand over her mouth to cut off the next scream. The man atop her had stilled and was staring down at her with a look of intense guilt. She wriggled under him, trying to get free of the ungodly agony piercing her. The moment she did that, she knew she’d done the wrong thing. He began to move inside her, pumping quickly, going deep, stretching her unmercifully, filling her until she felt something jerk inside her several times before he shuddered and went still again, his head down.
He rolled from her and once more she heard him cursing.
"The gods damn it!" he said, coming to his feet as he stuffed his manhood back into his pants. "I didn’t know. I didn’t know!"
She clawed at the hand of the man hunkered above her, and he gathered one wrist in his free hand and ground the bones together, hurting her. When she tried to pry that hand from hers, he easily snared it as well in his huge paw, slamming both her hands down to her chest to pin them there.
"Get out of here before the guards are called," his companion said. "Do it!"
Her lover turned around, his face a mask of remorse as he looked down at her. "I …."
"Get out of here! You can’t afford to be caught!" the other man snarled.
"I didn’t mean to…If I’d known …."
"Get out!"
The last sight she had of her lover was of him opening the door and exiting into the night. The next thing she heard was his companion’s low grunt then the words that chilled her to the marrow of her bones—
"Now it’s my turn."
* * * *
Maire sat straight up in bed with a gasp.
It was the same old dream she’d had most every night for the last ten years but this time it seemed more vivid, more real, the images clearer in her mind, the details more solid. She was shivering from the feel of that other man’s rough, pitiless hands bruising her, hurting her, doing things to her no woman should ever be made to endure. He had brutalized her for over an hour—splitting her lip, blackening her eye—before the first man returned, no doubt wondering what was taking his companion so long.
"What have you done, Reese?" she remembered the handsome one shouting, fury darting from his dark eyes like crossbow bolts.
"She’s just a Vardarian whore," his companion replied with a laugh. He thrust his fingers inside her torn vagina so cruelly she screamed with agony.
"Leave her alone! Get off her!"
The handsome one had pulled the brute from her and while they were fighting—fists crashing into jaws with sickening thuds—she scrambled to her feet and ran. Battered, broken, bleeding in a dozen places, she staggered blindly down the alley until she ran into protective arms that swept her up and carried her to safety.
* * * *
Scrubbing her hands over her face to wipe away the memories of that savage night in Ghraih, she swung her legs from the bed to start another long, lonely day. It was the last week of March and the weather was colder than normal. For the next several hours, she drew water from the well, heated it and washed her clothing and the extra set of bed linens. She swept the floor, dusted, mopped, and set about making her meager supper. When the soup was cooking, she sat in her rocker and began mending a shirt, working straight through the morning and into the late afternoon with only a few breaks—to stir the soup and to bring in the wash. By five, her shoulders were aching, her neck stiff, and her fingers nearly numb from plying the needle. She stood, stretched with her hands to her aching back and decided to get a last breath of fresh air. The moment she stepped outside, she knew evil was only a few miles away.
Shading her blue eyes against the glare of the winter sky above Mount Kaule she stared at the smoke being blown at a steep angle by the crisp northern wind. There was no doubt in her mind that the village of Unita had been set aflame by the marauding hoard. Even from the distance of four miles she thought she could hear the clash of battle ringing through the valley. She knew Yn Baase and his murderous troop had struck the peaceful community a killing blow. It had been only a matter of time before his warriors came to her part of Vardar. The tell-tale smoke bore mute evidence that they were here.
"May the Wind be at your back," she whispered to the defenders of Unita. She feared they would most likely all be dead, dying or in chains, the women beaten, raped, and taken for slaves, the children left orphaned and gathered together to be taken to institutions where they would grow up hating all things Tarryn. That was what came of fighting back when the invaders rolled their juggernaut through your country.
She was uneasy for she feared the Tarryn troops would take the Spansiel Road south to the seaside city of Norvus where their warships were docked. That would lead them within a hundred yards of her isolated hut. Until now—at least as far as she knew—no Tarryn scout had come across her humble abode. Perhaps they would pass her by, believing the rugged hut not worth their time.
She looked at the lone goat that had been providing milk for her. The chickens were long gone. Her supply of vegetables, which she had canned from her summer garden, would just barely hold her through the long winter but if her foodstuffs and the scrawny goat were requisitioned by the troop, she would surely starve.
Hurrying into the sparse interior of her home, she quickly donned a coat that had long since seen better days, stuck her feet into a pair of her deceased husband’s old work boots and ventured out to the small corral, slipping the tether from the rail to loop it around Jenny’s neck.
"Come on, girl," she said, patting the skittish animal. "You don’t want to wind up in the belly of a Tarryn warrior."
Leading the trembling animal away from the cottage and into the thick copse of trees beyond, she pushed aside brambles that scratched her hands, tugging the goat through the greensward to the small hidden cave where she kept all her most precious belongings. Pushing aside a curtain of dead branches interwoven with moss, she led the skinny animal deep into the cave. A natural vent in the stone gave her enough light to see so she could secure the goat beside a small pool of water that had formed from the runoff of snow from Mount Kaule trickling through the vent. A small bale of straw she had dragged into the cave a month before would feed the goat until the danger of the Tarryn army had passed.
"You’ll be comfortable enough, girl," she told the goat. "You’ve got rags to lie on."
When she left, the little beast was happily munching straw. Carefully placing the barrier across the cave opening once more, Maire made her way back to the cottage. It was freezing cold, the wind whipping down from the mountain, and she was shivering—her lips blue—by the time she reached the warmth of her fireplace. Peeling out of the old coat, kicking off Phillip’s oversized boots, she held her hands to the crackling flames to warm them, frowning at the bramble scratches across the backs of her work-reddened hands. Her fingers were stiff with the cold—her gloves having disintegrated long ago. One look told her she needed to bring more wood in before the snows came again, but she hated to go back outside. The light was rapidly fading. The wind skirled like a banshee—rattling the door and single window—and pushed savagely against the rafters. She could feel it seeping up through the warped floorboards as it whirled under the rickety old place.
She used her apron to reach for the ladle to stir the vegetable soup that bubbled in a cast iron pot slung over the flames. The thin mixture of potatoes, parsnips, beets, carrots, onions, turnips, leeks, and cabbage seasoned with garlic, salt and pepper would be her one daily meal for the next several days. She had a single loaf of stale bread left before she’d need to make the trek into Norvus to barter for a couple more. With any luck, she’d be able to bring home a few eggs, a tin of butter, and a small bag of tea. As it was, all she’d be having with her meal for the next few days would be water from the well.
She padded over to the creaky old rocker and sat down, reaching once more for the sewing that kept her in stable goods, she would otherwise have no way to obtain. Since her husband’s death, her only means of support came from the sewing she took in—the mending of clothing and the occasional construction of a new shirt or gown. On occasion she knitted and crocheted, quilted and embroidered as well but those were frivolous things that were rarely requested of her nowadays. Paid in foodstuffs instead of coin, it was a hard life but an honest one. It left no room for non-essential things, for extravagances or luxuries like sugar or spices, but she managed to make do. At least she had not been reduced to bringing men to her bed in order to survive as some women had been forced to do.
Her nimble fingers moving with care and precision to make tiny, almost invisible stitches in the mending, she hummed to herself to ward off the sense of impending doom, she sensed marching her way. With her fertile imagination, she could almost hear the tramp of their heavy boots, the rattle of harness and the creaking of war wagons.
"Stop brooding on it," she mumbled. "You’re borrowing trouble, Maire."
A small plinking sound against the window told her it had begun to snow. She cast her gaze to the doorway to make sure she’d brought the shovel in for she knew by morning she would be forced to dig her way out of the drift that would pile up at her door.
Sighing, she wished she could journey to the balmier lands where snow was only a word spoken in passing instead of a way of life. She longed to see the sun shining all year long and feel the warm wind wafting over her upturned face. Once—when she was but a child—she had tasted a small rosy fruit from the distant lands of Tarryn. A merchant ship laden with all manner of tropical fruits had sailed into Norvus Harbor and the townspeople had been given samples of coconut milk, papaya, guava, and mango. Maire’s eyes had rolled as she chewed the bright orange flesh of that rosy fruit, the juice dripping down her chin.
"More, Papa. More!" she’d begged her father and laughingly, he had purchased two mangoes for his only child.
Happier times, Maire thought as she paused in her stitching. A mist of sadness filmed her eyes—blurring her vision—but she lowered her head and swept the sleeve of her worn blouse over the tell-tale moisture. It was not good to remember happier times. It hurt far too much.
For over an hour she kept at her sewing until she could no longer ignore the protests of her empty stomach. Sighing, she laid the shirt aside and stood. It was getting darker than the fireplace light could dispel, anyway, and would be time to light the single candle she allowed herself each evening. If not for the need to see the stitching, she would have made do with just the light from the fire for candles were a precious commodity and not to be wasted. Though she had lamps, there was no oil with which to fill them.
Going over to the low table that served as her kitchen counter, she took down a wooden bowl and spoon and carried it back to the fire. Using her apron as a potholder, she ladled the piping hot soup into the bowl then set it aside while she went back for a small slice of bread and a glass of water from the pitcher. Taking those to the rocker, she sat, lowered her head to thank the gods for her skimpy meal, and then picked up the bowl.
Chewing methodically, she stared into the shadows of her little cottage. There wasn’t much to look at—no pictures on the rough-hewn walls, no curtain on the lone window, no rug on the uneven floorboards. The furnishings consisted of her rocker, a cast iron single bed with a cornhusk mattress, a small table that set between the rocker and the bed, the low table in what was the kitchen part of the one-room building, and a small tin tub for bathing. Beneath the bed was a chamber pot. A trunk held Maire’s small amount of clothing. That was all that had been left to her when the home she’d shared with Phillip had been sold to satisfy the undertaker’s bill.
"What’s wrong with you tonight? Stop thinking such morbid thoughts!" she said aloud.
Dredging the thin slice of bread through the soup, she felt tears prickling at her eyes again. It was rare she felt sorry for herself. There was no good purpose to be served by feeling such things. It only made her want what was no longer available to her. At twenty-nine she was too old for any middle-aged man to want as his wife and the young men of her country were away fighting the accursed war. All that was left were those males not fit for genteel female company—the drunks and bullies, the desperately insane and those slowly becoming that way.
Sometimes, she thought as she finished that one bowl of soup she allowed herself to eat, she wished she could go to sleep beneath the worn coverlet, snuggle down in the thin cotton sheets, and never wake. Death had to be preferable to the miserable existence that had become her lot in life.
Heaving another self-pitying sigh, she got up to take her bowl to the table and the basin of water she would use to wash it. As she did, she stared at the snow that had accumulated against the window pane. Beyond the glass, the sky was a deep purple. Snow swirled in thick bands to blanket the land, but it did not muffle the sound of harness and hoof coming down the road.
She stilled with the dishrag in her hand, listening as the sound of men’s voices could be heard over the noise of their mounts.
"Over there!" she heard one yell. "There’s a cabin!"
Her heart sinking into the pit of her stomach, she backed away from the table, pressing her back against the wall as though by doing so she could meld into the very wood and hide. The dripping rag she held to her chest as though it was a war-shield to protect her soaked her blouse. Shuddering violently, she whimpered as the thud of heavy boots rapped on the porch floor. She whimpered as the door was kicked in—a rush of harsh wind swirling into the room.
He filled the doorway almost completely—broad shoulders blocking out what little sky glow there was beyond. A black great cape swirled around his long legs, whipped by the fierce wind. Snow caked the broad brim of his black cavalier’s hat minus its plume.
"It’s empty!" he pronounced.
The tramp of more feet rocked Maire’s porch as two more brawny men entered carrying between then a fourth man. Blood dripped from the man’s body as they took him to the bed and laid him down.
"There’s some kind of soup in the pot. Pour it out and fill it with ...."
"No!" Maire protested, coming away from the wall with her hand out in pleading. "Please, don’t! It’s all I have!"
The man in the cavalier’s hat spun around to pierce her with a steely gaze that might well have terrified the demon Yn Baase, himself. His hand had gone to the dagger at his thigh, and it was obvious her presence stunned him for he’d not seen her when he entered. He took a step toward her, sweeping off his hat to reveal a countenance so filled with fury it terrified her.
"I’ve a wounded man here, wench. He needs seeing to. You can always make more gods-be-damned soup!"
"No," she said. "Please, milord. I have so little as it is."
"From the looks of things, that is most likely the way of it, Jules," one of the other men spoke up.
"We need to heat water," the one called Jules grated as he shrugged out of his great cape. "We need that pot, Guy!"
"I’ve another!" Maire was quick to tell him. She scrambled away from the wall and to the table, pushing aside two wooden baskets of vegetables to get the smaller pot.
"Give it here," Guy said. "I’ll fill it at your well. Where is that, lass?"
Maire told him.
"I need clean rags and a basin," Jules told her.
These were Tarryn troops and she hated to do anything to give aid and comfort to the enemy of her people but from the look on the leader’s face, he’d as soon run her through with the black-handled blade strapped to his thigh as glower at her. Clenching her jaw, she hurried to provide the items for which he’d asked.
"Do you have any spirits, wench?" the third man asked. He was younger than the other two with a lopsided grin that spoke well of his disposition.
"I do not," she answered. "The strongest thing I have is lye with which I make my soap."
"Figures," Jules growled. "I have some brandy left in my flask. It’s in my saddlebags. Go fetch them, Andrew, and Dek’s as well."
"Aye, Captain," the young man said and had the decency to close the battered door behind him as he left.
Maire’s eyes widened as she slowly shifted her gaze to the man on the bed. He was sprawled there with his face turned away from her. She prayed with all her heart that he bore only the same name as the demon laird of Tarryn and wasn’t the beast, himself.
"Help me get his clothing off," Jules ordered, leaning over to shove his dagger into the coals of the fire. He thrust the fireplace poker into the coals, as well.
Despite her fear of the speaker, the last thing she wanted to do was touch the male on the bed. If he was, indeed, Deklyn Yn Baase, she would just as soon skewer him as lay hands to any part of his loathsome body.
"Woman, don’t make me tell you twice!" Jules thundered, reaching out to grab her arm and propel her savagely to the bed. "Get his gods-be-damned boots off!"
Shaken as though he was a terrier and she his prey, Maire stumbled against the bed, hands out to keep from falling. She grabbed hold of the wounded man’s knee, heard him draw in a ragged gasp as pain no doubt rocketed through him.
"Bitch!" Jules roared, drawing back his hand to hit her.
"Don’t do it," came the weak command from the bed.
Realizing she was a breath away from being mauled by the irate warrior, she hastened to draw off the muddy boots that had stained the soft white chenille of her bedspread. Groaning as she took in the mess, she knew the spread was ruined anyway for there was a large bloodstain spreading out from beneath the wounded warrior, but the sight of the mud only served to add insult to injury.
Rather than drop mud all over her clean floor she moved to set each boot down carefully beside the hearth. Apparently not moving as fast as the one named Jules thought she should, he hissed at her, eyes blazing.
"Woman, you are sorely trying what little patience I have left," he warned her. He was carefully peeling away the wool great coat that covered his patient, folding it back to reveal a thick gray wool sweater that bore a broken-off quarrel shaft, the point obviously still buried inside the wounded man’s shoulder.
Staring openmouthed at the blood-soaked sweater, Maire jumped when the angry warrior ordered her to give him a pair of scissors to cut open the garment.
"Are you feeble minded or just stupid?" he snarled, snatching the implement from her hand.
"Jules, stop insulting her," the man on the bed muttered. "I mean it."
The door opened and closed and the two men who had left came in again. One carried the cast iron pot filled with well water while the other had several flasks in his hand.
"I’ve enough booze to get four men drunk as skunks," he told Jules.
"We only need enough to get one man drunk," came the brusque reply. "Get those pants off him, Andy. He’ll be more comfortable."
Maire stepped back, thankful her services would no longer be required. She moved to the other side of the small room, so she didn’t have to see what was happening. The arrogant bastard was running the shears up the middle of the sweater and when he gently peeled the two sides away from the protruding shafts, she heard him curse.
"The gods-be-damn it, Dek. What a mess you’ve made for me to clean up this time!" he complained.
"You should feel it from my side," the man he was tending quipped.
"Just shut the hell up!"
Guy had unhooked the soup pot from the fireplace crane to hang the pot of water there to boil. "Where do you want this, lass?" he asked.
"On the table," she mumbled, hating to talk to the bastards but afraid not to answer.
"Smells good," he complimented her. "Could do with a shank of meat, though."
She wanted to tell him that, on account of men such as him, she’d not had any meat in over a year but wisely kept her words to herself. From the look on the face of the man in charge she might be spitting out a few teeth if she dared to criticize them.
"We need to lift you so I can take your coat off," Jules said.
"Then do it," was the weak reply.
"Easy, now," Jules said. "Guy, take his left arm and gently bring him up."
Maire hoped the action would be agony for the wounded man. If, indeed, it was Yn Baase, he and his father and grandfather before him had caused so much pain and suffering over the last twenty years, he deserved to know some of it firsthand. She took a step or two to the side, so she could see his face when they levered him to a sitting position.
With the sweater laid back, the wound was livid against the warrior’s tanned flesh, and it pulsed dark blood as he was hefted upright. As the men quickly worked to rid him of his clothing, she could see the toll it was taking on him for he was shuddering violently. His face was turned down, forehead slick with sweat and jaws clamped so tightly together a white line had formed around his lips. His raven-black hair where it had come undone from its queue was plastered in thick waves to his forehead and cheek.
"Gods!" he hissed as Jules pulled the sweater from the jagged shaft of the quarrel. He lifted his head and when he did, she gasped, staring into piercing green eyes that seemed to look right through her to her very soul. She was grateful when they rolled back in his head a few seconds before his chin dropped to his chest, dark hair swaying.
"It is," she whispered. "It is him!"
She could hear the blood suddenly pounding through her ears as she stared at the handsome face she’d seen once before—ten years earlier in a dirty storeroom in Ghraih. She shook her head to rid herself of the illusion that the man she’d dreamt about only that morning was laying now in her bed.
"He’s out," Andrew informed them.
"Get that knife! Quickly, man!" Jules ordered Andrew who took a rag and grabbed the red-hot weapon.
They eased him to the blood-soaked mattress and set out to pull the quarrel from his shoulder, no doubt moving as fast as they could in the hopes he wouldn’t regain consciousness.
That was not to be.
Chapter Two
Though Deklyn Yn Baase had been tripped up by the pain and had plunged into some dark, hideously brutal place in an attempt to avoid it, he carried with him the image of the one face for which he had been searching for ten long years. In every village, every town, every settlement, he and his troops entered, he ordered the women brought before him and looked closely at each of them. Every time he had been disappointed, his hopes dashed, his fears escalating that she was dead, lying in her grave all those years. Even so, now he had found her and in the blink of an eye, the same dream he’d had repeatedly during the years rose up to ensnare him.
He had beaten Reese Fontyne nearly to death that night. When his best friend did not join him at the rendezvous point within the hour, he had grown worried and went back to look for him. Never would he have imagined Reese would be engaged in the savage act in which he’d caught him. When he’d seen what had been done to the Vardarian woman, Deklyn had unleashed the beast hidden within him. The true Black Baron of legend rose to the surface and lashed out with brutal vengeance.
When Reese lay unconscious, Dek had gone in search of the girl, fearing she’d been hurt so badly she might not survive it. He had gotten only a glimpse of her battered face, but it would be enough to haunt his nightmares for years to come. Until dawn he searched for her but there was no trace. He’d gone back to his regiment and when they attacked the city, he had begun searching every female’s face searching for hers but she had not been among the captives.
Infuriated, terrified he’d never find her again, he’d sent his men through every building, hut, and hovel within a ten mile radius, yet she was nowhere to be found. No one knew her name, or else they were keeping it from him when he described her to the informants. For over two weeks he had his men searching, but it was all in vain. By the time the troop set sail for Tarryn, he had only her memory to take with him.
"You have to stop dreaming of her," Jules had insisted. "She’s gone, Dek. Let it be."
But he could not. He always looked for her everywhere he went.
Pain his subconscious mind could not hold at bay suddenly seared him, jerking him away from his memories. His eyes fluttered open and he drew in a harsh gasp.
"You couldn’t stay out, could you?" Jules snapped. "You always have to do things the hard way, don’t you?"
"You want a swig of liquor, Commander?" Guy asked.
"Aye. Give me the whole fucking bottle." He was staring at Maire, relieved that she was still there, that he hadn’t dreamt her. "I never thought to see you again."
Jules’ head pivoted toward her. "You know him?"
Maire was so surprised that the Black Baron still remembered her that she couldn’t speak. It wasn’t until the man named Jules repeated his question with a menacing growl that she cleared her throat and answered. "He is the Laird of Drogh-gheay."
"Aye, he is your Overlaird," Jules answered.
"Not mine," she said beneath her breath.
"Aye, yours!" the horrid man snapped at her. "And every other Vardarian’s!"
Clenching her hands into fists, she dug her nails into her palms, reveling in the pain as little half-moons cut into her flesh. The Black Baron’s eyes were fused with hers as he greedily drank from the flask held to his lips. Though there were feverish sparks in that demon-green gaze, she also thought she saw a hint of laughter and raised her chin, consigning him to the deepest pit beneath the slime of the Abyss.
He was so happy to see her after all this time he wanted to throw back his head and howl with relief, laugh until he cried. "Don’t worry. I’ll get there yet, lass," he said as his man took the flask away.
Maire’s eyes widened, sure now he could intercept her thoughts.
"What?" Jules demanded. "Get where?"
"Hell," Deklyn muttered and once again his head rolled downward as the loss of blood and the pain overtook him, plunging him once more into unconsciousness.
"What’s wrong with his eyes?" Andy asked, his forehead creased.
"They’re closed, you moron!" Jules hissed at him.
"Drag the sweater sleeves off his arms while he’s out," Guy advised and between them, he and Andy did just that. When they had the sweater off the injured man, they stepped back.
Jules reached for the protruding shaft, pulled on it but it would not come free of the Baron’s shoulder. He twisted it in an attempt to work it free and the result was his patient coming awake with a yelp that startled everyone.
"Fuck!" Dek spat, his entire body trembling from the pain.
"Had to be done," Jules said in a callous tone though Maire saw what it was costing him to hurt his overlaird. The man armed sweat from his own brow. "The point is a broadhead with mec blades, Dek."
"What does that mean?" Andrew asked but Jules ignored him.
"The blades are retracted close to the ferrule before the shot. Upon impact, the blades snap open as they penetrate with the cutting edges facing the entrance wound, making it impossible to pull out without doing real damage," Guy explained.
Jules hissed a truly vulgar curse. "There could be only two blades but most likely there are three. Hell, there may even be four. I’ve got to make a wide incision to work around the blades. It’ll take time to work the point free."
"Booze," the injured man whispered. "Gimme all you got. Hell, give me the entire distillery before you do that to me again!"
"If you don’t shut up, I’ll brain you one, and you won’t have to worry about the fucking booze," Jules grumbled.
Once more, Andrew held his commander’s head until he’d consumed all the liquor the young man had been able to find. She knew it wouldn’t be enough. As much as she hated him, hated what he stood for, his suffering was having a strange effect on her. She should be happy he was in pain but oddly enough she wasn’t. Then there was the guilt she hadn’t expected to be feeling, too. She owed him for saving her life all those years ago for she knew without doubt his friend would have eventually crippled her or—worse yet—killed her had he not returned and intervened.
"I have some tenerse if that would help," she said.
Jules whipped his head around. "Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that before now?" he demanded.
"I just thought of it, you insufferable bastard!" she snapped, surprising him for a moment, then he took a step toward her, fist clenched.
"We would appreciate it, lass," Guy said, stepping quickly between her and Jules.
Without looking at Jules, she went to her small cupboard and retrieved a bottle of purple liquid, bringing it back to hand over to Guy. She shrugged. "There’s not much left, but it will help to deaden the pain."
"Every little bit will help," Guy told her. He administered the tenerse to his commander.
"Ugh," Deklyn scowled as the taste of the drug exploded on his tongue, instantly numbing his mouth if not his shoulder. "That tastes like moldy shite."
"Been swilling down moldy shite, have you?" Jules asked with a snort.
"Have another drink," Guy said but his overlaird shook his head in denial.
"Just finish it," the Black Baron said through clenched teeth and grimaced as he lay down again.
"We need to make it so he can’t struggle like he just did," Guy said. "One false move and you could sever a muscle or artery in his shoulder making the arm useless. If you nick the main artery, he’ll bleed out."
"You think I don’t know that?" Jules bellowed. "You want to do this, Guyland?"
"I think we should get some of the men in here to hold him down is what I want," Guy said without batting an eyelash. "Make it where he can’t jackknife as he did a few minutes ago."
"Go," Jules ordered Andrew, waving his fingers at the younger man. "Get Giles and Rupert and be quick about it."
Andrew hurried out, casting Maire a worried look as he went. There was a loud, piercing whistle beyond the door, the shouting of two names and then the sound of boots crunching over the snow.
"We need you to help us hold him down," she heard Andy say.
As the men tramped into the cottage, Maire felt dwarfed by their massive size. Towering over the bed, they bent over to aid Guy and Andrew in holding down the extremities of their wounded leader.
She saw Yn Baase grab handfuls of her spread, twisting them as Jules retrieved the knife again.
"You ready, Dek?"
She saw him nod, watched him close his eyes in anticipation of the pain. As soon as the blade was put to him, he shrieked, twisting so violently the men were hard-pressed to restrain him. His cries of pain made the hair stand up on her arms, and she crossed them around her, trembling as he continued to bellow. The men struggled with him, begging their overlaird to pass out. His cries were so loud she had to slap her hands to her ears to filter the unnerving sound.
"Wench, get the hell over here!" Jules ordered.
Having to bite her tongue not to curse him Maire shook her head in denial of his order then gasped as Jules shot away from the bed, grabbed her arm in a punishing grip and dragged her to the bed.
"I’m going to wind up beating your ass yet, bitch!" he thundered, whipping her around so she was flung up against the bedside table.
"Watch what you do, Jules," Guy warned in a hard voice, "or I’ll beat your ass!"
Jules snarled then pointed a finger at Maire. "Sit down at the top and hold his head in your lap."
"I will not!" she said, eyes flashing.
One moment she was breathing, the next she was struggling to draw air into her lungs for Jules had his powerful sword hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing the life from her. She scratched at his hands with her nails—drew blood—but he didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were pinpoints of fury, lips drawn back as he squeezed her neck between his thumb and index finger.
"Do you have a death wish, bitch?" he snarled in her face, spittle hitting her cheeks.
"Jules, let her go." It was Deklyn’s weak voice giving the order as he struggled to sit up. "If you hurt her ...."
"I could snap your gods-be-damned neck like a twig!" Jules threatened.
Maire’s vision was beginning to blacken, and she was seeing stars. Though she clawed at his hand until she drew a stream of blood, he kept his brutal grip on her throat until Guy stepped over to him to slam the edge of his hand on the crook of Jule’s arm, breaking the hold.
"Stop it! He said to let her go!" Guy told him. "We don’t have time for your melodramatics!"
"The bitch ...."
Maire didn’t hear what else he said for she was rubbing her injured neck, struggling to drag air into her depleted lungs. Her ears were pounding, all sound dulled, her head suddenly throbbing from the lack of air. She wasn’t even aware of the hard hand gripping her upper arm. She was forced onto the mattress beside the Tarryn laird and when his men lowered him, his sweat-dampened head was heavy on her lap. She looked down to see him staring up at her, guilt and pain turning his eyes dark green.
"I’m sorry for what happened," he said and the words stunned her, so she couldn’t speak. "I should have stayed. I will regret not doing so on my deathbed, tarrishagh."
"What?" Guy asked, brows drawn together. He stared at Maire.
"Let’s do this," Jules snapped, obviously not liking the undercurrents flowing between his commander and the woman. He took up the red-hot knife, wrapping its handle in the shirt Maire had been mending to keep from burning his hand. "He’s as numb as he’s going to get."
The other four men bent over once again, bracing their hard, calloused hands on the legs and feet, shoulders and arms of their overlaird. The moment the hot blade was applied, the injured one stiffened, his back coming off the mattress.
Maire didn’t have time to consider what she was doing. She put her hands to each side of his head to hold it. He was gasping for breath, his eyes wild as he tried to break free of the men restraining him. He cursed, spat like a cornered snake, but they kept him down until the point came free. Before his scream was cut off in mid-vibrato, Jules applied the poker to the gaping wound to close it.
Maire had to clap her hands over her ears again for the scream that came this time was many decimals higher and louder. She heard the glass in the window break and turned wide eyes to the destruction.
"Thank the gods, he passed out," she heard Andrew say and looked back around. Jules was sweating profusely, his breathing ragged as he stared down at his overlaird. The big man was trembling violently.
"Put that poker in the fire and sit your ass down in that rocker before you fucking hit the floor!" Guy ordered.
Jules didn’t question the command but stumbled to the rocker, the poker still clutched in his hand when he crashed to the seat. His teeth were clicking together, his eyes mirroring the guilt of having caused such agony. Guy stepped over to take the poker from him and when he did, Jules looked up with tears in his eyes.
"I really hurt him, Guy," he said, voice breaking.
"Had to be done," Guy reminded him in his own words. He looked around at Maire. "The water is hot enough. Will you bathe him down for us, lass? I think he needs a woman’s touch just now."
It was on the tip of her tongue to say no but five sets of war-hardened eyes were staring at her. She dared not deny them. She nodded and eased the unconscious man’s head from her lap. Andrew went over to the fireplace to dip water into the basin for her.
"You have our gratitude, wench," the young man said as he placed the basin on the table by the bed. "His life is dear to us."
She didn’t reply but set out to do as she’d been asked. With the Tarryn overlaird naked except for the buckskin breechclout covering his loins, she felt her face flame as she plied the warm rag to his blood-streaked arm. It had been four years since she’d been near so much bare male skin and never had she seen such thickly corded muscles or as many battle scars. His chest was crisscrossed with fine white lines she was sure had been made by passing blades. There were two other puncture-type wounds and one puckered scar on his right thigh that looked as though it might be a burn.
However, his face, despite the thickening growth of a few days beard, did not show any scarring. There was mud streaked on his chin and forehead—extending up into his thick shock of ebony hair—but no trace of the hard living that had peppered his body with the tell-tale signs of brutal battle.
As she ran the rag over the mud on his forehead, she studied his face, thinking his was not the countenance of the demon people were told it was. Certainly, he did not look as though he could turn milk sour with such a handsome visage. He was just as handsome—if not more so—than the first time she’d seen him. His features were patrician, signifying his high birth. The nose was finely chiseled with just a slight tilt downward at the end to give it a boyish cast. The curve of his lips was appealing for the lower was thicker than the upper, which had a definitive bow shape to it. Long, thick eyelashes swept over cheekbones that were high, slanting down boldly to a lantern jaw and strong cleft chin. Both ears were pierced though he wore no jewelry save a medal slung around his thickly corded neck and a gold signet ring on the index finger of his right hand. His eyelids fluttered and opened for a fraction of a second—just long enough for her to see that green glow staring back at her before the lids closed again.
"They are green. I thought they were black," she said without thinking.
"Beg pardon?" Guy asked behind her.
"Nothing," she said and forcibly looked away from that devastatingly beautiful male face, moving her rag down the Tarryn overlaird’s side before ringing it out in the water.
"Were you speaking of his eyes, lass?" Guy asked. "The color of his eyes?"
She shrugged. "Aye," she mumbled. "I remember them as being black."
"I knew there was something wrong with his eyes," Andy said. "They’re green now!"
"I was too busy to notice," Jules grumbled.
"He let her see the true color of his gaze?" one of the other two men inquired with awe.
Jules flung out a dismissive hand. The rocker creaked. "It would seem so, Rupert."
With all but their overlaird staring at her she straightened. Even the bastard who had taken up residence in her beloved rocker was looking back at her with something akin to puzzlement.
"What of it?" she demanded, the wet rag dripping into the basin.
"His eyes were black," Guy said. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable.
"Like his soul," Jules said on a sigh as he laid his head on the back of the rocker. "Isn’t that what you Vardarians say about him?"
"I speak not of him at all," she said as she set back to bathing the blood and mud from the man on the bed. "I think even less of him."
Jules raised his head. "You’re going to open that pretty little mouth of yours one time too many, and I’m going to snip that vicious tongue out of there for you."
"She’s entitled to her opinion," Guy reminded him.
"No call for her to be badmouthing the commander, though," one of the two men whose name she didn’t know spoke up.
"Was she doing that?" Guy asked. "I heard no insult, Giles."
"It was implied," Giles stated. "She said she didn’t think much of him."
"She said she thought even less of him, Giles," Guy corrected. "I take that to mean she doesn’t give him any thought at all." He locked eyes with Maire. "Isn’t that right, lass?"
Maire had no trouble reading between the lines. He was deftly warning her to be careful what she said around the overlaird’s men.
"Aye," she said, looking away. "That is what I meant." She moved the rag to her patient’s leg.
Jules snorted but kept his thoughts to himself.
Guy walked to the other side of the bed and laid a hand to his commander’s cheek. "He’s got a fever," he reported.
"I’d be surprised as hell if he didn’t," Jules said. He pushed up wearily from the chair, coming to stand beside Maire. He, too, laid a hand to the unconscious man’s face. "We’re going to need a poultice for the wound." He sighed then turned to Maire. "I don’t suppose you have any medicines in this hovel of yours."
"My home is not a hovel," she snapped, her eyes flashing up at him.
"Do you or do you not have ....?" Jules barked.
"I used charcoal paste on my husband, and it cured a knife wound to his arm," she said.
"Where’s your husband now?" Guy asked.
"He’s dead."
"Figures," Jules snapped. "She probably killed him with one of her home-made remedies."
"He was killed by a Tarryn trooper!" she hissed.
"My granny used charcoal paste on me once," Andrew said, drawing Jules’ glower to him. "It did work, Captain."
"What do you need to make the poultice, lass?" Guy inquired.
"Ash from the fire and boiled water," she said, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.
"Scoop out some of the ash, Andy," Guy instructed.
"The hod is empty," Maire told the young man. "Just drop them in there. I’ll make the paste when it’s cool enough to handle." She moved past Jules—straining not to touch the odious warrior—so she could go around to the other side of the bed.
"I don’t have coozies, bitch," Jules growled at her.
"Never prove it by me," she said under her breath. She didn’t think anyone had heard her but Guy winked at her, his lips twitching as he stepped back to give her room.