Rejar (10 page)

It was the one thing that completely undid him. The feel of a woman sliding her hands through his hair. Lilac’s fingers moved in soft, gentle sweeps, lightly tugging at the strands just the right way.

The way he adored.

Closing his eyes in total bliss, Rejar growled deep in his throat.

He was lost.

And when those same wondrous hands began to massage his scalp, displaying a skill which surely one must be born with—

He fell upon her.

* * *

Rejar drained his glass, slamming it onto the table. He glanced at the “cards” in his hand with red-rimmed eyes, not really paying any attention to the game of wagering he was presently involved in. Why should he? He always won these simple pastimes the men of this world seemed to amuse themselves with.

He rested his chin in the palm of his hand and sighed. It was late. Almost dawn. He was tired and yet he knew he would not be able to sleep.

Especially next to her.

No! He would not think on it. Absolutely not.

It was not altogether his fault!

Wearily, he closed his eyes, admitting the truth to himself. Yes, it was all his fault.

Why was he behaving in such a manner? It was totally unlike him.

He didn’t remember exactly what had happened after that red haze of passion had swept over him, but the next thing he knew, they were rolling across the bed together, his arms embraced about her waist, his face buried within her neck. Her scent enveloping him.

He had swiftly rotated her on top of him, his hands wildly stroking and caressing everywhere at once; down her back, her legs, cupping her rounded—

Ironically, it was Fanny Bumey who had shocked some sense into him.

In his pleasure-seeking frenzy, his elbow had knocked into the small table next to the bed; the book Lilac had placed there earlier went crashing to the floor. The heavy thud had snapped his hold on her; she instantly stiffened.

He had only a moment before her confusion focused into full consciousness. Quickly, he flung her from his arms, transforming himself even as he leapt from the bed.

It had been close. Very, very close.

She had not seen him but the abrupt manner in which she had been propelled from his mesmerizing inducement made him sure she would remember much of her “dream.”

He would not risk it again. He dare not.

No, he must change his strategy with her now.

This was indeed turning into a challenging hunt. If only he wasn’t so restless, he could enjoy it more! The only time he seemed able to get some peace from this strange malady was when he lay beside her. There was something about her presence which calmed him, even as it inflamed him.

Truly, it was most odd.

His desultory gaze scanned the smoky, dimly-lit room of the seedy gambling “hell” in this place called Covent Garden. What was he doing here? He should be out carousing. ...

Yes, that was it! This was foolishness. Why should he suffer like this? It did not make any sense. No one had asked it of him.

He would find a woman. Any woman. Tonight. They would lie together; he would feel like himself again and then he would proceed with Lilac. It made perfect sense. He would not make the same mistake he had at Byron’s; he would choose and that would be it. He would not think about hair color or eye color or any such nonsense. Women were all beautiful in their own way. Equally so to him.

Feeling much better now that he had resolved in his mind what he had to, must do, Rejar gathered the tokens he had just won in front of him. The gentleman on his left grumbled, stood up, and vacated his seat. The man on his right handed him the deck of cards. Smiling, he began what was called “the deal.” When he finished, he sat back in his chair, briefly glanced at his cards, then let his sights scan the hall. A group of garishly dressed women stood by the stairs on the far side of the room. His blue-and-gold gaze lingered on them.

“Up fer a bit of wenchin, guvna?”

A peculiar man with a weathered face and a contagious smile plopped down on the seat to his left. He was dressed in bright green from head to foot. An unlit pipe dangled out of the corner of his mouth.

Rejar looked back at the women again, then winked at the man in green beside him. “Mmm, most definitely.”

The man snickered good-naturedly, elbowing Rejar several times in the side. “That’s the way to go fer a youngblood on the town!” Glancing over his shoulder, he eyed the women who had captured Rejar’s attention. “Just don’t get no pox though,” he murmured in an aside, “Be a shame, a good lookin’ bloke like you.”

Pox? Rejar was confused. “What is pox?”

“ ‘Tis a cryin’ shame to see a man drinkin’ by ‘isself.” The man pointedly stared at Rejar’s now empty glass.

Amused and mildly diverted, Rejar motioned with an expert flick of his wrist {perfectly imitating a dandy he had seen earlier} to a server for a glass of spirits for the man. The man gulped it down as if he were dying of thirst. Rejar was momentarily sidetracked by the game.

The man watched the handsome nob place a shrewd bet onto the table. He nodded in approval. Sharp, he is...

Having placed his bet, Rejar turned to him. “So, what is this pox you speak of?” he innocently asked.

The man sighed loudly, as if to convey there was a difficult job to be done here and “I’m the one who has to do it.” Leaning toward his new companion, he draped a guiding arm over the man’s broad shoulders. The pitch of his voice dropped theatrically to convey the seriousness of the subject he was about to discuss. “Wot’s yer name, lad?”

Rejar threw a bemused glance at the hand resting familiarly on his shoulder. His senses had told him much about this man already. The man had been avidly watching his pile of tokens, but he was harmless; the brusque exterior hid a gentle soul. “I am called Nickolai.”

“Nickolai, is it? Well, listen close, Nickolai—the pox is what you get when you lay wit certain wimen.”

Understanding dawned. Rejar smiled broadly. “Ahh! We call it the coming. It is most pleasurable.”

The man frowned at him. “No, ye bloody sot! ‘Tis a terrible affliction!”

The true meaning sunk in. Rejar was horrified. “You mean ... an illness?” He’d never heard of such a thing.

“Aye, now you’ve got the size of it.”

The smooth brow furrowed. “But—What does it do?”

“Wot does it do!” The man’s eyes bulged out so far they looked like they were going to jump from his head. “Why, it shrivels up yer pizzle and makes it fall off, that’s wot!”

Rejar went deathly pale. He had a sickening idea exactly what a “pizzle” was.

“Of course by that time yer stark bloomin’ mad! Yer might not even notice you don’t ‘ave no pizzle no more.”

That would be the day. Rejar rubbed the side of his temple, which suddenly began throbbing. By Aiyah, this idiotic world! It would drive him mad! He was fairly certain he would not be susceptible to such an ailment due to his inherent makeup, but the idea of it...

“You said certain women—which women?” The words escaped from clenched teeth. His head was pounding now.

“Them wimen,” The man nodded to the group by the stairs, “is not fer you.”

The man noted that the young buck looked disappointed and somewhat desperate. The handsome man briefly closed his eyes and knocked his head against the back of his chair. Twice. Poor lad. You might have thought someone had just told him sunshine had been outlawed.

“Ye got a girl, lad?” he asked kindly.

The fleeting expression of horror flashing across the sultry face gave the man his answer. “Go back to ‘er then. Wot you want to go lookin’ fer trouble fer?”

“You do not understand. She is for later. Right now, I need—”

The man tsk-tsked, shaking his head. “I can see wot you need the guidance of good ol’ Jackie boy ‘ere. That’s me name, Jackie Mulligan.” He puffed out his chest proudly, pointing to it with his thumb. “Irish—Cit, I is, and proud of it. Me father and me mither come from Ireland, y’know; but I ‘ail from the Cit, chum.” The man’s speech shifted rapidly back and forth from Irish lilt to East End twang. Rejar was having trouble following his meaning.

“Who is the Cit?” he asked, totally perplexed.

“Green as me garments, y’are, laddie.” Jackie lowered his head tragically at Rejar’s lack of worldly knowledge, then quickly raised it to pierce him with a cunning stare. “You, ah, you got someone to look out fer you ‘ere?”

“What do you mean? Like a servant?”

“No, I meant a—”

Rejar interrupted him, thinking this might not be a bad idea; the man could instruct him in the hidden ways of this world. “Are you asking to be my servant?”

Jackie hesitated but a second; he swept the battered cap off his head, causing a few wispy hairs to fly out. “Are—are ye lookin’ fer a man, sir?”

Rejar’s eyes twinkled. The odd fellow was really quite comical. “I suppose I could use someone to help me—it is the custom here, is it not? For men of means?”

“Aye, chum, I mean, sir. That ‘tis!”

“Then I will take you.”

Tears of gratitude {or was that mirth?} formed in Jackie’s eyes. “You ain’t jesting me, sir, are you?”

Rejar was offended. “Of course not. I am a son of Krue.” As if that should answer any doubts the man might have.

Jackie wiped his eyes with a suspiciously shaking hand. “And you would know, guvna. Where can I find you, then, o’ kind sir?”

“I am at the Clarendon Hotel. Tell them I said to arrange lodging for you as well.”

“But who shall I say wot sent me?”

“Hmm ...” The magic in the name has worked well enough so far, Rejar thought. In all likelihood it would get lodging for this fellow too. He waved his strong hand imperiously in the air. “Tell them Prince Azov has sent you.”

“Blimey, a bleedin’ prince!” Jackie Mulligan looked as if he was going to faint. Or burst out laughing.

Chapter Five

It was late morning when Rejar finally made his way back to his hotel suite. Totally weary from his evening of wagering and drinking, he staggered through the door, eyes red-rimmed.

Purposely, he had stayed out past the point of exhaustion in the hopes that he might fall into a dead sleep and thereby forget the unending torment he was forced to suffer in this forsaken world.

Pox! Who had ever heard of pox? What would be the next horror he would have to endure here?

It would probably be something like beautiful, young women forbidden to have sex altogether.

He stopped a moment, snickering at his own imagination gone wild.

No, that was too far fetched even for this ridiculous world!

“Here we were all so worried about you; and you, coming in at this hour—after a night of carousing, I wager. Do you have any idea how long it took poor, old Yaniff to find you?”

Rejar came to a dead stop in the entryway, stunned. His brother Lorgin was sitting across the room from him, his booted feet, crossed at the ankle, conquering a tabletop! He was the picture of indolent tolerance.

“Of course,” his brother continued blandly, “if you had taken your studies with the Charl, as Yaniff had always hoped, you might have called the Tunnels to yourself and saved him his grief.”

“Lorgin!” Rejar’s face lit up with a huge grin. He crossed the room in three strides. Lorgin smiled as he stood, embracing his younger brother in a hearty hug.

“I was going to ask how you fare, Rejar, but, as usual, I see you have landed on your feet.” He slapped his brother affectionately on the back, then stepped back to grin cheekily at him. “Or, in your case, should I say on your side?”

Rejar wagged a finger at him. “So speaks the voice of his own experience.”

Lorgin laughed, then became serious. “We have missed you, brother. Suleila was beside herself with worry; I do not think father has had a moment’s peace from her since you were lost to us.”

Rejar smiled at the mention of his mother, sorry she had been worried, yet knowing a female Familiar’s love for overdramatizing events. “I suppose father enjoyed it, in his own way.”

“Mmm. But he was concerned for you, as well, Rejar. Although, he refused to believe any ill befell you. He said he had the utmost faith in his son’s abilities.”

Rejar raised a black eyebrow. “Did he?” Not his Familiar abilities. Rejar exhaled resignedly. Even though he knew his father loved him, Krue had never accepted what he considered to be Rejar’s denial of his Charl heritage. His Aviaran father wanted only warrior sons, a difficult path for a child born of a Familiar mother inheriting all the abilities of her race.

Understanding his brother’s dilemma, Lorgin placed a hand on his shoulder. “He loves you, Rejar. He wants what he believes is best for you.”

Rejar looked down at the carpet for a moment, wisely deciding to let the subject pass. “I know,” he finally said.

“Come, let us not think on these things now; I have pleasant news to speak of—Adeeann will soon make you a father of the line.” Lorgin crossed his arms over his chest in an arrogantly proud pose. “What say you to that?”

Rejar lit up with joy. “Lorgin!” He grabbed his brother in another bear hug, almost causing both of them to topple over. “This is truly the best news! How does Adeeann fare with the babe?”

Lorgin laughed, sharing his brother’s happiness. “She is well, though she complains much, as is her nature.”

Familiar eyes being what they were, Rejar caught the briefest of movements behind the couch followed by a flash of red hair, quickly hidden. It appeared Adeeann was here and Lorgin did not know of it. The corners of Rejar’s mouth twitched in suppressed laughter. His brother was in for it now.

He would see to it.

That was what a brother was for.

“Ah, Adeeann did not accompany you, Lorgin?” Rejar asked him innocently.

“Of course not! I would not allow her to take such a risk; she is safely at home, where I have told her she must stay.”

Another flash of red, followed by the minutest snort of disgust.

“I see.” Rejar nodded slowly. “And she agreed with this?”

Lorgin stuck his square chin out, falling for the bait. “Yes, Adeeann understands she must take my counsel when it conies to certain matters.” He waved his hand through the air in a gesture of dismissal. “She is my mate so she does as I bid her.”