WindDeceiver (21 page)

“Your friend is going back to Asaraba?” she asked as she came into his tent.

“Aye.” Conar motioned her to sit down.

Rachel seated herself on the low stool and waited until he was sitting cross legged on his pallet before inquiring after his headache.

“It’s gone, but the hangover remains,” he answered. “Sometimes I think that’s even worse that the damned nuisance of the headache.”

“His Grace told me how terrible the pain can be,” Rachel remarked. At Conar’s lifted brow, she told him she was speaking of Prince Sajin. “I have never had a headache,” she told him.

“I can not imagine how it feels.”

“It feels like you’ve been kicked in the head by an irate camel,” he quipped. “One intent on splitting your noggin’.”

Rachel smiled. “I’m glad to know you’re feeling better, milord.”

“Well enough to turn you over my knee and make you heartily regret having gone against my direct orders yesterday, Mam’selle,” he said in a sober voice.

“You won’t,” Rachel told him.

Conar sighed. “No, I won’t, but I should.”

She watched him for a long time and when he said no more, she put out her foot to nudge his. “Why did you call me in here, Khamsin?”

He looked down at her foot and swung his own against hers, tapping her boot with his.

“You remind me so much of someone I knew a long time ago,” he said at last. “She didn’t let me get away with anything either.” He looked up. “She was as apt to slap me as kiss me.”

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She knew to whom he was referring. For once, the notion that she bore so close a likeness to his dead wife did not drive her to anger.

“You have that effect on women,” she retorted. “I’ve been inclined to hit you a few times, myself.”

Conar smiled. “I’d just as soon you didn’t, Mam’selle.” He tapped her foot again. “If you hit like you shoot that bow of yours--“

“I do,” she interrupted.

He snorted with humor. “I was afraid you did.”

“I am a warrioress, milord,” she said with all seriousness. “I know no other way to be.”

Conar nodded. “I can understand that.” His smiled was gentle. “But it doesn’t make me worry any the less for your safety.”

“Don’t,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand, “confuse me with your wife, milord.”

She watched the instant pain form behind his thick golden lashes. “I am a firm believer in the Prophetess’ words: what will be, will be. When my time comes, I will embrace death just as strongly as I have embraced life. If you must worry about me, worry that I meet my maker with as much courage as I can.”

“I have no doubt that you will,” he answered.

Rachel leaned toward him, fused her gaze with his. “Let me be what the Prophetess wants me to be, milord Khamsin. Don’t try to make of me what you want.” She put her hand on his cheek. “I can not be to you what you want me to be and do what must be done. Do you understand that?”

He reached up to cover her hand with his own. “What is it you think I want from you, Rachel? I am a married man.” He searched her eyes.

Rachel slowly slid her hand from beneath his and placed it demurely in her lap. She sat back. “You want me to take your first wife’s place and that I can not do.” She lowered her gaze.

“Not in this lifetime or in any other.”

Conar was stunned that his thoughts could so easily be read by this woman, but not surprised since Liza had the same uncanny ability to read him as though he were an open book.

The two women were far too much alike for him to be easy about the similarities.

“Who are you, Rachel?” he asked.

“Just a woman, milord,” she answered and stood up, looking down at him with understanding. “You should not put aside your new wife, Khamsin, because you see in me your first. Your gods gave the Tzarevna to you, they put her in your life; can you not understand that is what they want for you?”

He lowered his head. “If she stays with me, she’ll suffer, Mam’selle, as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow.”

“We all suffer, Conar,” Rachel said, using his name for the first time. “In our arrogance we think we can sway the will of the Higher Power, but that isn’t true.” As he lifted his head to look up at her, she smiled sadly. “We can only delay the inevitable.”

He sat for a long while after she had gone and stared at the floor, gathering his thoughts and trying to make sense of the turmoil in his soul. He loved Catherine; that much he knew. And she loved him. He wanted to be with her, to watch her belly sprout with their child, to watch that child grow and take her place with her brothers at Boreas Keep. He wanted to grow old beside Catherine, to sit with her and laugh at the antics of their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. He wanted peace for once in his life.

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Standing up, he felt every ache and pain in his forty year old body. He was tired and heart-sore and lonely. Raking his hands through his hair, he thought of what Rachel had said to him. He could not deny the attraction he felt for the woman, but he understood why: she reminded him vividly of Liza. And just as he knew the reason he felt drawn to Rachel, he knew he would never act upon that feeling. Neither of them really wanted that.

“Alel, help me,” he whispered, knowing what he truly wanted was Catherine at his side and dreading that for fear she would end up as the other women in his life had ended up: dead at the hands of an enemy.

“Not so of Amber-lea,” a tiny voice inside his head reminded him.

But he knew differently.

Amber-lea had died at the hands of his very worst enemy: himself.

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Thom Loure was the first to go down amidst the heavy blows of the attackers. His last thought as unconsciousness sealed his fate was that this must have been how Rayle had felt. He stretched out his hand toward young Paegan as that man fell, then closed his eyes with a grunt of pain and fell headlong into the darkness.

“Take them alive!” Rylan heard as he struggled to reach Paegan’s side. His brother was bleeding profusely from the wound in his head and Rylan was near to madness as Paegan lay still and pale.

“
Roget! Behind you
!” Tyne shouted, parrying the swords of the four attackers who were driving him back. He was bleeding from cuts to his arms and thighs made by the wicked, curved blades of his opponents. He had been fighting for over twenty minutes, trying to get to Wyn who was lying inert in the sand, his blood seeping from a gaping hole in his side.

Roget stumbled, felt a burning pain in his left side, and then pitched forward, landing hard with a groan. He tried to shrug off the hands which came down to clutch at him, but he was too weak, too tired, too numb to resist the hemp that was quickly bound around his wrists.

“That one! Get him before he can run!”

Jah-Ma-El looked behind him at the cry, but he renewed his efforts to reach the horses, to go for help. His feet dug deep caverns in the shifting sand as he tried to run. He almost reached the picket line where their horses had been tethered, but felt himself falling, something tight wrapped around his knees. He looked down as he crashed to the sand and saw the bola, screeched in ungodly frustration as hard hands plucked him up and began to tie him.

Grice and Sentian were fighting back to back, their blades scraping along the sharp edges of their attackers scimitars. Neither man thought he could win, but both wanted to exact as big a toll of their enemies as time, and the gods, would allow. Grice took a quick glance about them and hissed with rage.

Wyn, Paegan and Thom were lying lifeless in the sand. He didn’t know if any of them were still alive.

Rylan, Roget, Tyne, and Jah-Ma-El were being dragged to their horses, all four men trussed so tightly the pain showed in their tired faces.

Ching-Ching was lying sprawled in the sand, his right arm crooked at an odd angle.

Holm was struggling mightily between three attackers, his hoarse bellows of fury making the heavens tremble. But even as Grice watched, he saw the brawny man go down beneath a torrent of vicious fists.

“Grice!” he heard Sentian yelp and cast his gaze back of him to see Sentian fall, a blade in his left shoulder.

Grice threw down his own weapon and raised his hands.

Catherine’s fingers arched into claws and she went after the man’s face, only to have him step aside and let her fall to the floor. The wind rushed out of her body and her chin thumped painfully on the wood as she went down, stunned.

“Bruise her and His Grace will gut you, himself!” Rasheed snarled at his accomplice.

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She felt herself being lifted, her arms dragged none-too gently behind her back and securely tied with one of her own silk scarves. Opening her mouth to scream, her kidnaper clamped a sweaty, garlic-smelling palm over her lips as his companion took up another scarf to silence her.

“You will not be hurt, Highness,” the taller of the two kidnapers told her. “His Grace only wishes the pleasure of your company.”

Kicking out with her foot, Catherine’s eyes blazed with satisfaction as the man howled with pain and hopped away, holding his right shin. She tried twisting away from the other man, but his hold on her upper arms as he slammed her back against his chest was powerful.

“I have no compunction against hurting you, woman,” she heard him hiss in her ear. “I am not afraid of Jaleel Jaborn!”

True terror went through Catherine’s very soul and she groaned, knowing why she was being taken and knowing, too, that because of it, Conar would be captured, as well. She renewed her efforts to get free, but the man behind her let go of her left arm just long enough to cuff her on the side of her head, making her see stars.

“Behave!” he snarled at her. His hold was painful as he jerked her around then thrust her into the other man’s arms. “Hold her while I tie her feet.”

She would have kicked out at this man too. Every instinct she possessed warned her to fight him, but he was too quick for her, and too furious. He lashed out with his right fist and tapped her hard on the point of her chin.

Stygian darkness sucked her down beneath its unwelcome waves.

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Meggie Ruck argued with the merchant, thrusting her chin out belligerently as the man quibbled over the price of the fruit. She pointed angrily at another mound of oranges, liking the color and texture of their skins better than the ones the merchant was trying to foist off on her for the price she had paid.

“Don’t you be giving me no crap!” Meggie snapped at the little man. “I paid for them oranges and its them oranges I’ll be taking back to my mistress!”

Kharis El-Malick smiled at the old woman as she continued to barter with the merchant. He folded his arms over his chest and laughed, putting his money on the strange woman, liking her brashness and the thick, garbled explosion of her speech. He had come to the bizarre to purchase fresh vegetables for his mistress’ feast for the Outlander, McGregor, but had been waylaid when he’d heard the babble of argument between this woman and her nemesis. The bartering had been going on for over twenty minutes.

“I ain’t taking them damned oranges, you sorry bastard!” Meggie yelled, pushing the inferior basket of fruit toward the merchant. “Gimme what I paid for or know the reason why!”

Kharis’s lips twitched and he pushed away from the stall upon which he had been leaning and sauntered toward the outraged little woman. Glancing at the people gathered about who were also amused at the exchange, Kharis pushed his way through the crowd and walked up to the old woman. He smiled down at her when she lifted a quivering chin to glare at him.

“I think I might be of service to you, Madame,” he drawled, “if you would permit me.”

Meggie squinted up at the darkly handsome face of the newcomer. “I don’t need nobody’s help in getting what’s due me!”

Kharis bowed his head. “I would imagine not in your country, sweet lady, but here in Rysalia, it helps if you speak the language.” A powerful hand shot out and grabbed the merchant around his neck. “Give her what she paid you for, infidel!” he barked, shaking the merchant.

Meggie’s mouth dropped open and she gaped at the stranger, seeing only mild irritation in his eyes, but knowing he would just as soon strangle the fruit dealer as not. When he released the hapless fellow, the merchant couldn’t hand Meggie the fruit she had wanted fast enough.

“Is that satisfactory, Madame?” Kharis asked, nodding toward the fruit Meggie held tightly to her abundant bosom.

“Aye,” she whispered, gazing at him with admiration. “I thank ye, sir.”

Kharis lowered his head in acknowledgement of her thanks, then held out his arm. “May I escort you back to your quarters, sweet lady?”

She took his arm, amazed that she would do so. Around her, people were stepping aside for this tall, elegant man and she wondered who he was and just how much authority he had in this place.

“I am called Kharis El-Malick,” he told her as though he had intercepted her thoughts.

“And you are?”

“Meg,” she answered, then cleared her throat to try again. “Meggie June Ruck. From Serenia.”

Kharis stopped and turned to stare down at her. “Serenia?”

Caution leapt up in Meggie’s breast and she only nodded to his question. “Why do you ask?”

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One thick black brow shot up. “Do you know His Grace, Prince Conar McGregor?”

Meggie’s heart thumped in her chest. “Who don’t know the rightful King of her homeland?” She narrowed her gaze. “Why do you want to know that?”