WINDKEEPER (19 page)

"Things turned out all right, eh, Meggie?" He grinned, stretching his arms over his head.

"Aye, he’ll make us a good King, that one."

The innkeeper laid his head on his arms as his wife stood and began to knead the tight muscles in his neck. "I nearly did us in, Meggie," he sighed.

"He isn’t mad. I think he’s more amused than anything."

Her husband nodded. He thought back to the trip he had made before dawn in the pouring rain. Arriving in Corinth, he had described his visitor to a merchant and had nearly died from mortification upon learning his guest could be none other than the Prince Regent. He had paled with fear, but the merchant’s old granny, who always kept a vigil by the fireplace near the front door of the shop, had cackled and bid him over.

"If the young one had wanted you to know who he was, he’d have told you, Harry Ruck. Don’t you be letting on as if you know. Must have one of his light-’o-loves with him from the sound of it. Probably don’t want his papa to know. I’ll be telling you now, Harry Ruck, that if you be keeping his secret, he’ll do right by you."

The old woman had laughed a toothless smile and slapped Harry on the thigh as he passed.

This morning, the rain still poured with a vengeance against the little tavern. The roads were a slick gleam of water. Cold wind blew with much less strength than the day before, but the temperature was even colder.

No visitors came to the tavern; no occasional traveler dared venture out in such weather. Not even a passing horseman could be seen through the rain-streaked windows. The world outside was like an alien landscape: uninhabited and inhospitable.

Conar spent a night filled with unpleasant memories as the rain beat against his window. The howling wind made eerie chills course down his spine. The darkness itself was ebony, not a trace of light in the sky. He felt as though he was locked inside a damp mausoleum. Sleep had eluded him for a long time, and when it came, it was filled with nightmarish visions that brought him wide awake, gasping for breath, his heart pounding against his ribcage. He sat by his window, absorbed with the driving rain until dawn. His mood was as gloomy as the weather as he sipped hot cider before the fire the next morning.

Liza sat beside him at the table, cheerfully greeting him with a warm smile. He all but ignored her as she waited for him to acknowledge her presence. She was accustomed to him not rising when she entered a room, not pulling out her chair for her, but at least he usually spoke a Good morn to her.

"Are you ill this morn?" she asked.

He didn’t look at her. "No."

"Is there something wrong, then?"

He shrugged.

"You are too quiet, Milord. Something must be bothering you." She put a hand on his shoulder and he jerked as though her touch had burned him.

"Don’t you dare touch me without my leave to do so, woman!"

Liza stared at him. "Have I done something to upset you, Milord?"

"You have…" he began in a troubled voice, but he could not seem to continue. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He tried again and still could not speak. Coming to his feet in one movement, he was up the stairs before she could react.

"What did I do?" she whispered to the empty room.

He didn’t come down the rest of the day. The innkeeper’s wife took him both the noon and evening meals, leaving the trays outside his door, but they were still there, untouched, the next morning when Liza headed downstairs.

She glanced at his closed door and let out a ragged sigh. It was as though he had erected a steel barrier between the two of them. She felt alienated from him in a way that hurt deeply. Her footsteps on the stairs were heavy with confusion and frustration. She ate breakfast in silence, her face wooden. When she was through, she sat in the huge rocker beside the blazing fire and stared into the leaping flames.

Liza didn’t look up as he finally came down the stairs. It was well after noontime. She sat staring into the fire, her legs wrapped in a heavy quilt to ward off the chill. She could feel him looking at her as he took a seat near the fireplace.

The ticking of the huge clock at the far end of the common room, the snapping of the fire in the hearth, and the keening of the wind among the eaves were the only sounds.

Conar sat hunched over his spread knees, his head bent, his hands clutched and dangling between his legs. His eyes, filled with the same inner pain that had been in them the day before, were glued to the floor. He had not slept well, his nightmares had blended too closely together to allow for rest.

He turned to Liza and opened his mouth to speak, but when she did not look at him, he lowered his head and drew his legs together in a position of withdrawal. He clasped his hands together and pressed them tightly between his knees.

Liza could feel his pain, his confusion. She sensed a great need within him to talk, but she could not force the conversation. She would not be the one to break the silence, so she waited for him to find the courage to speak.

At last, he slowly raised his head and looked at her silent profile. "I hear Gezelle is sick."

Liza nodded. "A cold. That’s all."

"She will be all right, won’t she?"

"She will."

He lowered his head. "We will stay until she is well enough to travel."

Still not looking at him, Liza answered, "You may leave if you wish, Milord. The rain has gone."

"I’ll wait for you." His voice was almost a whisper.

"There’s no need. I have decided to go on to my homeland instead of Boreas. We will burden you no longer."

He flinched at the thought, wanting to ask her again where home was, but her stony profile prohibited him. He thought he might never know from where the girl had come.

"You’ve not been a burden, Milady." His voice was a soft caress of embarrassment.

She didn’t answer.

He pushed his hands lower between his knees and winced as the flesh on his left wrist pulled taut against his corduroy breeches. He held the wrist toward the lantern on the table. His flesh was red, puckered, and hurt worse than it had the day before.

"Does it bother you, Milord?"

He turned to see her watching him, concern in her green eyes. "I believe it’s worse." He stared at his wrist for a long time and then let out a wavering sigh. He let his hand fall to the table. "I believe everything is worse."

Her heart went out to him. She pushed the quilt from her legs and came to sit on the bench beside him. She took his hand, looking closely at the raw, swollen flesh.

"This needs attention. Why haven’t you mentioned this before now?"

He shrugged and looked away, acutely ashamed of his own weakness. "It was of no importance. I had other things on my mind."

"More important things than your health? This could easily become infected." She pursed her lips with exasperation. "Nothing could have been more important than seeing to this wound."

"I have many secrets, Liza, secrets I have never told another living soul. Sometimes…" Taking a deep breath, he looked at her. "Sometimes I just need…"

"You can confide in me."

"Maybe you don’t want to hear."

"Try me," she responded, instinctively knowing he hated to admit his failings. It seemed he was trying to make a decision, one perhaps he was not sure was wise.

"Sometimes the secrets with which I live hurt me deeply, Liza. They rend my soul; and when they hurt me, I unintentionally hurt those around me." He glanced at her with a look that seemed to ask her for understand.

Liza nodded. "I will see to your wound, Milord, then we can talk."

He sat for nearly thirty minutes on the bench where she had left him. His face was turned toward the window. It had begun to rain again and lightning flashed outside the windowpanes, blurring the scenery and turning the glass to a bright flare of light. He didn’t look at her when she returned. "You shouldn’t have bothered. I don’t deserve such kindness."

"There are those who would most certainly agree with you, Milord," she answered and knelt at his feet. She took his arm and began to spread the mixture of warm and freshly brewed herbs on his lacerated flesh. "At any rate, it is no bother," she answered, annoyed with his self-pity.

"I thank you anyway."

She could feel him watching her as she bent over his wound. He seemed to want to say more, but didn’t. He waited patiently as she wound a clean strip of linen around his wrist and gently tied it, securing the loose ends under the knot of the bow. But, before she had finished, his free hand came up to touch her shining mane of raven black hair, and she glanced up. He was looking at her with such a deep, wounded expression; she placed her hand over his to mold it to her scalp. Her eyes narrowed with confusion.

"What is it that troubles you so, Milord?"

Tears shone brightly as he gazed at her and the hand in her hair tightened. His look was as hot as the crucible she used to steep her potion of herbs. Those wounded blue eyes moved over her face with a gentleness and need that sent the pulse leaping in her veins, brought heat to her face.

"Milord?" she whispered, "what is it?"

He took a long time in answering. He seemed loath to admit whatever it was that was causing him such intense pain. Finally he took a deep breath, screwing up his courage. "Are you still sure your destiny lies with me, little one?" He smoothed her hair with his hand.

"My entire being belongs with you."

He pushed the hair from her face and ran his fingers down her silken cheek, taking her chin firmly in hand. He forced up her head so she could not turn away. "Look at me, Liza."

Reluctantly, she did and found her knees growing weak as she gazed into his handsome face.

"If I were to ask you to come to my chamber this night, would you? Would you spend the eve with me?"

Liza’s heart pounded in her ribcage, but she didn’t hesitate. "If that is what you wish, Milord."

"It is what I want, sweet Liza." Then he shook his head. "Nay, it is what I need."

Her look was filled with hurt and she tried to pull away. "Then Dorrie will do as well as I."

"It is not Dorrie I need."

"And it is not me you want."

He smiled hopelessly. "I both want and need you, Liza, but tonight I need you more."

"I have never before slept with a man."

The smile that touched his face was sad, fleeting, full of pain. "Then how can you be sure I should be the one to take that pride from you?" His hands threaded through her hair, anchoring her head. "Should you not wait for the man who can give you all, to offer such a precious gift?"

"I belong to you, Milord. What I have saved, I have saved for you and you alone. If you shall not have it, neither shall any other."

Conar cupped her face, his thumbs stroking the flare of her brows, and then gently pulled her toward him. He nestled her face against the soft material of his shirt, pressing her cheek to his chest.

He bent forward and rested his chin on her head, closing his eyes to everything around them. "I don’t ever want to hurt you, Liza," he whispered into the silk of her hair. "I can offer you nothing beyond the here and now; I can make no promises for tomorrow. What I have to offer may be only for this night. Think long and hard before you do this."

Her arms went around his waist and she pressed closer to him. "I will ask nothing more of you past this night, Milord."

* * *

As rain pelted the windows with gale force, and Gezelle slept in her achy illness, Liza crept from her room to scratch at Conar’s door. As he opened the portal to admit her, his naked chest rising and falling with the power of his arousal, she blended into his outstretched arms, and he gently closed the door behind her.

Conar took Liza’s hands and placed a soft kiss in each palm. He could feel the thunder of her beating pulse against his tongue as he flicked the warm tip across her chilled flesh. His eyes never left hers, looking through his lashes to see the hunger on her face.

And the fear lurking there.

He knew he needed to proceed slowly, to ease her into the joys of womanly pleasure with as much gentleness as he could muster. With infinite care, he pulled the pins from her hair to send it cascading down her back in shimmering folds of ebony silk. Taking her face between his palms, he placed soft kisses on her forehead, her nose, closed each eye, and finally placed his lips to hers.

"Are you sure, little one?"

Liza nodded. "What I have to offer is for you alone, Milord."

He spread the fingers of his right hand through her hair to cup her head. His mouth claimed hers in a heady kiss that made them both senseless with longing. When at last he tore his mouth from hers, there was firm warning stamped on his unsmiling face.

"You will be mine this eve, Beloved. You will be mine and mine you will remain. If I take you now, I doubt I will ever willingly give you up to another man. If you can not accept that, you had best stop me here and now, for once I have branded your flesh with mine, there will be no turning back."

"And what of you, Milord?" She laid her hand along his cheek. "You give me no choice. I am to be yours and no other’s? You belong to another already, but will deny me?"

Conar shook his head. "You know where my loyalty must lie, Liza. I am betrothed to that bitch in Oceania, yet I am greedy. I will have no other, but me, touch you."

Liza tried to pull away but his hand tightened in her hair.

"Do you understand what I am telling you, Liza?"

"And when this deed is done, Milord, when you have what you want from me, will you see me as you see the other women you have taken? Will you hold me in the same contempt as you do them?"

"Are you like those other women, Liza?"

"You know I am not, else you would not want to keep me only unto yourself. I am not here to take from you, Milord. I am here to give." Her voice was a mere whisper. "I want you. I care not a whit for the Prince Regent or his crown; I seek no bounty for my affections; I want no ability to boast at having slept with the warrior-knight. I want you…Conar. I want the man you are."

His hand tensed in her hair. "There has to be more to you than that, Liza-love." His old cynicism surfaced. "Conar, the man can give himself to you. The others: Prince Regent, future King, warrior-knight, what of them?"