Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - Wyndmaster 1 (17 page)

sat half-hidden by curtains of falling snow. A cry went up along the dock and word soon reached Sierran

that there was a ship in the harbor. Taking the stairs two at a time up to the solarium, the owner of
Vista

del Mar
stood staring at the ship as it dropped anchor in his bay.

"Is it your brother Vaughn?" Celeste asked as she joined him at the glass.

"That isn't his sloop but it carries the Morgan colors of gold and green on the flag," he said around

clenched teeth. He nudged his chin toward the boat. "You can't tell from here but there's a sable gryphon

rampant on the gold shield."

Celeste had seen his family crest on the gold ring he wore on the little finger of his right hand. She looked

up at him and saw a muscle grinding in his cheek. "Will they dare to come ashore?"

"They'd best not," he snapped and spun around to stalk back the way he'd come. When he got to the

landing, he leaned over the railing to yell down at the man who had run all the way to the keep to inform

him of the ship's arrival.

"Franco, go back to the docks and tell Mac he isn't to let any of my brothers come ashore. Tell him I

said for them to get their asses out of my waters or I'll blow that fancy sloop into so much driftwood!"

"Aye, milord!" the man replied, tugging at his forelock then hurried off.

"Sierran," Celeste said. "They are lowering a boat into the water."

Spitting out a stream of vulgar words, Sierran strode back into the solarium and straight to the window

where his wife was still standing. Through the gently falling snow, he could see three people in the jolly

boat being lowered from the port side of the ship.

"Is that a woman sitting between the rowers?" Celeste asked.

Sierran stiffened. "If they sent that diseased hag to me, I'll cut her into little pieces and send her back to

them in a vat of brine!" he snarled.

"You'll do no such thing," she said and when he swiveled his head around to glare at her, she raised her

chin. "I'll do it for you."

He grinned for the militant look on his lady's face was precious to him. "I'll leave such things to your

tender mercies, then, but if that is the Summerall bitch, she'll never see the inside of
Vista del Mar
." He

put a hand to her cheek. "You'll have to kill her down at the docks, and pray not in one of your good

gowns, either."

Celeste tilted her face into his palm. "You are so good to me, husband." She batted her eyes at him.

His ill humor vanishing beneath the onslaught of his lady's bantering, he bid her stay there until he could

find out who it was that had braved the wintry sea to come calling. "It could be my mother, the gods

forbid," he said though Celeste had heard a slight hint of hope in his gruff voice.

From the solarium, Celeste watched her husband go into the stable and come back out sitting astride his

huge buckskin stallion, Churada. Riding bareback with his black great cape fluttering behind him, her

husband was something to behold. The sight made her very proud of her warrior as he clattered over the

planks of the drawbridge and toward the harbor.

* * *

Sierran was pacing the dock by the time the jolly boat entered the shallows and two of his men went to

help the rowers pull the ship to shore. He squinted against the cold invasion of the snow crystals clinging

to his eyelashes, trying to get a glimpse of the woman sitting all bundled in a dark green wool full length

cape—the hood of which was pulled low to protect her face—in the middle of the jolly boat. When one

of the men would have lifted her from the boat, the woman balked.

"Only my brother is to touch me, you oaf!" he heard her snap.

A portion of the expectation that had been building in his chest dissolved when he realized it was not his

mother who had come after all. It was one of his sisters—or sisters-in-law—but he did not recognize the

voice. Of course it had been many years since he'd heard or seen them and doubted he had ever met any

of the women whom had married his brothers. Frowning, he strode toward the boat and once there held

his arms out to the woman standing with the hood down even lower over her head.

"Milady," he said.

"Do be careful, Sierran," she said, allowing him to sweep her into his arms and carry her toward the

boardwalk.

She smelled good, he thought as he carried her through the sand. Nearly as light in weight as his wife,

she appeared to be taller than Celeste. When he set her down on the boardwalk, he realized she was so

tall, she nearly equaled him in height. Since his two older sisters had been short, he reasoned this must be

the youngest, Jillian, and when he spoke her name, she tilted her head back, and he saw her face for the

first time since they were children.

"You bruised my ribs, I believe," she complained.

It was a petulant face he beheld but lovely, though lines were beginning to bracket the corner of her

mouth. Slightly oval in shape, her striking green eyes—an inheritance from their mother—peered at him

with the haughtiness he remembered all too well and he saw lines developing there, as well. Her cupid

bow lips were pursed into an unforgiving line, her cheeks red from the cold, and her determined chin held

high as she regarded him.

"Well, now. You are not as ugly as Vaughn said you were," she stated, sweeping her gaze down him.

"Why are you here?" he asked, her hateful words striking his heart.

"But just as rude as ever, I see," she said. "Are you going to keep me here in the cold while I state my

business with you, Sierran?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to state her business and be gone but some tender part of him

relented and he turned to the men who had rowed the jolly boat ashore. "Put her luggage on the

boardwalk then go back to the ship." He looked at Jillian. "How long do you intend to stay?"

His sister waved her hand regally. "At least a few weeks. We've so much catching up to do."

Sierran winced. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to his sister but of the three, she was the only

one for whom he had held even a smidgen of affection. There was no doubt in his mind why she was

there but some renegade part of him hoped to learn something of his absent family.

"Tell your captain to leave my waters," he told the sailors. "I'll send word when you need to return to

pick her up." Before the men could push the boat back into the frigid water, he asked to whom the sloop

belonged.

"It's the
Argyle
, Peyton's piece of trash," Jillian said. "The lack of amenities on that floating barge

boggles the mind. Now Fallon's sloop…"

"You can tell me about all that later," Sierran said. He turned, expecting her to follow him.

When she saw the horse, Jillian came to an abrupt stop. "Surely you don't expect me to ride that beast

bareback!" she hissed.

"You can walk if you've a mind to," he told her.

Jillian's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I don't know what kind of women you are accustomed to dealing

with, Sierran—although I can make a good guess. I am a lady and a lady does not ride astride."

"She does if she doesn't want to hike through the snow," he said, grabbing a handful of mane and

vaulting onto the back of his steed. He sat there controlling the beast with his thighs, looking down at his

sister with ill-disguised laughter. "You coming?"

"You will regret treating me in this manner, Sierran," she said, holding her hand up to him. She gasped as

he swung her up onto the horse as though she weighed little more than a child. Having no other choice,

she threw her arms around his waist and held on as he dug his heels into his mount's side. The beast took

off so abruptly, the hood of her cape flew back and away from her carefully coiffed hair.

* * *

"I don't think that's either your mother or the hag," Celeste mumbled as she watched her husband racing

his horse back toward
Vista del Mar
. She took a deep breath and started downstairs to meet who she

knew had to be one of Sierran's sisters.

* * *

Jillian had barely been civil to Celeste when they were introduced. Sierran's sister acknowledged his wife

with a flick of her blazing eyes, a curt
how do you do?
before taking herself over to the first fireplace she

saw and holding her gloved hands to the heat. She was shivering and her hair was a disaster, putting her

in a very unpleasant frame of mind.

"Nadia, would you have a bath drawn for Lady Jillian?" Celeste asked one of the maids. "I am sure she

would like to refresh herself."

"That is an understatement," Jillian said haughtily, not even bothering to look around at her hosts. She

jerked off her gloves. "I am most uncomfortable in these wet things."

Sierran's face was devoid of expression as he stood there with his hands dug into the pockets of his

britches. His hair, too, was tousled but on him it looked attractive—and Celeste had to admit, sexy as

hell—where on his sister it looked unkempt and blowsy. He gave his wife a staid look, rolled his eyes,

and sauntered off.

"Where is he going?" Jillian demanded, catching his departure out of the corner of her eyes.

"I imagine to change his clothes," Celeste replied. "He is still not recovered fully from his stay in prison

and…"

"Ah, yes," Jillian interrupted. "I remember Vaughn mentioning something about that." She craned her

head around. "Wasn't there something else about your father having tortured him?"

Celeste's face turned red. "Yes, that did happen."

"Poor Sierran. He does get himself into all kinds of mischief," Jillian said but there was no sorrow in her

tone; rather,to Celeste, she sounded nearly gleeful.

"Having his back torn open with a bullwhip certainly should teach him a thing or two, wouldn't you

think?" Celeste asked, her jaw set and her eyes shooting blue fire.

"I should hope so," Jillian said, completely oblivious to her hostess' ire.

"And what do you think about him having had his chest cut to ribbons by a madman?" Celeste

questioned, taking a step toward her husband's sister.

Jillian picked up on the hostility accompanying that question and half turned around. "Is that what your

father did to him?"

"Yes," Celeste said as she dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from slapping the woman. "My

father took a knife to Sierran's chest and carved over three dozen gashes on it. One gash I had to sew

closed." She narrowed her eyes. "Twice."

Sierran's sister shuddered delicately. "I am sure it was a hard lesson for my brother to learn but perhaps

he has profited from his ordeal."

Celeste was so angry she couldn't speak. A part of her wanted to jump on the woman and rip her hair

out while another part wanted to run her through with one of the crossed swords hanging over the

mantelpiece. Before she could give in to either temptation, she pivoted on her heel and stormed off.

"Now where are
you
going?" Jillian called out, stamping her foot in vexation.

"Where I can't do any damage," Celeste muttered.

* * *

Sierran had just come down the stairs when he spied his wife hurrying out of the great hall. From the set

of her shoulders and the militant look on her lovely little face, he knew Jillian had said something to set

Celeste off. He sighed, shook his head, and turned into the Great Hall, reluctant to face Jillian but curious

to know why she'd been sent.

Jillian had taken off her cape and was standing with her back to the flames, the skirt of her gown lifted to

warm her cold legs. When she saw Sierran, she dropped the gown with a faint blush tinting her cheeks at

doing such a common thing but when she saw he was clad only in a white shirt and black pair of denim

pants—and the shirt having been left untucked and him barefoot at that!—her mouth dropped open and

her green eyes widened.

"Is that how you dress for your guests, Sierran DeLyle?" she demanded.

"I am in my home and I am comfortable, Jillian Kay," he replied. "You can hike your skirt back up and

bare your arse to the flames for all I care. I don't give a gods-be-damn about supposed polite social

behavior."

"Obviously," she muttered, smoothing her mussed hair. "Is my room ready yet? Is the bath prepared?"

He shrugged as he took a seat in his favorite chair and hooked his leg over the arm and his arm over the

back. "To tell you the truth, I didn't ask. You can go up to the second floor and check, if you like."

Jillian stared at him. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been a mere boy five years her junior. Thin and

lanky—more arms and legs than anything else—she and her friends had made fun of him. His hair had

been a nondescript shade of mousy brown and though his eyes had been that strange golden color, they

had certainly not been framed by the long dark lashes that now bracketed them. Today, he was tall and

muscular with hair that was thick and a glossy dark brown that looked almost black. Through the

carelessly buttoned front of his shirt, she could see a matt of dark hair growing but even from where she

stood, she could see the faint red lines that must be the cuts of which his strumpet had spoken. He was a

very handsome man with just enough sun crinkles at the corners of his devastatingly beautiful eyes to let

you know he was older than you first imagined. And there was power and authority to him that both

surprised and alarmed her.