Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - Wyndmaster 1 (6 page)

halt—hearing her father’s protests coming from far, far away, all sound slowly fading to silence—her

horrified stare locked on the grisly sight of the man’s myriad cuts. Once more her gaze lifted to his

wounded, amber-colored eyes and something dark passed between them only a fraction of a second

before her eyes rolled up in her head and she began to fall.

Vargas leapt toward the girl, cursing as he did, and grabbed her in a rough embrace before she hit the

floor. Swinging her up in his arms, he looked to Sierran for help.

Sierran was unable to speak for the gag between his teeth. MacDougal hurried forward to the head of

the slab and bent over to slit the bloody material with his knife. His commander looked up at him for a

moment as Mac gently pulled the material from Sierran’s mouth.

“Commander?” Vargas asked over the enraged shrieks of the Dungeon Master whose eyes were

bulging and who was practically foaming at the mouth.

Shifting his attention to Lord Charles, watching the man buck and twist in an effort to reach the woman,

Sierran knew he had a way to hurt the Dungeon Master in ways far beyond the physical. He tried to

clear his throat and with effort spoke to Vargas.

“Take…” he whispered. “Take them with us.”

Vargas shifted the slight weight of the unconscious woman against him and nodded quickly. He looked

to Mac who was gently unlatching the shackles that held Sierran’s badly bruised wrists. “Get a wagon

prepared. The commander will never be able to sit a mount.”

“Seth!” Mac called out. “Unlock his ankles.”

“B…box,” Sierran managed to say and Mac leaned over him. “Iron box for the gallows keeper.”

“What iron box?” Mac asked.

“I saw such a contraption out by the stable,” Seth said as he came to the slab and began undoing the

restraints on Sierran’s left ankle. “It’s used for transporting prisoners.”

“The sweat box?” Vargas said, his eyes narrowing as he met Sierran’s eyes. “You were in that?”

Sierran nodded wearily.

“Drag that bastard out of here and throw him in the box,” Vargas snarled. He whistled for Mac as that

man started past him. “Take the lady with you.”

“Don’t put her in the box,” Sierran whispered.

“He won’t.”

Sierran watched as Vargas gently laid the unconscious woman into Mac’s arms and tensed. The thought

of his sergeant touching him on his lacerated back—or even moving him for that matter—sent waves of

unease down his spine. He clenched his teeth as Vargas came to stand by him.

“I’ll apologize in advance,” Vargas said then very slowly and with great care slid his arms under

Sierran’s back and beneath the prone man’s knees. “Do you want a blanket thrown on you?”

“No!” Sierran managed to reply. The very thought of his cuts coming into contact with anything brought

tears to his eyes.

Brutish pain shot through his chest, arms and back as Vargas lifted him from the table. With his eyes

squeezed shut against the stinging agony, his breath coming in shallow, rapid drags, it took the last of his

strength to drape an arm around Vargas’ neck. The cuts on the underside of his forearm stung like a hive

of bees were attacking him. He let his free arm hang down beside Vargas’ hip, too weary and hurting too

badly to attempt to pull it up.

The climb up the stairs was slow and infinitely excruciating. Wounds that had closed were opened up to

seep into the wool material of Vargas’ tunic and drip blood down Sierran’s limp arm and from his fingers.

It was a relief when he was taken outside and the cool night air washed over his nakedness. The cold

seemed to numb the pain and he welcomed it as Vargas carried him to a waiting wagon.

All around the lower bailey, the Dungeon Master’s servants stood in silent fear of the armed men whose

weapons were thrust toward them. Guards whose wrists were now bound behind them stared at the

group with resignation and it was evident to the slowest man in Sierran’s troop that the guards would not

lift a hand to help Lord Charles as that man yelled and pounded upon the insides of the iron box into

which he’d been cast.

A set of thick boards had been propped against the back of the wagon to form a walkway up which

Vargas carefully trod. From somewhere a feather mattress had been procured and lay in the middle of

the wagon which had been lined with a thick carpet of straw. Blankets and quilts were folded to one side.

As he was being lowered to the mattress, Sierran forced himself to look around him.

“W…where is the girl?” he whispered.

Vargas frowned. He had lain his commander down and was hunkered there by the mattress with one

knee in the straw. He turned to look over the tall bed of the wagon. “Where’s the woman?”

Mac came striding forward, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s in the stable. I didn’t know what

to do with her. She’s still out.”

“Damned female vapors,” Vargas complained then looked down at Sierran. “Where do you want her,

Commander?”

“Here,” Sierran said, flexing his fingers against the bare mattress, weakly scratching at the material.

Vargas’ eyebrows shot up. “On the mattress with you?”

“Aye,” Sierran said then closed his eyes. His head was splitting open with the beginnings of a migraine

and he was shivering from the cold.

Vargas frowned and took up one of the blankets. Very carefully, he unfolded it and laid it over the lower

part of Sierran’s body, covering his legs and waist. “Bring her here, Solarian,” he ordered Mac.

The Dungeon Master recommenced screeching to the high heavens for no doubt he’d heard the order

through the small air holes in the top of the windowless box. “Do not touch her, you fiend!” he bellowed.

“He’s calling me a fiend?” Vargas grumbled as Mac came striding up the platform with the unconscious

woman draped over his arms. He stared at the girl as she was laid carefully beside Sierran. “Something

tells me he don’t know what one is yet.”

Sierran ground his teeth as the wagon started forward with Vargas sitting off to one side of the mattress

and Mac and Seth sitting on the tailgate with their legs dangling. Pain constantly shifted through him as the

wagon appeared to hit every rut and bump in the road. He managed, through tightly clenched jaws, to

ask Vargas where they were headed.

“We’ve your ship lying at anchor inBowstedHarbor , Commander. We’re going to take you home to

Zykanthos until you’ve healed.”

“Did the Federation give you permission?” he asked, his eyelids heavy.

“Didn’t need none,” Vargas said with a sniff. “We told ’em what we was going to do when we found out

where you was and they didn’t say nothing. They ain't happy about Thurston's doings.”

“Stop your posturing, Vargas. We got permission, Commander, and then we took leave,” Mac put in.

“All of you?”

“Aye, sir,” Mac agreed. “Every man jack among us.”

Despite the agony he was experiencing, Sierran smiled. He was tired—his lacerated back paining him

even more than the cuts on his chest and arms, and he longed for sleep. It had been days since he’d slept

soundly yet he could not seem to drift off as he lay there. Instead, he turned his head and looked at the

woman lying beside him.

Her face was turned toward him and it was perhaps the loveliest he’d ever seen. A complexion that

looked as soft and fresh as pale honey made the dark sweep of her long hair—curling gently around her

shapely hips—appear to be even darker. Twin crescents of artfully shaped eyebrows and long, thick

brown lashes intrigued him and if he had been able, he would have reached out to touch their feathery

length with a fingertip. With high cheekbones, a pert little nose, and full lips that beckoned a man to have

a taste, the young woman moved something in his heart that he had not felt in many years.

“Vargas,” he croaked and his man bent over him.

“Aye, Commander?”

“Take a blanket and cover her. Her arms have chill bumps on them.”

Vargas nodded and reached over to pick up one of the blankets. He stood—bracing himself against the

roll of the wagon—and straddled Sierran so he could gently lay the blanket over the woman.

The woman stirred then her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment she lay there staring into Sierran’s

eyes—her own narrowed in confusion. Then as memory no doubt returned, she blinked and sat up

hurriedly as though she’d been zapped by lightning. Scrambling to the head of the wagon, she sat there

trembling with her knees drawn up into the protection of her arms, staring at the men who were watching

her. “Where am I?” she asked in a wavering voice.

“You’re safe, wench,” Sierran told her, having to crane his neck to look over at her. She glanced down

at him and he saw her wince as her gaze lit upon the vicious cuts on his chest. He heard her moan. “It’s

all right,” he said, feeling an overpowering need to soothe her.

“My father,” she said and shuddered.

“He’s behind us, milady,” Vargas said in a gentle voice none of the other men had ever heard him use.

"In that iron box in which he brought the commander here."

She looked behind them and tears formed in her eyes. She made a keening sound that made the hair on

the men’s arms stand up.

Sierran’s head was throbbing unmercifully and he lowered his head for he no longer had the strength to

continuing looking up at her. He closed his eyes, a frown forming as the pain in his temples seemed to

increase.

“You got one of the megrims?” Vargas asked.

“Aye,” Sierran acknowledged.

Vargas stretched out his leg and fumbled in the pocket of his breeches. He pulled out a blue glass vial,

uncorked it, and then moved to squat down beside Sierran. “Here you go. Something told me you might

need this.” With care he slid his rough hand under his commander’s neck and lifted gently.

Sierran hated the taste of the brew that helped to control his headaches but at the moment, he needed

rest. He winced as Vargas tilted the strong cherry-flavored drug into his mouth. “Is that tenerse?” he

heard the woman ask.

“Aye,” Vargas replied, glancing over at her. “You familiar with it, are you, milady?”

She nodded. “Only too familiar,” she replied.

Sierran wanted to tell her he sympathized with her if she, too, suffered from the debilitating headaches

but almost as soon as the drug slipped down his throat, his world began to canter off to one side—if not

pleasantly, at least soothingly. He closed his eyes and shuddered from the vile taste then lay as still as he

could so the brew could work quickly.

“Shouldn’t you cover him?” she asked, pulling the blanket that had fallen to her lap when she’d sat up to

her chest.

“He hurts too bad for the weight of it,” Vargas said. “And it would be too scratchy, I’m thinking.”

The young woman was looking down at Sierran. She pushed the blanket away and reached down to

hike up her gown.

Vargas exchanged a look with Mac as the young woman began removing her petticoat. “What are you

doing, milady?” Vargas asked.

She didn’t answer until she had pulled the silk from under her gown. She met his look of puzzlement as

she extended the garment toward him. “Will you cut it in half? It’s not much but we can cover him with it

to block out the wind.”

Sierran forced his heavy eyes open at her words. He saw Vargas’ arm reaching across him, heard the

sound of fabric being rent then he felt something light and satiny laid softly over his chest and arms. The

faint scent of gardenia wafted under his nose and the garment still had a hint of her body heat clinging to

it.

“Does that hurt, milord?” the girl asked him in an anxious tone.

“Nay, wench,” he managed to say and was grateful for the blocking of the chilly night wind over his cuts.

“Thank you.”

“It is the least I can do, milord,” she said quietly. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he said, his eyes closing. “Never apologize to…” His voice trailed off.

Vargas smiled as his leader fell into a deep sleep from the drug. He glanced up at Celeste and winked.

“Tenerse does him in every time,” he told her.

Celeste nodded. “Me, too,” she said quietly. She picked up the blanket Vargas had given her and swung

it around her shoulders. “I don’t like the way it makes me feel but it does help with the pain.”

“We’ll be to the ship in about an hour, Milady,” Vargas said. “There’s a settee in captain’s cabin. You

can sleep there.”

The thought of being in a bedchamber—even one aboard a ship—with a man she didn’t know sent a

shiver of unease down Celeste’s spine, but upon lowering her gaze to the sleeping man, she knew there

wasn’t much chance of him molesting her. She wasn't sure about the other men.

“What will become of my father and me?” she asked, still looking at Sierran.

Vargas shifted, shrugging his broad shoulders. “I don’t know, milady. I reckon that’s up to the

commander.”

“Who?”

“The commander,” Vargas said, pointing at the unconscious man.

“I don’t even know his name,” she said.

“Commander Sierran Morgan, milady,” Vargas said. "He is a WyndMaster with the Ibydosian Force."

"I am not familiar with that term," she said. "What does it mean?"

"The commander was knighted by King Edmond. He took his commission directly at the request of the

king."

"I take it that is an honor?"

"It is, and the commander is a national hero in Emardia," Vargas said. "The King's own champion, if you

will."