Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - Wyndmaster 1 (7 page)

“And you?”

Vargas tipped an imaginary hat to her. “Sergeant Vargas DuMond, Milady, and the young one there is

my brother, Seth. He's a private. The ugly one is Corporal MacDougal but we just call him Mac.”

Seth and Mac nodded politely to her from their seat on the tailgate.

“Thank you for treating me respectfully, gentlemen,” she said. “I do appreciate it.”

“We don’t know no other way to treat a lady, ma’am,” Seth assured her.

“And believe me, he’d take us to task were we not respectful of you, milady,” Mac put in, nudging his

chin toward his leader.

Sierran groaned and Vargas laid a cautioning finger to his lips for everyone to be quiet.

Leaning her head against the tall side of the wagon, Celeste closed her eyes. She wasn’t so much cold as

she was uncomfortable with the jolting ride and hard wooden planking of the wagon’s bed the thick

mound of hay could do nothing to cushion. Her belly was rumbling for she’d only taken a few spoonfuls

of soup before the men had barged into her home. In her mind’s eye, she replayed those terrifying

moments but the soldier’s intrusion had been nothing compared to the horrific sight she’d seen in the

dungeon torture chamber she had not known existed.

There had been the blood dripping on the floor, the naked man shackled to the stone slab, his body

covered with cuts, and those images would surely stay with her for the rest of her life.

Snapping her eyes open to keep from seeing those awful images, she stared at Sierran, instead. In the

bright moonlight overhead, she could see his features well enough and with his pain erased for the time

being, his face relaxed, she realized what an incredibly handsome man he was despite the bruises on his

cheekbone and chin.

Swarthy in coloring with dark wavy hair, a cleft in his chin, he had long eyelashes and a bold nose. He

was long of leg and broad of shoulder, narrow of waist, flat of belly, and his arms looked well honed.

His chest was wide and nicely muscled, finely pelted with dark wiry curls that were matted with blood

from the myriad of cuts.

She sighed heavily. He was the kind of man—minus the savage wounds—she’d dreamed of having scale

the walls of Dragonmoor to rescue her from her tower, taking her on his big black destrier to his

luxurious castle high up in the mountains where they would live happily ever after.

Her father’s screams of fury jolted Celeste from her imagining and she looked at the black iron box on

wheels as it rolled along behind the wagon in which she rode. She could not imagine someone being

thrust into that awful contraption in the heat of the day. How unbearable it must have been if the

commander had endured such on his way to Dragonmoor.

Returning her gaze to the sleeping man, she knew he would exact payment in one form or another for the

torment he had endured. She only hoped the punishment he meted out would not end her life before

she’d even had a chance to live it.

Lightning speared viciously down from the heavens and the ship rocked savagely upon the sea, thrown

up one heaving wall of water then crashing down into the trough with fierce waves rising high aboard the

tallest masts. Thunder boomed, lightning cracked and the wind howled. It was a demon’s lethally charged

music that set the nerves on edge.

Celeste lay huddled on a velvet settee with her hand over her mouth to hold her crying at bay and with

her pillow pulled down tightly over her head to try to shut out the ferocity of the storm. She had always

been terrified of bad weather and was trembling so violently the settee was vibrating beneath her. With

each shrill zap of lightning and every brilliant glare of harsh light, she jerked, keening to herself in her

fright.

It was as one particularly sharp cracking discharge broke across the firmament that Sierran came

awake, groggy still from the tenerse but thrust rudely out of sleep by the brutal intensity of the storm. He

could feel the heaving of the ship, the rocking motion as it was pitched upon the waves and became

aware of the groaning of the timbers above him. Rain was slashing at the windows so loudly he knew it

must be hailing. The fierceness of the wind made him uneasy for he had some knowledge of waterspouts

and with the seas as unsettled as they were this night, such a thing was highly possible.

Sitting up with some effort, for his chest and arms stung cruelly, he lifted a hand to plow his fingers

through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. He grimaced; the oily feel disgusted him. It had been

weeks since he’d had a bath and he was acutely aware of his own ripe body odor. He had refused to

allow his men to tend to him when they’d brought him to the bunk—groggy still from the tenerse and in

too much pain. All he’d wanted was to sleep where it was warm and soft. Wincing, he sucked in a breath

and swung his legs off the bunk, hoping Vargas had thought to leave a pitcher of water in the cabin. He

had to hold onto the bunk with one hand as he struck a match to light the swinging oil lamp on the wall

beside the bunk. As the soft mellow light blazed into life to cast a wavering glow on the wall, he heard a

muted whimper and turned.

For a moment he was puzzled at seeing the covered figure lying on the settee. He stared at it for a

moment—knowing full well Vargas or Mac wouldn’t be making such a sound—then memory came back

to him and he knew it must be the Dungeon Master’s daughter trembling beneath the thick wool blanket.

“Milady?” he called out and was rewarded by complete stillness on the cot. He almost smiled as the

blanket came down a few inches to reveal a pair of wide eyes staring back at him with fright.

“Aye, milord?” she said.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

"No," she whispered.

The ship rolled heavily to starboard and Sierran was thrown to the bunk. He gasped as his chest slid

along the bedcovers and grabbed handfuls of the sheet to keep from being slammed into the wall

opposite the bunk.

“Gods-be-damn it!” he hissed, feeling the cuts on his belly pulling opening.

Mindless of the fury cracking above her and the shrieks of the lightning slashing beyond the stern

windows, Celeste threw the blanket back and hurried to Sierran. He was struggling to get up on the

bunk so she took his ankles to swing him up, cringing at the cry of pain that escaped his throat. She

stepped back from the bed, her attention caught by the soft-looking black pants he was wearing. The

sight of them fired her imagination and sent a wave of hot feeling to the pit of her stomach.

She vaguely remembered his men dressing him as she lay huddled beneath her blanket to block out the

sight.

Sierran flipped to his back to take the pressure off the cuts on his chest. Thrusting his hands into his hair,

he grabbed his head, his face screwed up with pain, his knees bent so the flesh of his belly and chest

wasn’t pulled taut.

In the wildly swinging lantern light, Celeste could see the blood seeping from his wounds and looked

about her, searching for a cloth to staunch the flow, to wash the lacerations. When she saw nothing she

could use, she made her way to the door—stumbling against the violent pitch and roll of the ship—to try

to pull it open. She crashed against the wall, almost fell to the floor twice before she managed to jerk

open the portal. She stuck her head out and yelled for Vargas at the top of her lungs. As soon as she

heard running feet, she stumbled her way back to the bunk.

Vargas burst into the cabin, his hair standing on end, his eyes wild. “What?” he bellowed.

“I need water to wash his wounds, more water to bathe him, and cooler water for him to drink,” Celeste

ordered. “Get soft clean cloths, soap, a bottle of whiskey, and a sewing kit.”

“A bottle of whiskey and a sewing kit?” Vargas repeated, confusion running rampant over his coarse

features.

“Some of those wounds need suturing,” she told him without missing a beat as she reached out a steady

hand to touch Sierran’s stomach. “I need the whiskey to sterilize the needle and thread.”

Only half awake, Vargas stood there trying to make sense of the woman’s orders.

“Do what she says,” Sierran ordered through clenched teeth. He had his jaw clamped tightly shut and

was breathing raggedly. He didn’t know what hurt more—his chest or his back.

Without another word, Vargas spun around and sprinted out of the cabin as the girl strove not to be

thrown onto the bunk with Sierran.

“Sit down, wench, before you fall on top of me. I don't think I could bear that just yet,” Sierran warned.

He wasn’t looking at her but could sense her hovering there.

“I am not a wench,” she said. “My name is Lady Anna Celeste Allen.” Cautiously she sat down on the

edge of the double bunk, holding on to the handhold on the wall beside the berth. “You may call me

Celeste, if you wish,” she mumbled as she was jostled back and forth. “Formalities seem a bit

unnecessary, given the circumstances, and we might be blown away at any moment. I don’t like storms. I

don’t like storms.”

Sierran couldn’t help but smile at her litany. She sounded like a little girl. Despite the agony it caused

him, he held his hand out to her. “Come here, Celeste,” he asked.

Celeste slipped her hand into his. “What if the ship capsizes?” she asked.

“What if it doesn’t?” he countered and watched her brows draw together.

“Then we’ll make land,” she replied.

“I imagine Captain Kynth has every intention of making sure that happens,” he told her. "Don't you?"

“You’re probably right,” she agreed.

“He’s always right,” Vargas said as he came back with Mac in tow. “Just ask him and he’ll tell you.”

Celeste met Sierran’s eyes. “Is that true, milord? Are you always right?” She eased her hand out of his.

“Ninety-nine percent of the time, wench,” Sierran replied.

“Aye and it’s that other one percent that usually gets his arse into trouble,” Mac said with a grin. “But he

don’t count that, you see.”

“That’s because other people do it for me,” Sierran muttered.

Bracing himself against the bulkhead wall, Mac held a basin of water as it sloshed back and forth with

the movement of the ship. Over his shoulder were hung strips of cloth. Vargas was carrying the whiskey

bottle under his arm, a pitcher of water, and under his other arm, what appeared to be a sewing kit.

“This water’s warm, milady,” Mac said. “And I’ve got a bar of chamomile soap in my pocket.”

“Pour him some of the cool water, please,” Celeste said. She lifted Sierran’s head gently with her free

hand and tipped the tumbler to his lips, waiting until her patient had downed an entire tumbler before

asking Vargas to thread a needle then run the needle point over the lantern’s flame. “Is there something

you can lay the needle and thread in to pour the whiskey over them?”

“Seems a good waste of whiskey,” Sierran commented when Vargas told Celeste he’d brought a cup in

which to drop the thread to sterilize it.

“Now that your thirst has been eased, I advise you to take a few big pulls on the whiskey bottle, then,

milord,” Celeste advised Sierran. “I’m good at embroidery but I’ve never sewn flesh before.”

Sierran winced. “Aye, well, I’ve never had my flesh sewn before. It’ll be a first for us both.”

“Don’t hurt all that bad,” Mac reported, fishing the soap out of his pocket. “Stings a bit.” He handed the

soap to Celeste, who took one of the cloths and dipped it in the water.

When she had the cloth soapy, she tucked her lips between her teeth and looked at Sierran. “I need to

cleanse your wounds, milord.”

He nodded, bracing himself for the pain he knew would come. “Do what you have to,” he said. "I'm all

yours."

Sierran was grateful her touch was softer than he would have imagined possible, as gentle as down

touching the cuts. The warm water felt good, though the soap stung his lacerated flesh. He watched her

face and could see her concentration as she moved from one wound to the next—taking her time to

thoroughly cleanse away the dried blood. Her pearly white teeth were clenched upon her bottom lip as

she worked. Though it seemed to take forever for her to work her way down his chest to his belly and he

was sweating profusely by the time she asked quietly for the needle and thread, he was reluctant for her

to stop touching him.

“I see four cuts that need suturing,” she told him. “When that’s done, I’ll look to your arms.”

“How ’bout his back?” Vargas asked.

Celeste turned her head to look at the soldier with shock. “My father made cuts on his back, as well?”

“Nay, milady,” Vargas said with a shake of his head. “Them cuts came from the cat-o-nine when he was

lashed at Wardsgate Prison.”

Sierran saw the young woman’s face pale and as she slowly turned her eyes back to him, he could see

moisture gathering in their lovely blue depths. His attention went to her lips to see them quiver.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered.

"It's all right." He felt the need to say to take the pain from her eyes.

“I’ll see to your back, too, then,” she said before clamping her mouth tightly shut.

The suturing was an agony he could ill afford and Sierran had to struggle not to groan as the needle

wove in and out of his tender flesh—made even more so by the vicious cuts. He twisted the sheet in his

fists, dug his heels into the bunk’s mattress, and kept his eyes locked on the ceiling beam overhead.