Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WIND VERSE- Prisoners of the Wind (9 page)

“I have moved past that, milord
Tiogar,” she said. “You’ve captured me in a way I believe you intended.” She
touched his cheek. “And I don’t believe you would knowingly hurt me.”

“I cannot promise you it will not hurt, wench,” he said, his
eyes narrowed with apology.

“I know,” she whispered, and closed her arms around his
shoulders to draw him down—the quicker to be over the ordeal of losing her
maidenhead.

“Captain Drae!”

The interruption from the vid com brought a growl of pure
rage from the Tiogar and he threw his head back and howled, sending shivers of
fright down Marin’s backbone.

“What the hell is it?” Drae bellowed.

“You asked about ships that might be shadowing the
Revenge
,”
Tarnes reminded him. “We have a bogey closing in and they are not answering our
hail.”

“Shit!” the Tiogar hissed, beating his hand on the floor
beside Marin’s head.

“Sir, they are closing fast.”

Marin winced as her midnight lover leapt to his feet,
stomping over to the command chair and flopping down so savagely, the entire
console shook. She sat up, watching him work the com array, his face angry and
set.

“Put your clothes back on, wench,” he ordered, but not with
the same tone he demanded Tarnes tell him from where in the cosmos the unknown
ship was coming.

Marin got up and retrieved her jumpsuit, stepping into it
quickly as the Fiach sped recklessly through space. She stumbled a few times as
he changed course, rushing them back to the
Revenge
, but managed to
snatch her bra and stuff it into the pocket of her jumpsuit so no tell-tale
sign of their lovemaking might inadvertently be left behind.

“Is it my mother you think?” she asked, as she slid on her
shoes.

“Someone sent by her,” he growled. “Take a seat and buckle
in. I don’t want to be out here and unprotected in any case.”

Fearing for him but not for herself, Marin sat down in the
chair beside his and latched herself in. Her heart was pounding but when she
looked over at him—took in the powerful build of his naked body—her mouth went
dry.

“Stop thinking those thoughts,” he commanded, sparing her a
quick sideways glance. “I can’t be hearing that right now.”

Marin blushed for her thoughts had, indeed, been of his body
and what he had almost had time to do before they’d been interrupted.

Careening through space at a speed she didn’t believe was
either safe or prudent, Marin sat silent and tried to keep her thoughts from
the sensual man so close to her. She ached to touch him, to feel his body atop
her own.

“Don’t, wench,” he pleaded, and she could hear the
hopelessness in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, and tried to keep her mind on
the asteroids flashing past the Fiach’s windshield.

Something rocked the ship—a percussion wave that dipped the
craft downward for a moment.

“Bitch!” Drae yelled, his hand on the com array. “Her
daughter is in here with me!”

There was silence then an imperious voice came over the vid
com. “Lay to and allow us to board.”

“Go fuck yourself, you leispiach bitch!” Drae insulted the
speaker. His fingers raced over the command keyboard and the Fiach shot forward
even faster.

“Sweet Aneas!” Marin yelled at him. “You’re going to tear
this ship apart!”

“Have faith in the Gearmánach engineering, wench. This
machine isn’t anywhere near her limits!”

Though it had seemed they were far from the
Revenge
,
the prison transport suddenly appeared right before them, tracers of laser
cannons firing to either side of the Fiach, rippling the space around the
expensive ship and making for a very bumpy ride.

“Blow the bitch out of the sky!” Drae yelled.

“Please don’t,” Marin pleaded. “She’s only doing her—”

There was a loud explosion behind the Fiach and the ship
buckled forward, heading straight for the docking bay iris that was revolving
open.

Marin threw her arm up, for the Fiach was racing through the
docking station and headed straight for a solid sheath of titanium wall.

Drae felt the terror in Marin’s mind but he was too busy
bringing the ship under control, slowing it down, and by the time he did the
Fiach was a mere few inches from the wall toward which it had been hurtling. It
hovered there—engine idling.

“Mother of Alel,” the Tiogar whispered, his breath coming in
gasps and his body drenched in a fine sheen of sweat.

Marin opened her eyes to stare horrified at the wall that
seemed close enough she could reach through the windshield and touch it. She
felt moisture at the seat of her jumpsuit and knew she’d wet herself.
Slowly—very, very slowly—she turned her head to look at the man sitting rigidly
beside her. “Don’t,” she said, her voice low and shaky, “you ever do that to me
again.”

Drae nodded, unable to speak. He, too, was staring at the
wall into which they’d come very close to splattering themselves. Sweating—and
if truth be told his chair was none too dry—he was barely aware of Marin unbuckling
her harness with shaking hands and retrieving his leather pants, placing them
in his lap before bending down to pick up his discarded shirt. She brought it
to him and stood there holding it as though it was an offering.

“I’m going to turn us around and settle into the docking
harness,” he said, amazed his voice sounded so normal.

“Okay,” she stated in an equally level tone of voice, taking
her seat once more. She sat there with her hands buried in his silk shirt.

Very cautiously, expertly, Drae nosed the Fiach around and
ran her smoothly and efficiently back to the hidden docking harness where he
kept her, keeping her well under docking speed. With an expertise he certainly
didn’t feel, he seated the expensive flying machine into the harness and cut
her engines. He let out a long breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“I’m hungry,” Marin said.

He turned to gape at her, blinking at her set face. “You’re
what?” he asked.

She looked at him. “I’m hungry,” she repeated, extending his
rumpled shirt to him.

His hand came away from the console to take the shirt. “All
right.”

Marin didn’t watch him as he unbuckled his harness and stood
up to drag on his leather britches, but she could feel him staring at her,
could almost hear his heart pounding. As soon as he slipped into his shirt, she
eased her head around so she could look at him.

The buttons were gone from his shirt and he was standing
there with it gaping open, displaying the powerful plane of his chiseled chest
with its abundance of curly dark hair. Her gaze slid down the tiger line from
just beneath his manly paps to below his navel. Her palms tingled wanting to
touch that wiry trail.

“Wench,” he warned, and their eyes met. He was more than
aware of the erection that had suddenly come to life in his britches.

“You’re going to have to court me, milord Tiogar,” she said,
lifting her chin.

“Court you?” he echoed, blinking.

“You are familiar with the word?” she asked. “You do know
what it means?”

“Aye,” he said, drawing the word out, almost as though it was
a question.

“You no more want to rape me than I want to have you do so,”
she said. “I think we both want to experience those wild dreams you sent me but
neither of us wants you to hurt me.”

He shook his head. “No, that isn’t my intention.”

“Then you’ll have to court me,” she said.

“And if I don’t have the patience or the endurance to do
that?” he countered.

“You brought this craft into the docking station with the
proficiency of a master pilot. We were inches from dying, milord Tiogar, yet
you would not allow that to happen. If you have that much adeptness, that much
iron will, you have the ability to control your own body.”

He swallowed, holding her gaze with his own for a long
moment then nodded very slowly. “So be it,” he said.

“You will court me?”

“Aye, wench. Like you’ll never be courted again.”

* * * * *

Six days had passed and Kale McGregor was lounging in the
rec room with his arms on a table reading a dark romance ebook his lady had
sent for his enjoyment—and no doubt instruction—when the Tiogar sauntered in.
He bookmarked his place in the steamy erotic novel and observed Taegin as he
stopped to talk to a few crewmembers who were playing cards. McGregor cocked
his head to one side for there was something different about the captain,
something calmer, easier on the spirit, and a slow grin began to form on the
Contúirtian’s lips. He was smiling broadly by the time the Tiogar straddled a
chair at McGregor’s table and took a seat.

“Did you get the wenches to their destination okay?”

McGregor nodded. “They weren’t pleased that they had to
leave Deringnoe here. I thought I was going to have to sedate them like you
suggested. My ears are still ringing from all the abuse that termagant Simone
bombarded me with.”

“What are you reading now?” Taegin asked, having lost
interest in the subject of Marin’s fellow conspirators.

McGregor blushed. The title was sure to get a derisive snort
from his friend. “
Desire’s Sweet Longing
,” he answered, running a finger
under his collar.

“Is it any good?”

Kale blinked, surprised by the question. There was no
scathing look of disdain on the Tiogar’s face, no scornful contempt or cynical
mocking. In his tone had been no hint of sarcasm, only mild inquiry. McGregor
cleared his throat. “Actually, it’s hotter than a pulse rifle’s barrel in a
firefight,” he answered.

“Drop it by my quarters when you’re finished,” Taegin said.
“I’ve had more than my share of tech manuals.”

“The house building manuals? You’ve had enough of them?”
McGregor questioned, one eyebrow lifted. For as long as the two of them had
been assigned to the
Revenge
, Kale had watched his friend devour every
manual Taegin could get his hands on. Addicted to learning all he could about
the planning, construction and maintenance of the home he one day hoped to
build with his own hands, Taegin would sit for hours on end with his nose
pressed either to the computer screen or in a hardbound book, or with drawing
instruments in hand, designing his own home.

“They’re starting to bore me now,” the Tiogar admitted.

McGregor sat back in his chair, staring at his captain in
such a way a casual observer would have thought the captain had grown a set of
horns. There was a look of complete astonishment on McGregor’s handsome face.
His mouth was open, his eyes slightly wide with apparent shock. He sat there
for a moment—staring at his friend—then pressed his lips together, swallowing
loudly. “All right,” McGregor snapped. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

The Tiogar’s brow furrowed. “There’s nothing wrong with me.
What’s wrong with you? You look like I just told you I was going to fuck your
granny.”

“Granny would like that,” McGregor stated in an off-hand
manner, “and you know gods-be-damned well what I mean. When have you
ever
asked to read one of the books Phaedra sends to me?”

Taegin shrugged. “I told you, I’m tired of tech manuals
and—”

“No,” McGregor said, shaking his head. “I’m not buying
that.” He squinted. “What have you gone and done now, Drae?”

The Tiogar held up his hand to signal one of his junior
crewmen. Upon gaining the young man’s attention, he asked, “Would you get me a
snifter of Antas brandy, Jorgensen?”

“Aye, Captain!” Jorgensen agreed, and hurried over to the
duplication module.

McGregor waited until Jorgensen brought the fiery brew and
had departed before he lowered his voice. “Did you rape that woman?” he
demanded.

“Not yet, but I’ll get around to it,” Taegin said with a
grin, taking a small sip of the blistering liquor.

With eyes narrowed into thin slits, McGregor spoke through
clenched teeth. “You are
not
going to rape that woman!” he said.

“Well, now, there’s rape and then there’s rape, Kale,” the
Tiogar said with a wink. “Eventually on down the line I can see myself raping
her gently and with her complete approval and cooperation. I think she’d like
that.”

“No woman likes to be raped!” McGregor hissed.

Taegin’s eyebrows shot up. “Correct me if I’m wrong but
while we were hiding out in the Contúirtian Alps with Phaedra tagging along
behind us like a moonstruck calf, I seem to recall a few episodes when the two
of you were sharing a blanket when I believe I heard Phae say,
‘Oh, please,
Master, be gentle with me’
.”

Kale’s face turned a deep crimson color and he looked
stricken, embarrassed someone—and especially Taegin—had heard their playacting.
He looked around to see if anyone else had heard. “Will you lower your voice?”
he pleaded.

“Well, didn’t I hear correctly?” the Tiogar pressed. “Didn’t
I hear you reply to her that she was at your mercy and you would—”

“Enough!” McGregor snarled under his breath, the blush
spreading down his neck and beneath the crisply knotted leather of his tie.
“There’s a difference between what Phae and I do, and you do to that woman!”

“What’s the difference?” Taegin asked, taking another
cautious sip of the potent brew.

“Phae and I are married,” McGregor said, raising his chin.
“Married people can do things single people can’t!”

Taegin rolled his eyes. “Like what? Kiss the lady goodnight
and roll over to start snoring and farting?” He nudged McGregor’s foot with his
own. “Single men don’t dare do that if they want a repeat performance sometime
during the night.”

“Don’t you rape that woman,” McGregor said, eyes flashing.

“I never had any intention of doing so, Kale,” Taegin said
on a long sigh. “I just wanted her hellcat of a mother to think I was going
to.”

“You told me you were going to rape her,” Kale reminded him.