SECRETS OF THE WIND (5 page)

“Captain Neff was of the Protastnúach faith and brought you up with those beliefs, but you are of Eastern Caitliceachs heritage. You were baptized in our mutual Faith. Once baptized Caitliceachs, always a Caitliceachs, lass. As such, my Court has no objections to a Joining between you and my son. As a matter of fact, we were able to trace your maternal lineage back to Queen Medea, and that was enough to sway even the most virulent of my councilors.”

Chas narrowed her eyes. “Gréagach royalty? You can’t be serious,” she managed to say.

“I am quite serious.” The queen cocked her head to one side. “You are very lovely, so that will suit Ruan’s desire for a pretty wife. The boy can’t have a hag for the mother of his brats. You are shapely with a very fine bust, so that will soothe his baser needs and keep his hands otherwise occupied and off a sword hilt. You are well trained in combat and can hold your own against even a Storian primary assassin, so you won’t be afraid of his quick temper when Ruan feels the urge to display it. That should fulfill my son’s requirement to have a woman who can give as good as she takes.”

“Your Majesty, I have…”

“An assignment that I believe will be both to your advantage as well as my son’s,” the queen asserted. “As a Riezell Guardian, you must carry out the assignment you were given. Am I correct?”

“Aye, but…”

“And the contract says the assignment must be finished to an end your employer stipulates.”

Chas pursed her lips. There was no need for her to answer for obviously the queen and her councilors would have inspected the contract inside and out.

“I particularly like the motto of the Riezell Guardians—’To protect and serve with disregard to personal feelings or beliefs. To give my all, even should it be my life.’” The queen sighed. “That is so terribly romantic, don’t you think?”

“And when he finds out what you are about?” Chas challenged. “Just how angry do you think he will be? With you? With me?”

“Oh, pooh!” the queen dismissed. “Let him bluster all he wants, but one bat of those pretty green eyes of yours and a hand placed in a strategic place should calm him down quickly enough.”

The deep color returned to Chas’ cheeks and she covered her face with her hands. “This can’t be happening!”

“Do you find Ruan unattractive?” the queen demanded, her chin rising.

“No, of course not, but…”

“Do you find him offensive in manner?”

“Your Majesty, no, but…”

“Do you prefer Daniel Brock to Ruan Cosaint?”

Chas shuddered. “No, not at all, yet…”

“We have your psychological profile.”

The paleness that washed over Chas’ face made her head spin. “You what?” she asked through the slits of her fingers.

“I believe you made the statement to your analyst that you desired a man not unlike the corsairs of old.” Queen Annalyn grimaced. “That hardly seems to suit the image I have of Daniel Brock.”

“Your Majesty, you should not have…”

“Do you not,” the queen said, coming to sit on the side of Chas’ bed, “wish for a real man to warm you of a night, Chastain Neff?”

Chas could only gape at the older woman.

“Do you not want a man who will make your blood boil one moment, and then make it flow like hot molasses in the next as his fingers ply your flesh? Do you not desire a man who will take you soaring to the highest mountains then cradle you gently in his arms as he settles you back to earth?”

“Your Majesty,” Chas protested, her voice a whine of complaint.

“I am told that when he laid hands to you in the marketplace, you were seen to shudder as though a lightning bolt had traveled the length of you. Is that correct?”

“While it is true I felt a charge from his touch, I…”

“Did you not call him Enlil?”

“Aye, but I don’t have any idea…”

“Enlil,” the queen said, “was the Lord High God of the Winds in ancient
an Iaráin
. His wife was Ninlil. That phantom woman you were in the distant past called out to her lover.”

“That is only speculation,” Chas denied.

“Had you heard the name before? Is it one you commonly use?”

Chas groaned with frustration. “No, Your Majesty. The name was new to me.”

“No, it was love calling to love, Chastain. Ruan Cosaint is the reincarnation of an old, old love and he is the man for you, lass,” the queen said, her statement brooking no argument. “And you are the woman for him! You were meant to be together! The mystic says so!”

“But when he finds out you hired me to…”

“Don’t let him!” the queen snapped and rose from the bed. She smoothed the skirt of her gown. “Men don’t need to know everything a woman does, lass. The sooner you learn
that
lesson, the better off you’ll be!”

When Queen Annalyn left her, Chas went over the information regarding her heritage and realized she was crying. She had been trying for so long to find out who she had been, who her parents were, the reason Charlton Neff and his wife, Catherine, had adopted her, it was a relief to finally have answers. To learn she had been of noble blood? Unexpected and totally surprising. No wonder the Tribunal did not want her to know of her heritage.

As to the Gaelachuan queen’s assertion that Chas and Ruan were fated to be mates? Well, she thought as she swiped at her tears, that remained to be seen.

Chapter Four

“You survived my mother’s visit,” he said as he stuck his head around the door.

Chas smiled. “It was touch and go but, aye, I managed to get through it.”

He came into the room, leaving the door open, as he had no doubt been warned to do, and came to stand by her bed. All available chairs had been removed and Chas could tell he was annoyed.

“She tells me you will be here a few days,” he said. “Is that at her direction or because you don’t feel well enough to be up?”

“I believe her exact words were—’You will do as I say, lass, and I’ll have no argument ‘bout it!’”

“Aye,” he said with a sigh. “That sounds like my mother. She is a formidable old biddy.” He rested his hands on the footboard of the bed. “When I asked her what your name was, she ordered me to find out for myself.”

“I am Chastain Neff, Your Grace,” she introduced herself.

“Chastain,” he said and the name on his tongue sounded sensual. “I am Ruan.”

“Your Grace…” she began but he held up a hand.

“No, not Ruan Your Grace. Just Ruan,” he corrected.

“I would not dare to…”

“My exact words are—’You will do as I say, lass, and I’ll have no argument ‘bout it!’”

Chas laughed for his tone and inflection mimicked his mother perfectly. Combined with the waggle of eyebrows and a forbidding glower lurking behind the sparkle in his blue eyes, his mimicry put her at ease.

“So,” he said, leaning his elbows on the footboard and clasping his hands. “My mother and I have decided you will not be working for Lord Piss-On but…”

“Who?” Chas asked, her eyebrows rose.

“Pierceson Hurlburt,” Ruan informed her. “He’s nothing more than a cock with legs. You’d be compromised within half an hour of being in the same room with him.”

“But I need a job,” Chas protested. “I…”

“I need a personal secretary,” the handsome prince interrupted.

She stared at him. “Don’t you already have a personal secretary?”

He shrugged. “Alistair is more nag than secretary and besides, he hates the title. Too effeminate, he says. He’d much rather be training troops than attending me.”

Chas looked down at her hands. “But you know nothing of me or my abilities, Your Grace.” She looked up. “I might be a terrible secretary.”

He cocked a brow. “Can you write?”

“Aye.”

“Cipher?”

“Aye, Your Grace, but…”

“Then you’re hired.” He pushed back from the footboard. “You can start as soon as my mother decrees you able enough to leave that bed.”

Chas watched Ruan walked to the door and she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Her sources had told her he was a brooding, no-nonsense man with a thick chip upon his broad shoulder. So far, she had not seen that side of him, but there was something in the purposeful way he walked that bespoke not only authority but also arrogant power. Ruan turned around at the door. “Any questions?”

She shook her head. “No, Your Grace, I don’t think so.”

“Good, then if the sergeant-major allows it, you can accompany me to Viridian tomorrow. I have business there. I’m sure she will see to having a portmanteau packed for you.”

“The sergeant-major?” she questioned.

Ruan snorted. “My interfering mother who has decided you are to be the next wench she’s going to throw at me. If royalty fails, look for a gently bred commoner whom she can train to be a noble.”

With that said, he ambled from the room.

* * * * *

Ruan tossed and turned in his lonely bed, his thoughts on the beautiful woman two floors below his chamber. He kicked at the covers, pulled them over him, sat up and punched his pillow, dropped his head to it and then kicked the covers entirely from the bed. Next to be flung to the floor was the pillow, followed closely by another. Finally sitting up, the prince ran his hands through his hair and tugged viciously.

“Argh!” he snarled and swung his legs from the bed and sat there on the edge, glaring at the carpet.

The trouble was Chastain, he thought. Aye, that was who was causing his sleeplessness
.

While it was true he had never seen a more beautiful woman, he knew this one had somehow gotten under his skin. That his mother had given her sanction of some sort bothered him, but then again, the old woman only had his best interests at heart.

Chastain.

Even the name filled his soul with vibrant images—blonde hair—long and silky, and curling to just above shapely hips that flared out at a perfect angle from a tiny waist and flat belly. Beautiful green eyes, the color of the early corn shoots in the late spring. Lush breasts that caused a man’s eyes to go to them like an arrow to a bull’s-eye. Long legs that curved sweetly to a nicely turned rump, slender arms, swanlike neck. And her face?

Ruan sucked in his breath as he raised his head and stared unseeingly at the wall before him.

Such a face she had
, he thought. Smooth forehead framed by lustrous golden hair, a slight tilt to those glorious eyes, a pert upturned nose, lush lips that invited a man to taste their sweetness, a cute little chin graced with a seductive dimple.

Ruan shuddered and stood up. Padding barefoot to the window, he shoved the draperies aside and glared down into the moonlit courtyard. The fragrance of late roses filled the air and vied with the faint tang of salt that floated on midnight waves from the Northern Sea. If he listened closely, he could hear the roar of the ocean and…

Giggling?

He frowned and opened the window wider, poking his head out until the sound that had caught his attention made sense to him.

“Daval,” he said, naming his youngest brother.

And Daval it was, running through the darkened courtyard behind one of the serving wenches. Both were as naked as the day they were born.

“You little bastard,” Ruan chuckled and hunkered down so that his elbows were braced on the windowsill and he could spy upon his younger sibling.

The girl was much older than Daval and—as Ruan knew all too well—extremely educated when it came to sexual play. She was leading the young prince deeper into the garden, unmindful of any eyes that could be watching their frolicking and oblivious to the bright moon overhead that cast its light upon them like a beacon. Her naked rump jiggled in the moon glow and washed over her shapely body as though attempting to clothe her in its rays.

And Daval? The little son of a bitch was rollicking along the pathway with no care in the world. His wiggly was bouncing from side to side and—in imitation of their father—he patted his belly in anticipation of the feast he was no doubt contemplating.

Ruan couldn’t help but chuckle as the young man rubbed his nearly hairless chest then reached down to grasp his cock to keep it from flopping so painfully.

Daval glanced back once at the keep then shrugged, picking up speed as he ran after the wench, still holding his shaft. The two were being uncommonly quiet so as not to rouse those within the keep, but now and again a giggle would erupt from the maze of shrubs through which the couple was running.

“I hope you get a briar up your toenail, you little fuck,” Ruan whispered. “Or in your teeny, tiny prick!”

The couple stopped beside the fountain where bubbling water cascaded down from a tall statue of St. Padris. Stretching out along the fountain’s wide rim, the wench lay there with one leg crooked at the knee, her arms held out for her young lover.

“Under the statue of a saint?” Ruan asked and whistled. “You’ll go to hell for sure, Daval Cosaint!”

But what his young brother did next so shocked Ruan that his mouth sagged open, and he could not have torn his eyes from the scene under penalty of torture.