Spring Wind [Seasonal Winds Book 1] (4 page)

there was anger in the depths of the gray orbs looking back

at her.

For a long time he said nothing, just stared at her. It was

unnerving and her heart was slamming against her ribcage.

She feared what he would do, what he would make her do.

When he finally spoke, she flinched as though he had lifted a

hand to hit her.

"Did you enjoy his kiss, wench?"

Terror flooded Bailey's soul at those words. He knew she

had been with Doyle, that the Resistance leader had kissed

her.

"H ... how did you know he...?"

"Answer me," he snapped, his eyes flaring.

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She shook her head. "No, Milord."

"No you didn't enjoy it, or no you didn't allow that scumbag to put his mouth on yours?"

There was in his question absolute fury but it seemed to be

firmly in check. Though the words were harsh, they had been

spoken quietly. She watched something dark, lethal, flare in

his gaze.

"Answer me, wench!"

"I did not enjoy his kiss, Milord," she replied quickly,

fearing his wrath.

He leaned forward and snaked out his hands to grab her

shoulders and pull her toward him. She had no choice but to

hobble on her knees as close to the chair as possible, feeling

trapped between his spread legs.

"Put yours hand up on my thighs," he ordered.

She obeyed, all too aware that his face was just inches

from hers. When he leaned back, she let out a wavering

breath.

"Since Doyle was lying in wait for you I can not blame you

for what the bastard did," he said softly. "However had you

told me you enjoyed it, I might well have taken a blade to

him before the day was out and spilled his worthless guts for

the buzzards to peck at."

Her heart seemed to stop beating at the callous way in

which he'd made that statement. Without realizing it, her

hands tightened on his thighs.

He looked down at her hands, at her thumb digging into

the insides of his thighs but made no comment. Instead, he

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put a hand to her cheek and gently cupped her face, ignoring

the wince that creased her lovely face.

"You asked how I knew he'd kissed you," he said. "I have

men watching you for me. That's how I knew."

"I haven't done anything," she said, trembling. "I swear I

haven't."

"I know you haven't."

"Then why are you having me followed?" she asked and

winced at her temerity.

"Because you belong to me," he said and as her green

eyes widened, he nodded slowly. "Your uncle has handed you

into my keeping."

"No, Milord," she said. "He..."

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her lips, cutting off

what she had been about to say. "You are mine," he stated.

"Accept it for that isn't going to change."

"But why?" she asked, her fear of him intensifying to make

her voice break.

"Why did he give you to me?" he asked, caressing her

cheek. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Because I wanted

you." He leaned forward. "Without a dowry of any kind."

That stunned her. What man could possibly want her

without the money and land that should have accompanied

the deal? In her world, a woman was worth only what could

be offered her betrothed to take her off her parents' or

guardian's hands. It was unheard of for a man to accept a

female without due compensation unless...

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The blood drained from Bailey's face. "You want me for

your whore," she said, her lips quivering. "Not as your wife,

but as your..."

He once again stopped what she'd been about to say but it

was not with his thumb. This time it was with his lips. He took

her mouth firmly, expertly, and it was the most soulshattering experience of her life. He tasted of sweet wine and

his tongue was a wicked tease that flicked across her lips and

thrust knowingly into her the warm recess of her mouth. He

took her breath away with that kiss and when it ended, she

stared into silver eyes hot with passion.

"I want you, wench," he said. "It's as simple as that."

He gave her no chance to reply to that declaration. He

swept his arm around her back, bent forward, and twisted so

he could hook his other arm under her knees and lifted her as

easily as if she had been a toddler. She had no choice but to

put her arms around his brawny neck. With purposeful steps

he carried her from the living area down the hallway and into

her bedchamber.

It was happening so fast Bailey's mind could not

comprehend it. She felt his arms around her, his hard chest,

his warm breath fanning across her chest where the towel did

not reach. She had a sense of his alluring male smell that

befuddled her senses and sent waves of something heavy to

pool between her legs. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples

tingling, swelling, and moisture was gathering in the folds of

her vagina.

Striding to her bed, he placed her on the coverlet then

straightened up. His hands went to the buckle of his black

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leather belt and Bailey began to tremble. She watched with

stricken eyes and quivering lips as the belt came off and he

began to tug the silk shirt from the waistband of his pants.

She knew it would do no good to plead with him. Neither

women nor men ever denied a Modartha what he desired. It

was a deadly thing to even contemplate. What he wanted, he

would get and to fight him would be suicide. All she could do

was lie there—rigid and trembling—as the shirttail came out

of the pants and he began unbuttoning it.

He surprised her when he smiled for his entire face

changed. For the first time she realized how devastatingly

handsome he was when he wasn't scowling.

"You look like a sacrificial lamb lying there, wench," he

said as he shrugged the shirt from his shoulders.

His chest was sculpted with pectoral muscles that looked

as though a master sculptor had cast them. Likewise his

abdominal muscles were ridged, chiseled from the same

tawny stone. A thick matting of hair spread across his upper

chest and tapered down to a thin, tantalizing line that

disappeared beneath the waistband of his pants. He unhooked

his fly and eased the zipper down before turning and sitting

down on her bed to pull off his boots, dropping them to the

floor.

With his back to her, Bailey saw the infamous tattoo that

all Modartha had emblazoned on their bodies. Reaching from

his left collarbone to the flange of his right hip, the large

black tat was a stylized whorl of a dragon in flight, fire

flaming from its open mouth, its leathery wing-tips stretching

from shoulder to shoulder, the spiked tail curving around his

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hip, the end of it hidden by the front of his pants. It must

have taken the tattoo artist hours to do the intricate swirls

and knots that constituted the complex drawing and much of

it—she knew—had been done on sensitive parts of his flesh.

When he stood up to push his pants from his hips, she

blushed to see the dragon's claws cupped his buttocks, the

wicked talons seemingly digging into his flesh. As he turned

around, she looked quickly away for the dragon's tail flanged

down and around his hip to curl suggestively around his

penis, the barbed tip drawn on the soft head.

"That must have hurt," she said before she thought.

"Like a motherfucker," he replied with a snort. "It hurt to

pee for days."

She instinctively moved over to allow him to stretch out

beside her. Very conscious that the only thing between her

naked body and his was the towel wrapped around her, she

kept very still.

"You won't be my whore, wench," he said. He had one leg

crooked as he laid there, one arm over his chest and the

other lying between her and him.

"Then what will I be, Milord?" she risked asking him as she

felt him reach for her hand and then thread his fingers

through hers.

"My wife," he said. "There was never any doubt of that."

She turned her head to look at him. "What?"

He shrugged. "Unless you prefer being my whore," he

replied.

"No, Milord!" she said and felt her face burn with heat.

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"You could do worse," he said and shifted so he was lying

on his side facing her. He propped his head on his hand.

"Being the lady of a Modartha does have its perks."

Bailey had never wanted to marry. She enjoyed her

freedom too much to be at the beck-and-call of any man. The

few stolen kisses and quick feels she'd had in her secondary

years at school had been unfulfilling and simply underscored

the notion that males wanted one thing and one thing only

from females. She reasoned she could do without the sex,

and having children was not something she even

contemplated for she didn't believe she'd make a good

mother.

She hadn't counted on her uncle wanting to get rid of her

bad enough that he would hand her over to a licensed killer.

"What worries you, wench?" he asked. When she didn't

answer, he slid his free arm over her belly and tugged at the

towel. "You can talk freely to me."

Talking freely to a Modartha was something she knew

could be dangerous. Though his voice was soft and his fingers

were lightly squeezing hers, she could sense the coiled

menace lurking just beneath his civilized exterior.

"You hurt me, Milord," she said and could have bitten her

tongue off for voicing such a thing to him. Modartha were

above the law and he had every right to do whatever he felt

like to her.

Van Byrne winced. She was looking at him with reproach,

with apprehension that had settled deep in her pretty green

eyes. Like everyone else, she was in mortal fear of him and

he could sense that—almost smell it on her.

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"Wench," he said. "I'm going to do something I've never

done before in my life." He held her reluctant gaze. "I wish to

apologize to you for what I did in the alley."

Bailey blinked, amazed at what he was saying. Modartha

never showed contrition, never asked for forgiveness, or

expressed regret at anything they did. To hear him apologize

shocked her. When he continued, all she could do was stare

wide eyed at him, her lips parted in amazement. What he was

doing was completely unheard of.

"It was wrong what I did and my only explanation was that

I was attempting to frighten you into staying away from Doyle

and his merry band of conspirators. The man is dangerous

and, sooner rather than later, he will hang for his crimes.

What I told you about the dungeon was true. I wasn't

exaggerating. Such things would have happened to you had

you been caught in the net waiting to snare Kona Doyle." He

lowered his head. "I am sorry."

Stunned, Bailey just shook her head. "Why are you doing

this?" she asked. Tears filled her eyes. "It isn't right."

Van drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly before

answering. "I was assigned to do a job for Senator Flynn and

I did it." He cocked one shoulder. "I didn't count on that

assignment backfiring on me."

Her forehead crinkled. "I don't understand."

He had not been looking at her but at her bedspread—

thinking how pretty it was—but he lifted his head at her

question. "I couldn't get you out of my mind. I had your scent

on my uniform and it beckoned to me all evening. I

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deliberately didn't wash my hand so I cold smell your scent

clinging to my fingers."

Bailey's face burned so hot at his unseemly words that she

felt her ears tingle.

"I thought about you all night, all the next morning. When

I met with your uncle and he offered you to me, I jumped at

the chance to have you for my own. If he hadn't offered you

to me, I would have informed him I was taking you anyway."

Unease flowed through Bailey but she knew there was

nothing that could undo what her uncle had set into motion.

She now belonged to the Modartha whether she liked it or

not. She was his chattel, his property, his possession. That

thought made her groan.

"I will be good to you," she heard him say and for the first

time saw a flicker of uncertainty in his silver gaze. She also

thought she detected a trace of vulnerability and that

surprised her even more.

"I won't ever hurt you and I won't allow anyone else to

hurt you," he said.