Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - Wyndmaster 1 (19 page)

"I could but it wouldn't be legal. The Joining has to be consummated for it to be lawful in the eyes of the

Argonne High Council." He yawned and rested his chin atop his lady's head. "It's a moot point for I have

no intention of going to Argonne and certainly no desire to hump the widow Summerall."

"I should hope not," his lady said. She settled into his arms and closed her eyes. "But we must be nice to

your sister while she's here."

He pulled his head back and looked down at her. "Why?"

She opened her eyes and tilted her head back to lock gazes with him. "Because—like it or not—she's

your family. Let it not be said that your lady-wife did not extend courtesy and consideration to your

sister."

"You would have scratched my brother's eyes out or maimed his dangly on the
Akinos
but you'll be civil

to my sister?" he questioned.

"This is our home," she said. "The
Akinos
was not."

"Oh," he said. "Well that certainly explains things." He shook his head at her logic then closed his eyes.

She closed hers and in a matter of moments, they were sleeping.

It was a strained meal the three of them ate that evening. The conversation was stilted and the unease

palpable. Although the food was excellent, the wine exquisite, and the dessert utter heaven, no one

seemed to have enjoyed the repast as they retired to the study where a roaring fire kept the chill of the

winter night at bay.

"How many people live on Zykanthos, Sierran?" Jillian asked.

"Around two hundred," he said, sipping the cognac Celeste had poured for him.

"And you own the entire island?"

He nodded. Out of respect for his wife's wishes, he was dressed more properly for a meal with his sister

though he had adamantly refused to put on a coat and cravat. His white shirt had been begrudgingly

tucked into his britches, he wore a belt, and he had on boots. That was as far as he was willing to go.

Jillian on the other hand was dressed in elegance with jewels in her upswept hair—compliments of one

of
Vista del Mar's
more creative maids—and at her ears, neck, and upon her wrists. Several rather

expensive rings adored her long, tapered fingers.

"You seem to have done well for yourself, Jilly," Sierran remarked. "Who was it you married?"

"Lord Edward Gillespie, Earl of Haverton," she replied, her chin high. "His family is very close to the

Ibydosian Royals." She took a tiny sip of the port in her hand.

"And Madeline and Danica?" he asked. "Whom did they catch?"

His sister frowned before she caught herself then forced the lines from her forehead. "You make us

sound like fishwives, Sierran," she said. "We didn't catch anyone. Father made excellent matches for

each of us. Maddy Joined with Lord Levon Reed of the Vantar Reeds and Dani is wife to Lord Morris

Bartlett. His family is…"

"Big in shipping," Sierran finished for her. "I know Morris. The others I've only heard about."

Jillian sat her empty glass aside. "How do you know Morris?" she asked. It would not do for her brother

to have a friend inside the family.

"I own the
Akinos
," he replied, "and two merchant ships, the
Austru
and the
Shamal.
I met Bartlett when

I purchased the
Shamal
. He's a prissy little twit."

"I quite agree," Jillian said, relaxing.

"What about our brothers?" he inquired. "Whom did they marry?"

"Well, Peyton married a friend of mine, Lady Leticia Reynolds. We went to boarding school together

and are very close," she said with a smile that transformed her face. "Dyllon took Lady Lizabeth Nelton

as his bride and Fallon wed Lady Harriet Dunston." She sighed. "Vaughn married that odious Wetherby

girl. Do you remember her?"

"Vaguely," he said. He was thirteen the last time he'd been with his entire family and he had a slight

recollection of his twenty-four year old brother bringing a scrawny, sharp-faced woman to supper one

evening.

"Teresa is not one of Father's favorites, I assure you," Jillian said. "He can barely tolerate speaking to the

chit."

"Yet he gave his consent to the Joining," Sierran observed.

"She had a most impressive dowry," Jillian remarked.

"Ah, then that explains it. How much dower land did she bring to Father's estates?"

"It was a goodly portion of Wetherby lands Father purchased when we fled to Argonne and built Eagle

Grove," she told him. "Teresa's dower lands abut ours to the east."

"So how large does that make Eagle Grove now?" he asked.

"Well," she said, her voice filled with pride. "Once the Patterly lands are incorporated, Eagle Grove will

be by far the largest estate in all of Argonne. Father will wield such power not even the might of the

Argonnese government will be able to stand against him."

Sierran's smile was nasty. "I can see why he's so anxious to get his hands on Patterly."

Jillian stiffened. "And do you see why it is necessary that you come to Argonne to consummate your

Joining to Lady Beatrice?" she asked. "Once that is done, you can return here to your island and never

once have to step foot upon Eagle Grove lands again."

"The family will leave me be, eh?" he asked, lifting his snifter to drain the last of the cognac.

"Indeed!" Jillian agreed. She looked from her brother's scowling face to Celeste's carefully

expressionless one. "You do see the advantages, don't you, dear Celeste?"

"Advantages to your family, yes," Celeste said. "But there are no advantages that I can see for Sierran."

"Well, no," Jillian agreed. "There will be nothing for him at Eagle Grove but then again, there never has

been or ever will be."

Sierran was staring down into his empty snifter. When Jillian said that, he slowly lifted his head and

looked over at her. "What happens to Patterly if I refuse to be a part of Father's scheme?"

Jillian blinked. "Well, you can't," she said. "You must come to Argonne and?"

"No," he said softly. When she would have protested, he held up his hand. "I said no. Not now, not

ever."

"But you must, Sierran!" Jillian protested.

Sierran set the snifter on the table beside him and got up. He inclined his head to his sister. "Good night,

Jillian. I hope you rest well."

Jillian shot to her feet as her brother turned to leave the room. "This isn't finished, Sierran. You must

come back with me to Argonne and?"

"No, I don't have to do anything," he said, his back to her as he kept walking.

Furious that she was being dismissed with such a cavalier attitude, Jillian spun around and glared at

Celeste. "You need to make that silly boy see reason!" she insisted.

Celeste got gracefully to her feet. Her smile was as nasty as her husband's had been. "Sierran isn't a boy,

Lady Jillian. He is a man." She clasped her hands together in front of her. "A very powerful man who

makes his own decisions. He will not be bullied into doing what he does not wish to do."

Jillian flounced her skirt and stormed out of the room, not even bothering to say goodnight to her

hostess. She was seething and cursing vulgarly beneath her breath as she stomped up the stairs. She

slammed the door to her room behind her and flung herself on the bed, lashing out with her fists and

kicking her legs like a small child having a tantrum.

Celeste had stayed in the study. She was torn between going up to her husband and following behind his

sister to give her a piece of her mind. For the longest time she stood there undecided but thoughts of

Sierran's overbearing father trying to force him into doing something her husband had no intention of

doing, brought thoughts of her own father to mind.

It had been nearly three weeks since she'd last seen her father in the dungeon of Dragonmoor. She had

heard his wild shouts coming from the iron box as it had rolled along behind the wagon as Vargas took

Sierran to the
Akinos
but she had not laid eyes on her parent since. Though she had ventured many times

down the corridor that led to the room where he had been incarcerated, she had turned around each

time, unwilling and unable to face the man who had done such terrible things to the man she loved. The

man she knew as her father had never really existed. In his place, a monster had walked and it was that

monster she had not been ready to see.

"He is well enough," Sierran had reported to her. "I haven't been to see him, either."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm afraid of what I might be tempted to do to him."

It had been an honest statement and one Celeste knew her husband had every right to make. He had

been tortured brutally at her father's hands and would bear the scars of that torture for the rest of his life.

Sierran had also told her about what her father had done to shame him and that—even more than the

pain that had been inflicted upon him—seemed to torment Sierran the most.

"He put his filthy hands on me," Sierran had said. "
To
me."

It had taken her many nights of gentle loving to push that vile memory from her husband's mind. Now, it

was nothing more than a ghost hovering somewhere deep in the background.

At least she hoped it was.

Standing there in the study she hitched up her courage. Tonight would be as good a time as any to

confront her father. It needed to be done. She knew he begged to be allowed to see her—accusing

Sierran of having raped her and even murdered her.

Drawing in a deep, cleansing breath, she left the study and took the corridor toward the room the

carpenters and masons on the island had turned into a private prison for her father.

"It's a large space," Sierran had explained. "I had the walls knocked down between two storage rooms

and bars mortared into place over the windows. One room is airy and bright and the other—which is his

bedchamber and bath—is dark but with a fireplace for warmth. There is also a fireplace in the living area.

I had thick bars forged for the walls of the living area so anyone can stand there and converse with him."

"Does anyone do that?" she'd asked.

"Not to my knowledge," he replied. "He gets three meals a day that he has never refused to eat. I have

provided him books and writing materials. Once a week my men go in to prepare a bath for him and

clean the two rooms. They've been forced to wrestle him to the floor and shackle him to keep him still

while they do that."

"You've done far more for him than he would ever have done for you, milord," she had said quietly.

"He is your father," Sierran said and had changed the subject.

She could hear her father speaking the farther down the corridor she walked. Ahead of her was a dead

end so she could see there was no one standing before the bars. She knew he was carrying on a

conversation with himself. She stopped to listen but could not make out the words he was saying. Now

and again, she would hear him giggle.

Steeling herself, she continued toward the room where her father was being held.

"If you do go to see him, stay well back from the bars, Celeste," Sierran had warned her. "He isn't in his

right mind. Better yet, let me or Vargas know when you want to go and we'll accompany you. It may not

be safe for you."

Her father was pacing the living area of his cell with his head down, his hands clasped behind his back.

He wore a white shirt that looked too big for him and his britches were a bit too long over his stocking

feet. His cheeks were stubbled with growth that was coming in stark white and his hair—though in need

of a good washing—had gone from salt and pepper to nearly gray since last she'd seen him.

"We took away his belt and cravat for fear he might do himself damage. Vargas also took his boots for

there were metal strips in the soles that he could have taken out to slash at his guards. “He's never

allowed metal utensils for that reason. We have provided him a blunt wooden spoon with which to eat his

meals," Sierran had explained.

"Tear out his fingernails with hot pinchers," she heard her father mumble. "Cut his manhood from him

with a rusty blade."

Celeste blanched at those words—spoken low and furtively but with such venom it sent chills down her

spine.

"Pull out his eyes and…"

"Father?"

Lord Charles stopped in mid stride and slowly turned his head. His eyes were vacant pools in his thin

face. "Who are you?" he snapped. "How dare you address me in such a manner!"

"It's me, Father. Celeste," she said gently. Tears had formed in her eyes for the man on the other side of

the bars was nearly unrecognizable.

"You are not Celeste!" the crazed man stated. "My Celeste is safe within the walls of St. Carolus where

she is being protected from the likes of the degenerate who has imprisoned me in this vile place!" He

squinted. "I know who you are. You are Morgan's whore! That's who you are!"

She shook her head as tears fell down her cheeks. "I am his wife, Father," she said. "We were legally

Joined."

"Whore!" Lord Charles said and flung himself at the bars, thrusting a hand with crooked fingers through

the bars to grab her. "Filthy slut! Diseased harlot!"

Celeste jumped back to keep him from touching her. His hands were filthy, the nails packed with grime

and there was a foul odor wafting from him. He was clawing at her like a wild animal with his cheek

pressed tight to the bars. Lips pulled back from gnashing teeth, eyes wild, and snarls coming from deep