WindDeceiver (35 page)

“Milord, you must eat,” Celene said.

“No, I don’t.”

“Let him starve,” one of the guards grated. “Come, woman.”

Celene caressed his shoulder, was not surprised when he jerked away from her touch.

“They won’t let me leave the food here, milord,” she told him.

“Fine,” he answered.

“Just take up the bastard’s tray and come along, Celene!” the guard who had spoken before demanded. “He’ll wish he’d eaten it when he don’t get nothing ‘til tomorrow night.”

“Milord, please,” Celene pleaded. She would have begged again had not a sudden bright light been thrust into the cell and she put her hand to shield her eyes to the glare.

“I’ve come to stitch his wounds,” she heard the Prince’s surgeon grumbled. For the first time, thanks to the light flooding the cell, she saw the small pool of blood which had coagulated under the Outlander’s hands.

Conar was vaguely aware of one of the guards pulling Celene to her feet and thrusting her away. His lids flickered as the food tray was kicked roughly away, the metal bottom making a scratching sound as it skidded across the floor. He barely flinched as brutal hands yanked him upright and closed around his wrists, holding his hands out to the Healer.

“These are deeper than I thought,” the surgeon clucked. “It will be several days before he will be able to use them.” He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a bottle of astringent. “Hold him securely.”

Celene could detect no movement at all as the fiery brew was poured into the gaping cuts in the Serenian’s hands. Not even a flutter of his eyelids indicated he felt the pain of the astringent.

Nor did he move a muscle as the suturing was done, the needle plied by the surgeon moving roughly through his flesh to bind close the cuts. His gaze was somewhere beyond the place in which he was trapped and the steady stare, unwavering and cold, was fixed.

The surgeon glanced up only once as he wrapped medicated linen around the Outlander’s hands. He had been curious to see for himself the man an entire Emirate had gone to war over.

Disappointed that the Serenian was not the ogre he had expected, but rather a very handsome WINDDECEIVER Charlotte Boyett-Compo 163

young man with twin scars that seemed to make his face all the more intriguing, the surgeon’s hand became gentler as he wound the bandages into place.

“I am to give you something for the pain,” the surgeon said and stilled as the young man’s unblinking stare shifted to him.

“No.”

“But--“

That alien gaze shifted away again and the cold face hardened even more.

“He has had a problem in the past with drug addiction,” one of the guards holding Conar’s arms remarked. “His Grace said he would refuse the narcotic.”

The man’s grip tightened. “Give it to him anyway.”

Conar turned his head and looked at the man, then looked away again. His gaze met Celene’s and he found comfort in the way she was watching him. His face softened just a little and he lowered his head. “Celene,” the surgeon called. “I will need your help.”

The woman came forward, kneeling down beside the surgeon. “Yes, milord?”

“Take off your sash and tie it securely just above his elbow.”

“Why?”

she

asked.

“Do as you are told, woman!” the guard on Conar’s left snarled.

Celene fumbled with the sash of her robe, drew it from her waist, and gently wrapped it around Conar’s upper arm.

“Tie it tightly,” the surgeon commanded.

Looping the two ends of her sash together, Celene tied the Serenian’s arm. She winced at the puckered skin under the sash and looked down with alarm at the veins in the man’s arm which had begun to stand up.

The surgeon once more rummaged in his bag and brought out a thin, hollow reed with a sharp point. Uncorking a bottle of milky liquid, he stuck the reed into the bottle, lowered his head to sip some of the potion up into the reed, putting his thumb over the blunt end to keep the medicine in.

“What are you going to do?” Celene asked.

Not bothering to answer, the surgeon took hole of Conar’s arm and expertly drove the hollow tube into a distended vein.

Celene saw the Outlander jump, heard his intake of breath. She watched as he slowly lifted his head and his defeated gaze settled bleakly on her face. She wanted to cry for the look he gave her was pitiful.

“Untie the sash,” the surgeon ordered and as Celene did so, he removed his thumb from the end of the tube and the liquid flowed freely into Conar’s arm. “He’ll sleep for a good six to eight hours,” the surgeon said.

“May I stay with him?” she asked.

“Someone should,” the surgeon answered, forestalling the guard’s denial. “In case he should begin choking or the like.”

Glaring at Celene’s calm face, the guard on Conar’s left snorted, letting the woman know he didn’t think she should be allowed to stay.

The guards took the tray of spilled food with them as they left. They also locked Celene in with their prisoner after kicking a chamber pot in to her. “You want water left?” one asked.

“Please,” she answered and was surprised when they left her with a full water skin.

WINDDECEIVER Charlotte Boyett-Compo 164

Conar sat propped against the wall, his head drooping, his body already beginning to feel the weight of the drug dragging it down into slumber. He was barely aware of the woman moving to his side and pulling him down so that his head rested in her lap.

“Sleep, milord Conar,” she said, smoothing the hair back from his forehead.

He turned so that he was on his side and wrapped his right hand around her left thigh, holding her to him. His tongue was thick in his mouth, his mouth horribly dry, and he could not ask for the water he desperately wanted to ease away the thirst.

“They’ll not bother you for a few days,” she told him. Her hands were cool on his flesh.

“Maybe by then help will have come.”

As the darkness closed around him, Conar knew there would be no help for him.

WINDDECEIVER Charlotte Boyett-Compo 165

Jaleel Jaborn tapped lightly on Catherine’s door, frowning when there was no answer from within. He tapped louder, then tried the handle. The door was bolted from the inside.

“Catherine?” he called through the panel. “It is me. Jaleel. Open the door.”

From his room across the hall, Kalli Jaborn watched his older brother trying to gain entrance to the Tzarevna’s room. His grin was wicked and his lips twitching with contempt.

“Perhaps you should have taken the lock from the inside of her door, Jaleel,” Kalli suggested, “instead of just putting one on the outside to keep her in.”

Jaborn swung his furious gaze to his brother. “Perhaps you should mind your business, whelp!”

Kalli shrugged. “I was only trying to be helpful, Jaleel.”

Annoyed at his brother and furious with Catherine, Jaleel slammed his fist against the woman’s door and yelled at her to open it. “I will have it broken down if you do not, Catherine!”

“Then do it!” was the angry shout from within.

Seething, Jaborn slapped at the door once more then turned on his heel and stomped away, leaving his young brother chuckling behind him.

“I don’t think she likes you, Jaleel!” Kalli called after him.

Catherine, who had moved close to the door, heard the vile curse which reined down upon Kalli’s head and wondered how long it would take the young man to wind his way through the hidden tunnels to her room.

She didn’t have long to wait.

“You’ve put a burr under his tail, Cat,” Kalli grinned as he came through the hidden panel.

He plopped down on her bed and wagged his brows. “Couldn’t find the way to get out of here, could you?”

Catherine snorted. She’d tried several times to pull on the sconce that Kalli had used to leave the room on his last visit, but had been unable to make the panel move.

“Why are you bothering me, child?” she asked.

Kalli shrugged. “Did I mention to you when I was here last that I’ve never been outside the walls of Abbadon?”

Seating herself wearily on the settee, Catherine just looked at him.

“I haven’t,” Kalli answered. “Not once in all my twenty-two years.”

“How sad for you,” Catherine quipped.

“Isn’t it, though?” Kalli sighed. He turned over and lay on his belly, his knees crooked, ankles crossed, chin propped in his smooth hands. “That’s one of the reasons I despise Jaleel as much as I do.” He grinned. “Almost as much as I think
you
do.”

“Is that why you are calling yourself helping me?” Catherine countered.

The smile slid slowly from Kalli’s young face. “Jaleel has many enemies in this place, Cat.

There are many who would like to see another hand rule Abbadon.”

Catherine’s

eyebrow

lifted.

“A hand like yours, maybe?”

Kalli looked at her, his humor gone, replaced with sincerity. “I would make a good ruler for our people, Catherine. I am not the bastard Jaleel is.”

“Few men are,” Catherine quipped.

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Swinging his legs to the floor, Kalli sat on the edge of her bed and looked at her. “Two of McGregor’s men have been killed.”

Pain washed over Catherine’s face and she drew in a slow breath. “How?”

“One drowned and one was stabbed.” He bent forward and clutched his hands between his spread knees. “McGregor was there each time they were murdered. He saw it happen.”

Catherine hung her head. “Do you know how he is?”

“Sleeping at the moment,” Kalli answered. “They drugged him.”

She looked up sharply. “Why?”

Kalli shook his head. “Not important. What is is that Jaleel intends to wait two days before killing another of McGregor’s friends.”

She stood up, began to pace to the room. “Is there nothing that can be done?” She stopped, stared at him. “Let me out of here, Kalli. Show me--“ At his slow shake of the head, she nearly screamed at him. “Why not?”

“I will tell you this much,” Kalli answered. “There is another woman here in the keep. A friend of my brother’s, or so he thinks. She was planted here long ago by the same women to whom you owe your allegiance.”

Hope flared in Catherine’s heart. “There are other Daughters here?”

Kalli nodded. “Several. Maybe as many as two dozen. Most are foreign slaves who could have escaped long ago except for some reason they didn’t.” He snorted. “I don’t think it was because they liked Abbadon all that much.”

“Then why?” she asked, not understanding why any Daughter would deliberately stay in this vile place.

“Maybe they knew company was coming,” Kalli said cryptically.

Catherine resumed her pacing. “This woman you speak of, is she powerful?”

“How should I know?” Kalli answered.

“Can you get word to her for me?”

Kalli shrugged. “I suppose.”

Catherine went to him and knelt down before him. “Listen to me, Kalli.” She put her hands on his arms and gripped him. “If you help us free Conar, I promise you I will see to it that the entire weight of his homeland and mine, and the combined might of many other countries, will put you on the throne of Rysalia!” She stared into his young face. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”

He nodded slowly.

“Then it will be done if you can find a way for us to free my husband, to get him out of this fortress.”

“Is that all?” Kalli quipped.

“Can you do it?” she asked, fusing her intense gaze with his smiling one.

“Yes, sweet one,” he answered. “I can.”

“She won’t open the damned door!” Jaleel snarled as he glared back at Guil.

“When she gets hungry,” Guil laughed, “she’ll open it.”

Jaleel threw himself into his chair. “It’s not good for the babe.”

Guil’s left brow crooked up. “The babe?”

Dropping his head to the back of his chair, Jaleel glowered at the ceiling, making a mental note to tell the plasterers a new coat of paint was needed on the elaborately scroll work along the borders.

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“If I kill the brat or let it die, Catherine will never forgive me.” Jaleel tapped his foot on the floor. “Despite the face it’s McGregor’s spurting, what choice do I have but the make sure nothing happens to it?”

“You’re really serious about making her your wife,” Guil said, amazement making his voice sound higher than was normal.

“Yes, I am,” Jaleel spat. He rocked his head toward Guil. “I was taken by her the first moment I laid eyes on her at the Palace of the Tzars.”

“You became obsessed with her the moment you knew she’d let Conar McGregor between her milky-white thighs,” Guil scoffed. “You want what is his.”

Jaleel opened his mouth to deny that, but realized it was true. He squinted at his friend, then returned his gaze to the ceiling. “Do you think he loves her?”

Guil crossed his ankles. “I think perhaps he does. My thought is he would never have married the chit otherwise, knowing him as we do.”

“As much as he loved Elizabeth McGregor?”

“I would imagine not. That was the kind of love few men ever experience.” Guil looked at him. “Why?”

“But would you say he loves Catherine so blindly, so deeply, that anything that would cause her pain would hurt him, as well?”

Guil frowned, not liking the way the conversation had turned. “You’d best not do anything to that woman, Jaborn. Her father--“

“I intend to make her my wife,” Jaleel interrupted. “I would do no more than what any husband would do.”

The worry intensified on Guil’s face. “Such as what?”

“Since he woke this morning, he has not said a word,” Jaleel commented, ignoring the question. “He just sits there staring off into space.”