WindLegends Saga 9: WindRetriever (52 page)

"Mine won't," Meggie sniffed. If anything, her powers seemed to be magnified when she was in the Inner Kingdom.

"I, also, feel the warning, Mistress Ruck," Occultus acknowledged.

Meggie looked around at the men gathered at the rail. She'd known most of them for nearly twenty years—the length of time she had known Conar McGregor. She knew their weaknesses, their strengths, their likes and dislikes, their habits. She could have recounted their family histories and present circumstances had anyone asked. They were like sons to her. Sons of the Wind. But one of them, she thought as she looked over those gathered, was a threat to her bonny lad and she meant to find out which one it was.

"Yes," Occultus said as he intercepted her thoughts. "There is one among them who wishes him ill."

"Wishes him more than ill," Meggie said. Her gaze drifted from man to man, but she couldn't lay her doubts at any of their feet. They all seemed so sincere in their affection for Conar.

Occultus, too, was looking at the men. He had not been able to pinpoint the traitor, either, but he knew there was one on board for he could feel the hatred, the violence, the death threat.

"We shall ferret him out, Mistress Ruck," Occultus assured her. "We will let nothing happen to our champion."

"Damned right we won't!" Meggie spat. Her scrutiny fell on Marsh Edan, held, then slipped away.

She'd never really liked that man, she thought.

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He was still sitting in the garden the next morning when Sybelle came to his chambers. She could tell he was asleep for he was gently snoring, his lips slightly parted. His face was turned to the side on his raised knee and his right hand had dropped to the floor beside him, the strong fingers curled slightly. A heavy lock of bright gold hair covered his eyes and a wisp or two fluttered with every breath he took.

She thought he looked so young as he sat there. So innocent and so sweet. Her heart swelled with emotion as she watched him, then she realized that emotion was love.

When had she come to love him, she pondered? When had the hatred she had borne him turned to this new, alien feeling that had her beaming like a school girl whenever she thought of him?

Conar drew in a long breath and his lids fluttered open. He found himself looking into Sybelle's smiling face. His breath held, then slowly left him. He could see the destruction of his chambers behind her and felt ashamed.

"Have you been sitting there all night?" she asked, knowing that he had.

He didn't answer, but lifted his head, groaning a little as the crick in his neck reminded him that he had been sleeping in an awkward position. He lifted his hand and rubbed at the tightness along the muscles. Arching his head back, he tried to work out the knot.

"Here," she said, coming to squat down beside him, "let me."

He really didn't want her to touch him, but let her, figuring it was easier to allow her her momentary benefaction than to try arguing with her.

"You're so tight," she said as she worked at his neck. He was sweaty, his skin oily, but she didn't mind. Her fingers worked their way up into the thick gold of his hair.

"I've got a headache," he said in passing. When her hands automatically stilled, her fingers tensing on his scalp, he shook his head. "Not a migraine. Just a damned nuisance headache."

Sybelle breathed a sigh of relief. "I can remedy that easily enough with some powders."

"It'll pass," he said, not wanting any of her powders. He eased away from her and got to his feet, wincing at the tightness of his leg muscles. Little electric shocks ran into his toes and he regretted having fallen asleep on the floor.

"Why don't you go to my room and lie down awhile?" she suggested. "You'll feel better."

He was tempted to tell her no, but he wasn't really feeling all that well and if he could stretch out, bury his face in a cool pillow, he knew the headache would go away a lot easier.

Sighing, he nodded his agreement and walked past her, deliberately looking away from the havoc he'd created in his room the night before.

Two hours later, he woke in her bed to find her lying beside him, her head propped on one fist. She was staring intently at his face.

"You don't like being kept, do you?" she asked.

Conar's brows came together. "I'm not an animal
to
be kept."

The Kensetti princess smiled at him. "No, you are not." She fingered the ribbons which held the bodice of her gown together. "What was it they called Elizabeth Wynth?"

His frown deepened. "What?"

"The Multitude gave her a name, her sorceress name. When one of her kind was initiated into their sect she was given a nom de magie. What was it they called Elizabeth Wynth?"

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Conar tore his gaze from her. "I don't remember."

"Yes, you do," she said with just a touch of reprimand in her tone. "You remember everything there is to remember about her." Her voice lowered. "What did they call Elizabeth Wynth?"

He ground his teeth. "What difference does it make?"

"What...did...they...call...her... McGregor?' she stressed.

"The Keeper of the Wind!" he snarled, turning his fierce glower back to her.

"Ah, yes," Sybelle agreed. "The Keeper of the Wind." She twirled the ribbon around her finger. "The Windkeeper." She looked at him from beneath the canopy of her long dark lashes.

"And you are the Wind, are you not, McGregor? Isn't that what they call you?"

"So?" he growled. He knew where this was heading and hated her for it.

"Well, if Elizabeth Wynth was ...."

"Elizabeth McGregor!" he snarled at her.

Sybelle's smile slipped only a little. "All right. Elizabeth McGregor," she stressed. "If she was the Windkeeper, that meant she kept you, doesn't it?"

He hadn't been wrong about where this was going. "That was different," he ground out.

"We were married."

"So are we," she replied sweetly.

"In name only," he took pleasure in reminding her.

"That's not entirely true, McGregor," she replied. "The marriage has been consummated many times and it was blessed by a Holy Man."

"One of your Holy Men," he shot back. "Not one of mine! My people would no more recognize this marriage than they would the one I have with Rachel."

Sybelle was hurt and wanted to pay him back in kind. "Or your marriage to Catherine?"

Conar turned away from her, flipping to his side so that his back was to her. "I won't discuss Catherine with you."

"Shall we discuss the child?" she asked, reaching out to put her hand on his back, angry when he tensed beneath her touch and tried to pull away.

"I won't discuss my daughter with you, either," he said bitterly.

"Son," she corrected.

Conar looked back over his shoulder. "Daughter! Her name is ...."

"Our child, McGregor," she interrupted him. "Mine and yours."

He stared at her. "What are you talking about?" he whispered.

Sybelle's hand slid from his rigid shoulder to her slightly-mounded belly. "I am carrying your seed, McGregor." Her lips twitched at his stunned look. "Does that please you, my gentle lord?"

His whole world was crashing down around his ears and all he could think of was that Taborn had been right. Someone should have neutered him long ago. Maybe that's what his dream had meant—that terrible, irrevocable trouble was on the way.

"Well, say something, McGregor," she laughed. "Don't just lie there staring at me."

"You've got to be kidding," was all he could say and he didn't recognize his own voice. It sounded bleak and wretched to him.

"I assure you I am not. I found out for sure this morning when I missed my third monthly time." She rubbed her belly. "In six months, you will be the father of another robust, healthy son."

She fused her eyes with his. "I will name him Thesjin, after you and my brother."

"No," he said, whipping his head from side to side. "Absolutely not!"

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She misunderstood him. "All right. Then I will call him Sasheon."

"No!" He bounded from the bed and stood there glaring down at her. "You won't name it anything, woman, because you're going to get rid of it!"

"You know better than that," she said quietly. She watched him pacing her room, plowing his fingers through his already-rumpled hair. Now and then he would glance over at her, his face filled with the unholy light of pure rage.

"How did you let this happen?" he asked her, stopping to glower at her.

"I wanted it to happen," she answered. "I have always wanted a child."

Conar winced. And who better to give her one that the world's most potent breeder?

Apparently all he had to do was look at a woman and he got her pregnant. Taborn had been right.

Whack it off and the temptation would be gone as would the end-result of thoughtless rutting!

"Don't carry on so, McGregor," she laughed, enjoying the hapless expression on his face.

"Did you think we could mate indefinitely and not have me conceive?"

"I really didn't think ...." He slammed his fist against the tall footboard of her bed. "I thought you would .…"

He was furious with himself, enraged at her, and thoroughly at a loss to know what to do to extricate himself from this latest foul-up in his life. He honestly had not believed she would let this happen despite her threats to do so.

"Of course my being with child will prevent us from loving one another until after he is born," she said, looking down at the coverlet.

Conar stopped pacing and stared at her. "What did you say?" He didn't think he'd heard her correctly.

A dull blush spread over her cheeks. "Chaim explained to me that we could not be intimate now that I am sure I am carrying your babe lest I miscarry it."

He stood there, knowing she believed what Chaim had said, and wishing he could hoot his joy at the situation. He would have six months in which to thank Chaim for this little piece of deception.

"As much as it will sadden me not to be able to have you touch me," he heard her saying, "I would do nothing to dislodge this child, McGregor." She patted her belly. "I have waited so long to conceive." There was a touch of embarrassment on her face. "I am getting to the age when a woman can not have a child, you know."

"It's dangerous for a woman as old as you to be having her first child," he said before he thought and could have bitten off his tongue for the insult, but she surprised him again.

"I know, but I am willing to take the chance." She looked at him so tenderly, so helplessly.

"It may be the last chance I have and I will be honored to have a son by you, Conar."

It was the first time she had called him by his given name and her doing so at that moment put more meaning to her statement.

He stood there, not sure what he should do. Hating the situation. Disliking, if no longer actually hating, her. Feeling sorry for himself. For the child she carried within her. For the whole sorry mess.

"Are you really that upset by this?" she asked, her voice quivering. When he didn't immediately answer her, a single tear rolled down her cheek.

"Don't cry," he said, fearing she was going to do just that. He went to the bed and sat down.

"It's all right, I guess."

She reached for his hand and took it, brought it to her cheek and leaned her face against it.

"There is something else I have to tell you," she said, watching his face carefully.

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He was afraid to ask. "What?"

She turned her head and placed her lips against the palm of his hand, then nestled it on her neck where a strong, steady pulse raced through her veins.

"I love you, McGregor," she said and he could have groaned aloud. As it was, he hung his head in defeat, sighing heavily. He squeezed his eyes shut, pursed his lips and shook his head in disbelief.

"I do," she told him.

"Sybelle," he warned her.

"I'm not asking for your love in return," she was quick to tell him. When he opened his eyes and looked up at her, she cocked her head to one side like a small child. She looked at him so pitifully. "At least not right away."

He stared at her for a long time, seeing the hope in her face, hearing the tiny little hitches of her breath as she fought back tears, and knew she had him. Gently he pulled her toward him, rested her head on his chest, and stroked her back.

"We'll work it out," he said.

"I do love you," she repeated, clinging to him. "Before all that is holy, I do, McGregor."

Conar stared out across the room and wondered which was worse—Sybelle's hate or her love.

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Conar stared into the mirror and winced at what he saw. He looked tired, exhausted, really.

There were dark smudges beneath his eyes, underlining the bleak look lurking there, twin grooves, like parenthetical marks to either side of his mouth, qualifying the tight lips, and his stare was blood-shot, punctuating the weariness. The sleeplessness was beginning to take its toll. His depression had become a sentient being tormenting him. It lived with him, slept with him, toyed with him. And it was looking out at him from the mirror, leering like a jackal.

He turned away, sighing heavily. His world had split into two unequal parts—his time before Sybelle Bath-Alkazar and the bitter time since. Neither of his worlds were habitable, he thought with irony. Sybelle wouldn't let him live in one and he couldn't let himself live in the other. He was simply existing in this one, barely alive, making the motions of living while hating his life and dreading the sunrise of each new day.