Journey of the Wind

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by Charlotte Boyett-Compo


  house. One of the women had brought along her seven-year-old son so Ataa would

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  have someone to play with. There were also a couple of men servants who would take

  care of the yards and act as guards.

  “Although I’ll tell you now that you won’t need them,” Renaud had stated. “There

  isn’t a man within a thousand-mile radius who would get on your bad side, Farrell.

  Your reputation is deadlier than Louis Corsair’s.”

  “Seoltóireacht Chothrom,” Alsandair said. “Smooth sailing. That’s what we will call

  our home.”

  “Aye,” Rylee said, repeating the name. She threw back the bright yellow hood of

  her oilskin slicker. “That is what we will have from now on.”

  It had been while Alsandair was taking his first cruise as Renaud’s chief tactical

  officer and Rylee was spending that time under the care of her other husband that

  Rylee’s ordeal had finally crashed down on her and she had nearly buckled beneath the

  strain. He had known it would happen sooner or later, knew she’d start to relive the

  horror of that day in the cave and had warned Andi that it would, so Corsair had been

  prepared. It had taken both him and Kyle to see Rylee through it.

  “Perhaps it was good you weren’t here,” Kyle had told Alsandair. “She would not

  have wanted you to see her like that. I thought Andi would go out and kill something

  when it was all over with. I know you would have.”

  On one level Alsandair disagreed. He was tired of killing, yet on another level he

  wished he could resurrect the four culprits and put them to the sword once again for

  the hurt and anguish they had caused his lady.

  “Mama, look!” Ataa said, pointing.

  A little boy with a wide, toothy grin had run down to the shoreline and was waving

  excitedly. At his feet, a small white cat was weaving between his bare legs.

  “I hope to Alel that’s a male cat,” Alsandair said with a frown, “else we’ll be

  overrun with furry critters.”

  “I hope she’s a female,” Rylee said. “Widget needs a playmate too!”

  Alsandair grunted as he gave one final shove of the pole and the pirogue slid

  smoothly along the pier that would definitely need some work. One of the men came

  hurrying from a smaller house set off to the side of the main house.

  “Welcome, Commander and Missus!” he said, and waded out in the water to take

  the line Alsandair tossed to him. “Welcome, little mister!”

  Ataa set Widget on the pier then scrambled off his seat and practically threw

  himself at the stranger. “Hi, I’m Ataa,” he said. The child never met anyone who

  remained a stranger for long.

  “And I am Neville,” the man said, swinging Ataa around and setting him down in

  the shallows. “That boy is my nephew Yves.”

  Ataa made a beeline to Yves and together they ran off, Widget—racing from the

  pier—and the little white cat scampering along behind.

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  Neville held the boat steady as Alsandair stepped down into the water, not trusting

  the safety of the wobbly pier. He reached for Rylee, sweeping her into his arms and

  wading through the water to take her to shore.

  “We are going to love it here, Sandy,” she said, her arms around his neck.

  “Aye, milady,” he said. “I believe we will.”

  The two maids were waiting on the veranda. They were around the same age as

  Rylee, had friendly, welcoming smiles and seemed honored to be working for Le

  Vengeant, The Avenging One. News of what he’d done in the cave that day had taken

  on mythic proportions and tales were being told and ballads written of how he’d saved

  his lady-fair and avenged her. The other guard had come to introduce himself as well,

  and it was discovered he was the husband of the older of the two maids. It seemed all

  four of the servants were related in some way and lived in the house beside the pier.

  “We’ll add on to your house,” Alsandair told the servants. “That one is too small for

  all of you.”

  Long after the sun had set, the servants had cleared away the supper dishes and

  Ataa had worn himself out playing with Yves, Alsandair and Rylee sat on the veranda

  and watched a deer grazing at the water’s edge. It was peaceful, still, the scent of

  gardenia and wisteria floating through the air. The cicadas were tuning up and

  somewhere out on the water, bullfrogs honked to one another.

  “Happy, sweeting?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Rylee said. She was sitting with her bare feet in her husband’s lap and he

  was rubbing the instep of her right foot. “Our children will love it here.”

  Alsandair’s hand stilled. “Children?” he echoed. “Sweeting, are you…?”

  “Not yet,” she said, “but that will come.” When he did not continue with the

  massage, she glanced over at him. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Whose child it will be,” he said softly. “Mine or Andi’s.”

  She was quiet for a moment and when she spoke, he could hear just a touch of hurt

  in her voice. “Will it matter?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her no but that would have been a lie. It did

  matter but—just as Andre had—he had accepted this arrangement and even if he did

  not embrace it as easily as her other husband did, he would never complain. There

  would be no way to tell who fathered the child if he took his looks from Rylee. Both he

  and Andre were dark with black hair, dark eyes and of roughly the same build. It

  would be difficult to know who fathered the babe unless the child bore a striking

  resemblance to his father.

  “It will matter in what name we give him or her,” he answered honestly.

  “I have names already picked out,” she said, and wiggled her toes in invitation for

  him to continued rubbing her foot.

  “You do, do you?” he asked as he began massaging her foot again.

  “If it is a girl, she will be Gabrielle, and if it is a boy Justin.”

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  Alsandair nodded. He liked the names. “Aye, but what last name, sweeting?”

  “Farrell-Corsair,” she replied without hesitation.

  In the gathering twilight, he smiled. “You’ve thought this out pretty well, haven’t

  you, Ry?”

  She moved her foot so she could rub the soft bulge at the junction of his thighs.

  “Aye, Sandair, I have.”

  He moved her foot away from his crotch and lowered her leg to the floor. Without

  another word he stood, stepped over to her chair and bent over to scoop her into his

  arms.

  “Well, let’s see if we can’t hurry little Justin Farrell-Corsair up, shall we?” he asked.

  With his lady in his arms, Alsandair had just a bit of trouble getting the screen door

  open but he managed to open it enough to insinuate his booted foot between the jamb

  and the edge of the door and use his hip to push it aside.

  He carried her down the long central corridor that bisected the house and to the

  large master bedroom at the back of the structure. Kicking the door shut, he took her to

  the lovely, carved oak bed that had been a belated wedding present from Briarly, the

  ship’s steward of the Mary Constance.

  “Briarly finished it jus
t before he sailed off with Captain Andelton,” Kyle had

  reported when he met Alsandair on the docks after his friend’s maiden voyage as a full-

  fledged pirate. “Corsair handed the ship back over to Andelton at Rylee’s request. That

  was his wedding present to her.”

  Alsandair would miss Andelton, Ruck, Briarly, Bonny and all the crew of the Mary

  Constance. They had become his friends but he knew they were where they wanted to

  be—on the decks of their home away from home.

  The thick coverlet done in multi shades of green—Rylee’s favorite color—that lay

  upon the bed had been a gift from Antoinette. As he placed his lady on the plush

  softness, he couldn’t help but smile.

  “Who would have thought a woman like Toni could sew?” he asked when Rylee

  gave him an inquisitive look.

  Sinking down into the mattress, Rylee did not relinquish her hold on Alsandair’s

  neck and drew him down atop her. “Let’s not talk about anyone but Justin or

  Gabrielle,” she said, her eyes hot and sultry.

  Alsandair slid his hand over her breast. “Let’s not talk at all,” he suggested.

  It had been a month since he’d last seen his lady and much longer than that since he

  had made love to her. That final night on the Mary Constance before the ship had been

  attacked by Andre had been their last time together in a carnal way and his body was

  on fire with need for hers.

  His lips upon hers, his tongue thrusting gently past her lips to stroke hers, his

  thumb caressing her swollen nipple, he pressed his weight against her, feeling his shaft

  grow rigid and full.

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  Rylee twisted so she could turn him over and lie atop him, easing her mouth from

  his to smile down into his heated gaze.

  “I love you, Sandair Farrell,” she said.

  “I’m an easy man to love,” he teased.

  She laughed and sat up, leaning back so she was perched on his knees. Lifting one

  leg then the other, she dragged the skirt of her gown up then pulled it over her head,

  baring her body to her lover for—like the other women on Wicklaw Cay—she had

  taken to wearing nothing beneath the cool cotton gown. She tossed the gown aside.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, his voice husky. He reached up to cover the

  mounds of her breasts with his palms. “So very beautiful.”

  Rylee pulled the pins from her hair and shook her head to let the fiery mass float

  down over her shoulders and back to tickle his thighs. She covered his hands with hers,

  pressing his flesh tight to hers.

  “I want us to make a son tonight,” she said, and wriggled against him, “but it will

  be hard to do with you confined in those britches, Farrell.”

  He dragged his hands from her breasts to her hips and easily lifted her off him,

  setting her beside him. “Let’s see what I can do to remedy that, milady.”

  Rylee sat there and watched him get out of the bed and begin to undress. With her

  eyes glittering with desire, her body primed to accept his, she flicked out a tongue to

  lick her lips.

  “Ah, wench, you’re not being fair,” he groaned as he peeled the shirt from his chest.

  She tucked her lower lips between her teeth as her gaze shifted from the dark hair

  on his head, past the curly hair on his chest to the wiry curls at the apex of his thighs as

  he pushed his britches down over his hips.

  “Who said anything was supposed to be fair?” she countered. “Anything goes

  when you’re trying to make a baby.”

  He put a knee to the mattress and was soon atop her, straddling her hips as she had

  straddled his. He ground his swollen shaft against her. “Anything?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Anything pleasurable, at any rate.”

  Alsandair slid down her, easing her legs apart with his hips before putting a hand

  to his cock to place it at her entrance. “Want me, wench?” he asked.

  Rylee nodded. “More than anything in this world,” she replied.

  He pressed into her slowly, deeply, until he was seated well and truly inside her

  velvet sheath. He didn’t move but stared down into her eyes, waiting for her to wrap

  her arms and legs around him. When she did, he smiled and began to thrust smoothly,

  surely in and out of her heated folds.

  “I think it takes a bit more thrust to make a baby, Farrell,” she said, tightening her

  grip around him.

  “You do?”

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  “Aye, I believe so.”

  He increased the depth of his penetration but continued the slow, steady rhythmic

  pushes.

  “Ah, mayhap you might want to step up the pace a bit, milord,” she instructed.

  He increased the speed of his thrusts. “Like this?” he inquired.

  “Umm,” she said, writhing beneath him. “You’re getting there.”

  He put his hands under her hips and lifted her so he had better access to her nether

  regions. He went as deep as he could. “How about now?” he asked.

  “Aye,” she breathed, her moist heat slippery with their combined fluids. “You are

  almost there.”

  With sure, strong strokes that filled her, and with a velocity that soon had them

  both grunting, he took her up the mountain of desire, carrying her to the very summit

  of that wondrous peak and fell with her in spiraling turns of sheer ecstasy that spun

  them both out of control as they tumbled.

  She clung to him—this man who was a third of herself—and gave herself to him

  again and again as the night wore on. She moved in perfect unison with him and graced

  him with as much pleasure as that which he gifted to her. By the time the moon was at

  the zenith of its path, a tiny souvenir of their great love had been left behind.

  * * * * *

  On the veranda of L’endroit Sûr, Andre Corsair took the snifter of cognac from

  Antoinette’s pudgy hand. To either side of him were Kyle and Louis, sitting in their

  rocking chairs and enjoying cheroots. Renaud was sitting sideways on the steps with his

  back against one of the porch’s pillars, his knees drawn up. It was very late but none of

  the five people gathered on the veranda seemed to notice.

  “To Rylee,” Andre said, raising his snifter.

  “To Rylee,” the others toasted.

  “And to a future of smooth sailing for us all,” Andre whispered beneath his breath

  then took a long sip of the fiery brew.

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  About the Author

  Charlee is the author of over thirty books. Married 40 years to her high school

  sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons, Pete and Mike, and the proud

  grandmother of Preston Alexander and Victoria Ashley. She is the willing house slave

  to five demanding felines who are holding her hostage in her home and only allowing

  her to leave in order to purchase food for them. A native of Sarasota, Florida, she grew

  up in Colquitt and Albany, Georgia and now lives in the Midwest.

  Charlee welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email

  address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

  Tell Us What You Think

  We appreciate hearing reader opinions about our books. You can email us at

  [email protected].

  Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo
/>   Ellora’s Cavemen: Dreams of the Oasis IV anthology

  Ellora’s Cavemen: Legendary Tails I anthology

  Ellora’s Cavemen: Seasons of Seduction II anthology

  Fated Mates anthology

  Ghost Wind

  HardWind

  Passion’s Mistral

  Shades of the Wind

  WesternWind: Prime Reaper

  WesternWind: Reaper’s Revenge

  WesternWind: Tears of the Reaper

  WesternWind: WyndRiver Sinner

  WindVerse: Ardor’s Leveche

  WindVerse: Hunger’s Harmattan

  WindVerse: Phantom of the Wind

  WindVerse: Pleasure’s Foehn

  WindVerse: Prisoners of the Wind

  WindWorld: Desire’s Sirocco

  WindWorld: Longing’s Levant

  WindWorld: Lucien’s Khamsin

  WindWorld: Rapture’s Etesian

  And see Charlotte Boyett-Compo’s stories at Cerridwen Press

  (www.cerridwenpress.com):

  BlackWind: Sean and Bronwyn

  BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

  Desert Wind

  In the Wind’s Eye

  Taken By the Wind

  Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning

  publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC

  on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you

  breathless.

  www.ellorascave.com

 

 

 


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