Malcolm, then. He seemed none too pleased with my presence.
Doubtful he would be pleased with any stranger with whom his sister—who had overthrown his rule—had returned. Hadn’t he said he thought her a deserter? The people were feasting at her absence. Maisie herself—should he refer to her now as Maighread?—had said she was widely hated.
The sirens . . . ?
Traitor!
Nonsense.
Adrian drank again. Filling his mouth with the wine and swishing it around while he looked down into the chalice. It really was very good wine. Perhaps the best he’d ever had.
Besides, Maisie said the sirens couldn’t come onto Wyldonna without the aid of a vessel or a mortal.
I’m a mortal, and we came directly ashore on a vessel, did we not?
Bollocks! You’re half-pissed already. Have a bite, idiot.
Adrian chuckled to himself and reached for the twisted handle of the domed cover, but the thing seemed to duck from beneath his fingers, causing his hand to slide off the side of the dish and send the eating knife clattering to the floor. He bent and picked it up with a muttered curse and then nearly fell to the floor himself as the room seemed to tilt and rotate a quarter turn.
Suddenly he was facing the bed, the coverlet flickering invitingly with the shadows cast by the hearth.
That is a grand idea.
Adrian staggered toward the plush haven, pausing to lean his backside against the mattress while he struggled with the laces of his old boots.
He really should have burned them long ago. But it seemed disloyal to . . . himself, he supposed.
He wrenched off the last boot with a huff and then pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it into an untidy heap on the floor before seizing the edge of the coverlet and pulling it aside. Crawling between the thick bedding felt like sliding beneath a warm wave—odd, as the chamber had been chilly only a moment before. But he laid his head on smooth, silky linen and didn’t care as he drifted deeper into the blankets, buoyed along by the rising and falling of his own chest, the tide of his blood rushing in his ears.
A low moaning caused his eyes to snap open. It took him a moment, staring at the faint shadows on the ceiling, to remember where he was. No sandstone—only wood.
No nightmare, only Wyldonna.
The room was darker than it had been, and Adrian realized he had fallen into bed without making certain the candles were out. They had obviously burned down, and he was glad he hadn’t set fire to the castle on his first night in residence.
Then he heard the moan again, low and guttural, and his eyes narrowed against the darkness, listening intently.
It was a woman, but she didn’t sound as if she were whimpering in pain. The moan was replaced by breathy panting, then a sigh. His manhood stirred.
Those were the unmistakable sounds of a woman being well bedded. But they were so clear; it sounded as if she was in his very chamber.
Adrian sat upright in bed and looked around with a frown. And then he gave a start as his eyes fell on the long wall of his chamber. It was a dream, after all. It must be.
There was a window.
And beyond that window, a woman pressed up against the cloudy glass, her bright yellow hair glowing as if the moonlight shone upon her alone. It fell in waves to either side of her peachy complexion, rosy, slender cheekbones leading down to a delicately pointed chin. He could not tell the color of her eyes from his bed, but her lashes were the same striking shade as her hair. Then he realized the wavy golden strands flowed over naked shoulders, and her bared breasts were flattened against the window as she began to undulate there, her arms spread between the stone inset. Long, rubbery-looking nipples the color of the inside of a shell rolled against the glass.
The passionate moans filled the room again as the woman’s mouth opened and she swirled her tongue against the translucent barrier, raising up enough for Adrian to see her navel, which appeared to be studded with a pearl. He swallowed and then kicked the coverings away as he stumbled out of bed and to the window, barechested and barefooted.
“Ohhh,” the woman moaned with a wicked smile, her eyes greedily taking in Adrian’s torso. He realized then that Brother Song’s designs were completely visible, and yet he didn’t remember removing his shirt. He also didn’t care, as the laces of his chausses strained with desire. His own nipples hardened as he placed his hands over the glass, where the woman continued to writhe, now hunching her back and moving her hips back and forth so that Adrian could just see the juncture of her thighs. She was completely nude.
And she seemed to be hovering in the air.
As if she could sense his thoughts, the woman stepped one foot and then the other onto the stone ledge, squatting low and baring her most intimate parts to Adrian boldly. She licked the window again as she brought her hand to herself.
Adrian looked wildly around the perimeter of the glass, but there was no way to open it. It was set into the frame with molding, and there was neither latch nor hinge. He slapped his hands against the glass and gave a bark of frustration.
The woman laughed. Then she withdrew her hand from her raunchy ministrations and rapped lightly on the glass with her knuckles, raising her eyebrows in innocent question.
“I can’t get out!” Adrian groaned and slapped the window again, causing it to shudder.
The woman smiled brightly and then turned her fist sideways and pantomimed striking the glass harder.
Break the window . . .
Her hips pumped faster now, her panting so loud that Adrian could almost feel the heat of it in his ear. She began to grunt like an animal, in rhythm to her movements. His eyes were locked on her body, and all he cared about, all he could think of, was possessing that body.
This terrible dream. This intoxicating dream. He had to have relief. He pulled back both fists, ready to shatter the glass and pull her over the ledge atop him.
A cold blast of air rushed over his naked back as a voice cried out, “Adrian! Nay!”
He looked over his shoulder with a menacing growl and saw Maisie Lindsey standing just inside the room, his door swinging shut behind her. Her red hair was undone, curling over the shoulders of her gauzy ivory dressing gown, and her right arm was extended toward him.
“Doona break the glass. She is not what she appears, and if she reaches you, she will devour you.”
“Get out of my dream, Maisie Lindsey,” he growled at her and then turned back to the window, where the yellow-haired vixen was now hissing in the direction over Adrian’s shoulder, baring tiny pointed teeth at the Queen of Wyldonna.
Adrian couldn’t have agreed more. He raised his fists and swung them, but the skin of his fists only grazed the glass as something seized him around his chest and yanked him backward.
It was Maisie Lindsey’s arms, although only in a dream could she have crossed the floor so quickly and soundlessly. He threw her off, but she slid under his arm to wrap herself around him, craning her neck to bring her face before his.
“Adrian, look at me! Look!” He glanced down at her face, and for an instant, the draw of the woman at the window was interrupted. “She would be your death. I’ll show you.”
Maisie looked over her shoulder toward the window, her arms still wrapped around Adrian’s torso like thin iron bands, his erection pressing into her soft stomach. “Reveal yourself!” she commanded.
The yellow-haired woman screamed in fury and seemed to flicker like a candle flame in a draft.
“Reveal yourself !” Maisie shouted.
And then it was Adrian who screamed, as a demon appeared in the woman’s place at the window ledge. Its skin was like whale blubber, with long, stretched-out breasts that were secured halfway down their deflated length against her belly by what looked like a belt of seaweed. Its hair was no longer yellow but a sickly gray green, and when her lipless mouth gaped in rage again, Adrian could only see one long, pointed tooth in the middle of its upper jaw. Its black eyes were glossy, like hematite, and
the darkness took up the whole of its shallow sockets, reflecting Adrian and the white wraith that was Maisie Lindsey wrapped protectively around him.
Adrian brought his own arms around Maisie’s shoulders and pulled her even closer to him. The nightmare had gone too deep for him now, and so he eagerly retreated back into his slumber, the warmth of the queen’s embrace staying until he was aware of nothing else.
Maisie climbed back into bed with a weary sigh, pulling the covers high over her shoulder as she turned onto her side to watch the coals glowing. She knew Dragon was observing her in return, waiting perhaps for word of what had gone on in Adrian Hailsworth’s chamber, but Maisie ignored her, and soon the gray creature rested her head on her claws again and closed her eyes.
Her illusion had not been strong enough. Maisie had considered placing Adrian in the dungeon for his own safety, but after seeing the nightmare of his past and how he’d suffered through captivity—and how being contained still greatly disturbed him—she thought perhaps the glamour on the wall and the giant at the door would be enough to ward off any danger.
Poor Reid. He thought he’d failed.
Poor Adrian. Maisie hoped the Englishman would not remember the events that had transpired in his chamber on his first night. How stupid of her.
How stupid not to consider that the crawler had been occupied upon landing on the beach, especially after the brazen shout of the siren. The creature had been clever enough to quickly hide before Maisie had emerged from the cabin, likely leaping from the deck to the trees so as to avoid touching the rocky shore. Had Maisie seen it, she would have destroyed it at once for its blatant defiance of the law. How it had managed to place the sea wine into Adrian’s chamber was yet unknown. It didn’t matter really now. As reward for her stupidity, she could now add at least one more to the roster of her enemies inhabiting the island.
If there was one positive mark on such an otherwise dreadful homecoming, it was that she’d seen the black symbols on Adrian’s skin. Not well, for she had been concentrating on preventing him from offering himself to the siren. But she’d seen enough before her arms had gone around his hot, bare skin to know that the designs had been laid down with wisdom.
Could Adrian Hailsworth save her—save Wyldonna? Maisie didn’t know. But she did know that if he failed, he would likely lose his life, black markings or nay. Glayer Felsteppe was a demon, true, but he had no magic in him to defend against.
If Adrian succeeded, Wyldonna, at least, would be saved.
Beware the Painted Man, my child,
Who trades the death of the Queen.
Her own brother was against her, feeling betrayed and bitter. The folk who lived in the wood and sea and supported him were therefore also against her, thinking she had betrayed her kin and king.
Perhaps eventually the Englishman, too, would agree with Malcolm that Maisie had made an enormous mistake. If that happened, she would truly be on her own.
But at least until the morrow, Adrian Hailsworth was on her side and, foolish as it might be, she felt he was enough.
Maisie rolled over away from the light and closed her eyes, the memory of the Englishman’s strong, painted arms around her pulling her down into sleep at last.
Chapter 10
Adrian’s eyes snapped open and he blinked at the shadowed, unfamiliar ceiling above his head.
Not sandstone—only wood.
Not the crawler—Wyldonna.
He frowned to himself and his head ached dully as if he were trying to remember something he ought. He couldn’t recall even crawling into bed the night before, although he must have done just that shortly upon entering; his boots and shoes were missing from his person.
He did remember his dream of Maighread Lindsey, though. She was in his arms and she wanted him.
Adrian sat up and was startled to see the ugly Reid sitting in what appeared to be a chair made of logs near the window, through which it appeared night still maintained a firm grip on the island. He didn’t think he’d noticed the glazed square when he’d arrived, but because there would be little to see beyond the panes in a land cloaked in a habitual dusk, Adrian didn’t think much of it.
There was no window last night.
Don’t be ridiculous.
No wonder the large man was so malformed; body and mind needed sunlight to properly thrive. Although that did not explain Maighread Lindsey’s fierce beauty.
The giant stood and gave a stiff nod of his enormous head. “Good morrow, Man. The queen has requested your presence in the hall once you have dressed and eaten. I hope you find the meal more satisfactory than last eve’s fare.”
Adrian frowned. He hadn’t eaten at all last night, had he? No, he was certain he had drunk wine, but . . . he couldn’t remember anything at all after that.
There was no window.
“I assure you I meant no slight by my lack of attention to last night’s offering,” he said, throwing back the covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I apologize. Please tell the queen that I will answer her summons very soon.” He looked up at the man, expecting him to make his exit and leave Adrian to ready himself in peace.
“I will accompany you,” Reid said, with another stiff nod of his head. Adrian noticed the way the man’s eyes flicked over the marks on his flank before he turned away toward the window, as if suddenly interested in the shadows that cloaked the land beyond.
A demon in the window . . .
Adrian shook his head to clear it as he fought the urge to argue with the man. He was unused to having an audience while he dressed in his private chamber, and he obviously needed some time to order his chaotic and unlikely thoughts. There were no personal servants for the humble brethren at Melk, and Adrian had become accustomed to being alone. He preferred it, actually. But since it was likely Reid was only following orders, he would not press the proper man into disobedience.
His eyes fell on the chair, where the shirt he had apparently discarded the night before lay neatly folded, the hem just grazing the tops of his boots resting neatly in pair. He stood from the bed and moved to his clothes, pulling on his shirt and then pouring a cup of cider from the pitcher on the table and taking a drink.
He would not press the man to leave him, but he did have questions.
“Am I a prisoner, then?” he asked as he turned to take a seat on the chair and attend to the donning of his boots. He looked over his shoulder and saw Reid glance back in the same manner, but the man gave no answer. “I only ask because you seem to have been given clear instructions to keep me under guard.”
“You are an esteemed guest,” he answered haltingly. “My presence is for . . . your comfort.”
“And yet you are not permitted to speak to me,” Adrian countered. Reid gave no answer, and so Adrian made a wager with himself and muttered, “Incredibly rude manner with which to treat an esteemed guest.”
A glance over his shoulder rewarded him with the sight of the man’s torso swelling up, as if it was taking all of Reid’s self-control not to burst.
“I have been advised,” Reid said very slowly, very carefully, “that any questions you have should first be addressed to the queen.”
“I see,” Adrian said, working now on his other boot. “Can we not then act as learned men, discussing such mundane things that apply to our lives? I do find conversation with a person of intelligence to be quite stimulating.”
“As do I,” Reid answered right away.
“For instance,” Adrian said, spinning around on his seat to address his platter of oatcakes and honey, “I must say that I found myself quite taken aback at your stature.”
“As was my mother,” Reid replied. Adrian chuckled, but, to his surprise, the man continued. “It was only to my benefit as a child, however, for she tended to dote on me and protect me from my brothers due to my stunted size.”
Adrian paused, an oatcake halfway to his mouth while the man continued in a musing tone.
“As I grew older, it
became quite clear that I was not likely to marry in our tribe due to my slight physique. But the Lindseys showed my kin great kindness in employing me within the castle. I am the only one of my kind able to enter the palace, you see, and so it is also my honor to represent our tribe at court.”
Adrian blinked. “Your tribe.”
Reid turned and gave Adrian a haughty look. “Yes. I might be a small giant, but I am a giant nonetheless.”
Adrian considered the oatcake still in his hand before laying it carefully on the platter, untasted. He picked up the cider.
“And you?” Reid inquired. “You are a man, and yet you . . . you . . .”
Adrian swallowed and looked at the . . . giant. “Yes?”
“Your skin is painted. Are you a piece blood?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean you no offense,” Reid said, turning and giving Adrian a bow. “I only assumed that since you were marked, your tribe is one of exile. I apologize.”
“No offense,” Adrian assured him vaguely. “These marks were given to me by a man who was once a prince in his land. They are meant to cover the scars I bear.”
“Protection.” Reid nodded solemnly. “Of course. Were you banished by your people?”
“No,” Adrian said with a shake of his head, although he was more than a bit surprised that the man had used the very term also employed by Song to describe his marks. And hadn’t Adrian felt his friends were exiling him from the library on the day he left Melk? “I wasn’t banished. I—”
“Your family was in exile then, and you shunned them. I see.”
“No,” Adrian insisted, his mind tangling in the intricacies of meaning that could make Reid’s statement true. “My father is a respected English noble. I haven’t seen him in many years because I have been unjustly accused of a crime.”
Reid nodded, a bit of smugness creeping around his mouth. “So you were banished.”
“No!” Adrian stood from the table. “Any matter. I should not keep the queen waiting.”
Adrian Page 11
