Mistress of the Storm

by TERRI BRISBIN

  “Ye cannot leave yer chambers naked as the day ye were born, Duncan. And clean the blood from yer feet or it will leave a trail.”

  Only then did Duncan realize his feet were bleeding. And they hurt! A mystifying and wondrous—and unexplained—change. He laughed again, the thrill of the pain rushing through him.

  “Fix them,” he ordered as he sat on a stool in his chambers.

  Ornolf worked quickly, wrapping Duncan’s feet with strips of linen, then shoving short boots on over them. Every wince was cause for celebration. Without a word being said, Ornolf handed him clothes and helped him dress. It took only a few minutes, but those were minutes Duncan did not wish to waste. He ran through the keep and the yard and the gate and finally, stood in the shadows observing as Sigurd spoke with the young woman he’d brought to the feast the evening before. The exchange between them was nothing like the glances Duncan had witnessed between Sigurd and Isabel. These were filled with soft feelings and concern while those were of ownership and possession.

  How could a man treat one so lovingly and the other so callously?

  Thinking on the matter would not change a thing, for the world was made up of men such as Sigurd—hard men whose only concern was making their way in the world, reaching above themselves with others paying their way. Men who sold their own brothers into slavery to gain from it. Men who would change allegiances and fight for whomever promised the greater reward.

  Duncan watched the cart carrying the daughter leave and Sigurd stride off in the direction of the keep, no doubt to meet with Davin to curry more favor or find ways to do so. After waiting until he was certain Sigurd was not coming back, Duncan walked the last few paces to Isabel’s door. He knew which of the small dwellings was hers after watching her from high above as she made her way there . . . more times than he could explain or care to think on.

  He placed his hands on the doorframe and leaned his head against the door, trying to calm his racing heart and his breathing. Waves of anguish poured over him from within, forcing him to his knees. Gasping for breath, the affliction pierced his heart and caused storms of pain in his head. The feelings reminded him of the beginning of the healing ritual—the part when he was still conscious of his own body, before the power flowed through him and erased all that he was. But the power did not build or flow, only the pain.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he knew he needed to get to Isabel. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Lifting the latch of her door, he eased it open and peered into the darkened cottage. He fought against the ever-increasing waves of pain, trying to see into the shadows, hearing the sounds of weeping echo in the tiny dwelling.

  Isabel was crying, weeping so deeply he thought her physically wounded. She lapsed into coughing, then vomiting from the intensity of her cry. When he would have stepped inside, something stopped him from going to her. Clearly she thought herself alone and his interference might not be warranted or welcome. He realized he knew nothing, less than nothing, about the woman other than her skills in bedplay. He suspected much, but knew nothing about her family or her connections in Duntulm.

  In spite of feeling her pain and her sorrow, he stepped back and closed the door. The action did nothing to ease the suffering he felt, but he could not help her if he did not understand. He knew in the heart and soul he could now feel that he wanted to help her. He wanted to understand what she was to him.

  He wanted her.

  As he walked away, the pain lessened but did not dissipate completely, leaving an ache in the pit of his stomach he suspected would continue until her pain was gone.

  He stopped as the revelation struck him.

  He’d never felt the power flowing in his veins between full moons before. He’d never wanted to let it flow, to unleash his ability to heal bodies and souls, because of the terrible cost he paid for its exercise. Yet, he’d stood in her doorway wanting to heal her, wanting to erase the anguish that lived deep within her. Wanting to take her pain into himself and banish it.

  Duncan shook his head, trying to clear the confusing burst of thoughts and desires and needs from his mind, unable to sort through it all after the months of emptiness. To call forth the power he had was courting disaster. To even think of such a thing frightened him.

  He must discover more about her. He gazed up at the sun, estimating it to be mid-morning. He smiled at that, since he’d not slept past dawn in ages, but his soul filled and his body satisfied and exhausted, he’d not wanted to wake. Then he’d rolled over to pull her body beneath his and seek that moment of perfect satisfaction and peace . . . and found her gone.

  He took and released a deep breath. Ornolf was excellent at gleaning information, so Duncan would set him on that task. His usual caution reared then and he knew he must find out more about her before allowing her close enough to discover the truth of his curse and his ability.

  Walking back to the keep, he knew the moment something changed. All the pain that had flowed into him disappeared as though the flame of a lamp had lost its oil and gone out. It was not diminished, but extinguished as though never there. Breathing did not hurt. Existing did not hurt. The pain was gone, mimicking the moment in the ritual when he came back to himself and the person involved felt nothing. He felt nothing, too, but knew that moment was simply a pause before all the pain that had been drawn out flooded into him.

  This time, it did not.

  Quickening his pace and filled with an anticipation he’d not known for months, he made his way to his chambers and sent Ornolf off on various tasks. When the men visiting from Orkney arrived to share his noon meal, he thought he might discover something about his origins. He had never known his family, only that he’d come from Orkney originally. But, by nightfall, he’d learned little or nothing except that the Earl of Orkney had a truthsayer, a man who was called on to determine the truth whenever it was in question.

  Not one of them could give more information than that, and with the earl about to sail south in the king’s company, Duncan had no time to pursue the matter. Ornolf suggested sending someone north and he gave his permission, even knowing it could take months to find out more.

  Duncan watched for Isabel to appear at the feasts held each night over the next sennight, but she did not. Nor did the man called Sigurd. As the newly returned sensations began to fade in his body and soul and the cold detachment spread again, terror of going back to that empty state became his only emotion. He sought out Davin for advice on how to handle the task of arranging to take Isabel as his leman.

  He might not yet know why she was different or how she managed to bring about such changes in him, but he could not let her slip from his grasp. He rarely called in favors, but Davin owed him many and it was nothing compared to what he could request. If not for Duncan’s ability to heal anyone from injury or illness, Davin’s wife and firstborn would be dead. Procuring a leman was nothing by comparison.

  He found Davin training with his men outside the wall and joined them for a few hours, hours in which he learned his ability to feel was diminishing by the day. Every hour since he’d bedded Isabel sensations and emotions were being stolen from him.

  “Come, Duncan,” Davin said, handing his sword to one of the young boys in training, “Walk with me.”

  Davin also held out a scrap of linen for Duncan to use. Glancing down, Duncan noticed the cuts on his arms and legs that he had not felt before. When they reached the small beach, he tugged off his boots and walked into the seawater to wash away the blood. The saltiness in it did not bother him, though Davin winced as he saw to his own injuries.

  Another change. Duncan walked from the water and waited for Davin on the sand. They sat down and Duncan accepted the flask offered by Davin. Swallowing a mouthful of the powerful brew, Duncan thought on how to begin.

  His friend, always perceptive, said, “So, you want my help in getting this woman?”

  Duncan laughed and nodded. “That obvious, am I?”

  “Aye.” Davin met his gaze and shru
gged. “Though you have sought out women before, this one is different. You seem to care about finding her and having her.”

  Duncan ran his hands through his hair and nodded. “I cannot explain it, but I know I need her.”

  Davin shoved him and laughed.

  “Nay, not in that way, though aye, in that way too.”

  “You are not alone in wanting her in your bed,” Davin added. “Every man who has had her bargains with Sigurd to get her again. Does she offer something any other woman could not give you?”

  Pushing himself to stand, Duncan tried to explain it to the man who was the closest thing he had to a friend.

  “She has undone some of the changes.” He spoke boldly, not trying to explain more than that.

  “Undone them? But, look at the wounds you sustained just this morn because you cannot feel. How is that changed?”

  “I could feel. Last week after spending the night with her, my skin hurt, my appetite returned, my emotions . . .” He paused. “And more, I wanted her, Davin. I wanted her.”

  Davin looked over the sea toward the outer islands and remained silent for a few minutes. He never responded in haste, a quality that kept him out of many battles and other troubles when others plunged in headlong.

  “Did my cousin’s men tell you anything? Is there some link between you and their earl’s truthsayer?”

  Duncan kicked the sand at his feet toward the water. “Nay. I think not, though Ornolf is sending someone north to learn more.”

  “The full moon approaches. Will she be . . . enough?”

  The only appetite that remained when all else was burned out at the full moon’s rising was his need for countless, nameless women in his bed. And though he sought and used any and every woman who arrived at his door, he remembered none of them, only the emptiness that resulted from it.

  “I know not, Davin. I know only that she is different. And tied to this somehow.”

  “You know I will do whatever you need. I am in your debt.” Davin stood and began walking. “Her stepfather asked to see you.”

  Duncan grabbed his friend and pulled him around so they were face-to-face. “He did? When?”

  “He is not a fool. He has waited until he knows you are frantic to have her and will make it worth his while for you to get her.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I told him to speak to you before the evening meal. He will be there.”

  “Will she?” Duncan asked before thinking about revealing so much to his friend.

  Davin laughed and slapped him on the back. “He is a good merchant. Surely he will put the goods on display before telling you the cost of them . . . of her.”

  So many thoughts filled Duncan’s head, he could think of little else. He was like a man knowing he is about to starve whose need for food soars above the reality of how much his stomach can hold. Duncan craved the sensations she caused—he wanted to feel again. After knowing the complete emptiness he faced, he wanted his heart and soul to be satisfied and full.

  “The cost matters not to me. I will have her.”

  “Duncan! That is what he is hoping for,” Davin warned. “Let Ornolf do the bargaining. One thing you must consider. If you wish to keep her for longer than one night, or make it more permanent, you must find another place. My wife would object to you keeping her in our home.”

  “And her wishes matter?” Duncan asked the question already knowing the answer—Edda mattered more than life itself to Davin.

  “Any smart man with a wife who wishes for peace in his home abides by her wishes. You would know that if you had a wife.”

  The heartfelt words hung between them. Davin loved his wife. There was no mistaking the soft feelings he had for her or the lengths to which he would go to make her happy. Duncan could never have one—not since he changed from a normal man into something driven by unknown forces and was still changing with each phase of the moon. He would never lay claim to a woman when he knew not whether he would survive the next ritual or the one after that.

  What wife would endure the endless women in his bed he needed each month to ease the wild craving in his blood?

  None. So he had none.

  “And you are nothing if not a smart man,” Duncan said, trying to ease the strain between them. “Come, at least I can arrange for a leman to see to some of my needs.”

  They were almost at the gate when Davin stopped him.

  “Have a care around this man, Duncan. Though no one has complained, there is something strange about him.”

  “The way he whores out his stepdaughter?”

  “The way others support him for no discernible reasons,” Davin countered. “Her skills in bedplay may be good, but men would not back him for only that.”

  Duncan could think of no reply, so he remained silent, his mind slipping back to memories of that night with Isabel. Still, a bit of pleasure should not influence a man’s loyalty as Davin’s words indicated was happening. To most men, one woman was the same as the next.

  “How many men did you send with the king, Davin?”

  “Half of them . . . and Askell.”

  The king had taken many hostages from among the families of those ruling the western islands and Skye to ensure their loyalty and their help in strengthening his claim and control over those lands so distant from the rest of the Norse holdings. With his only son accompanying Magnus south, Davin would do nothing to further upset his wife and would do even less to anger the king.

  “So you are relying on those men who stand with Sigurd for defense?”

  “Aye.” Davin nodded. “More than I would like.”

  “Watch your back,” Duncan advised. “And send to your cousins in Orkney and over in Lewis for men you can count on.”

  “I have already, though I like how you think.”

  “I will try to learn what his plans are from Isabel.”

  “She may only be a pawn in his plans and not know what he is about.” Davin had a soft spot in his heart for the gentler sex.

  “I suspect she knows much and I plan on finding out whatever I can. You are not the only one who owes a debt of honor.”

  Their lives had been entwined since they were but boys and they’d saved each other more times than he could remember. Davin had not shunned him when the strange power had begun and had protected him from those who would misuse it. Davin was his only true friend, more like a brother; Duncan owed him loyalty and more. He would do what he could to protect Davin and his family from Sigurd’s machinations.

  Even if it meant not having the one person he thought might save his own life.

  Chapter Five

  Sigurd was determined, Isabel realized. No amount of questioning or cajoling had made a difference. When he was intent on something, he accomplished it. And when Sigurd wanted to bend her to his will, he did. His command to be dressed and ready at sunset was not to be ignored or refused.

  They walked in silence, Isabel following several paces behind him, never acknowledging anyone they passed. Harder to ignore were the whispered comments as they entered through the gate and made their way to the hall. A guard spoke to Sigurd, who told her to follow the guard to a different place to wait.

  ’Twas not unusual—whores were not welcome in the homes of the nobleborn. Only Sigurd’s high standing and Lord Davin’s need for his men made her presence less an outrage than it might have been. Without raising her head, she followed until they reached a small chamber near the stairs that led to the tower. He stopped and stepped aside for her to enter. She prepared herself for the inevitable groping or touching that happened when she passed too close to a man, but he did nothing. Glancing up, she understood why.

  Duncan stood across the small chamber, watching her every move, never giving away any sign of his mood. It was the first time they’d looked at each other since that night filled with passionate abandon, but there was no hint of desire in his gaze.

  “My lord,” she said softly, dropping low before him. He might not
carry a title, but he moved in higher circles than she or even than Sigurd, so courtesy was a good first step.

  Though he might not remember, her body surely did, for with each step he took closer, more heat raced through her—along her skin where every inch had been his to touch and taste and thrill, through her body and into her core, which throbbed in anticipation of his possession. Isabel began to slow her breathing, to regain the control that seemed to disappear when in his presence and to calm the raging heat that threatened everything. His hand before her eyes offered help to stand. She stood by her own efforts and nodded to him.

  She concentrated to gather her control, protecting her from the damage he could do. Damage that was far more dangerous than any Sigurd could mete out. Isabel knew Duncan wanted her, knew he would have her, several times before the sun rose again, but in order to escape unscathed, she must seek that place of emptiness within her where she could hide her soul.

  “Isabel,” he whispered. The sound felt like a stroke across her skin as he repeated it. How could a sound be physical? Yet every word he spoke felt like a touch of his hand or his mouth.

  “My lord,” she repeated, using courtesy to prevent familiarity from battering down her defenses so early in their encounter.

  Apparently unwilling to allow her such refuge, he took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, kissing the back of it, then turning it to expose her palm. Her nipples tightened and pressed against the scratchy fabric of her gown as he first kissed, then licked, the sensitive skin of her wrist. As he kissed down the length of her arm, she realized how defenseless against him she was. Frightened by her inability to control her reactions to him, she did the unthinkable and pulled out of his grasp.

  She waited to see if he would strike her for such insolence, but he did not. Instead, he smiled and stepped back. That the smile did not reach his eyes worried her, but it was too late to give in.

  “If you wish me to return to your bed, you must speak with—”

  “Your father?” he asked, interrupting her.

  Was that what he thought? “He was my mother’s husband,” she explained for the first time ever. Not my father. She cursed under her breath, turning away for a moment. She’d never responded to anyone’s questions about Sigurd and never spoke about any rumors or stories of how their arrangement had come about. She must not speak on it now. “Sigurd. You must speak to Sigurd.” Isabel turned back to Duncan in time to see him frown.