Mistress of the Storm Page 3

  With one stroke of his finger against the engorged, aching bud, he pushed her over.

  She screamed as she fell, spiraling downward as her body and spirit found release again. He followed her—plunging deep within and then out, deeper and deeper with every thrust—until she felt him grow harder still. He bit the place between her shoulder and neck, impossibly increasing wave upon wave of pleasure rolling over her. His seed spilled again, drenching her womb.

  He would not relent or release her, continuing to stroke her until she screamed out again and again, until she begged him to cease in a voice hoarse from too much pleasure. His deep laugh from behind her echoed through her body and she convulsed again with waves of satisfaction. Still buried deep within her, he neither released her nor withdrew.

  When their racing hearts and ragged breathing eased, they collapsed together, him on top of her, until he rolled them onto their sides. Though she drifted asleep, he never let go of her, touching her constantly and remaining within her until he was hard again.

  The second time was slow and gentle. He prolonged the touching and tasting and caressing until she ached and then brought her to release without a sound, his own release a quiet thing.

  The third time he was relentless again, not content to seek satisfaction of his own until she screamed and begged him again.

  The fourth time happened in a blur of pleasure her body could remember feeling but her mind could not.

  By the time the sun rose, Isabel knew only that what had passed between them would never be forgotten. She swore it would never be repeated.

  She would never survive if she allowed such a thing to happen again.

  Chapter Three

  As was her custom, Isabel barely dozed and roused at the first light of dawn, dazed and confused when she opened her eyes. It took but one movement to bring the memories of the previous night rushing back to her. Every muscle of her body felt sore as she moved away from the sleeping man and eased from his bed.

  She crept around the chamber quietly, seeking out her clothing, dressing quickly and silently. Only as she tugged the door open did she allow herself a glance at the man she was leaving.

  He lay sprawled across the bed, his nearly blond hair in disarray covering most of his face. She remembered his eyes as he’d gazed at her throughout the night, almost glowing in their intensity. His muscular body spoke of a man well trained in fighting, though talk was that he was not a warrior but some kind of healer. Her body remembered the strength in his arms and legs even while her mind tried to push that all aside.

  Isabel closed the door quietly and was surprised to find his servant waiting in the corridor. She lowered her head and walked past him as she usually did, but he placed his hand on her arm and stopped her.

  “Are ye well?” he asked in a quiet, gruff voice that made her want to cry for the father she never knew. No one ever asked how she was. She straightened up and nodded.

  “Well enough.” Her practiced reply seemed a lie, for in some ways she was exceedingly well and in others terrified at what had happened. It mattered not, so she turned to go. The man stepped in front of her, blocking her path . . . her escape.

  “Thank ye, lass,” he whispered.

  Isabel shook her head and shrugged. “For what? I did nothing unexpected.” A whore did what a whore did.

  “Thank ye for being what he needed.”

  She frowned. What had he meant by that? “What did he need?” she asked, unable to stop her curiosity over the man within. She knew little about him, other than the talk of his being a healer. She wondered why he had chosen her.

  “You.”

  He stepped out of her path and smiled at her as she passed. She held her tongue, not allowing the questions she wanted to ask to slip free. She needed to regain control and put the . . . incident in its proper place if she was to move on with her life.

  She hurried from the keep and down to the beach. The sound of the waves soothed her as she approached. Submerging herself always seemed to empty her mind of all worries and concerns and memories. As she began to lift her gown over her head, Isabel stopped. The winds blew her hair wildly and tugged at her clothing as though trying to speak to her. She gazed out over the sea and realized she felt no need, no compulsion, to enter its waters.

  Confused, she sat on the sand and pushed her hair from her face, gathering its length in her hands and tying it back. She always needed to go into sea when she left some man’s bed. It cleansed her body and eased her spirit and heart, but that morn, the urge was not there. She turned and peered up at the keep’s walls. What had happened between them? Could it have changed her so much and so deeply?

  The winds gentled into soft breezes and her exhaustion began to catch up with her. She closed her eyes, drew her legs up, wrapping her arms around them and leaning her face to rest on her knees. She lost track of everything and when she roused it was difficult to tell how much time had passed. Glancing behind her, she tried to estimate how high in the sky the sun sat and suspected she’d been lost in thought and sleep for over an hour. From the sounds of activity in the yard of the keep and the village, she knew her stepfather would be pacing the floor awaiting her return.

  How had she let things get so out of her control? She would suffer in more than one way for the lapse in judgment, for only the steely control she exerted over her mind and her soul prevented her from being destroyed. From being changed irreparably by the vile things she did for her stepfather in return for the safety and future of her younger sister. And from losing that last bit of herself lying dormant under layers of protection until she had seen her sister set in the life Thora should have.

  Surprised by the tears flowing down her cheeks, she rubbed them away and stood, righting her clothing and stretching her arms above her head to ease the various kinks and cramps in her muscles from last night and from sitting too long. Isabel stumbled a few steps across the sand, then walked quickly the rest of the way to the cottage her stepfather owned.

  Sigurd did pace as she expected he would do, turning to face her as she stepped inside. With his massive arms crossed over his chest and with his height and girth, he could intimidate with a simple glance. When he raised his arm or his hand, any person with sense cowered before him.

  Isabel had and would, she suspected, do it again very soon.

  She closed the door, not willing to allow the sounds of their encounter to be heard by those she must face when he left. What surprised her was the tone of voice he used when he began.

  “What did he want from you?” he asked, stepping closer and watching her as she answered, as though trying to discern truth from lies. She’d tried to lie once and his wrath when he discovered the truth made it not worth trying again. Ever.

  “He wanted pleasure, just like every man before him.” She delivered the words in an even tone—neither challenging him nor acquiescing.

  “And . . . ?”

  “I did what he asked, however he asked.” A bit of an untruth for she had sometimes not waited for him to ask.

  Sigurd paced a few times, then nodded at her. “Did he ask you to return?”

  Isabel swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. She’d left before Duncan had said anything. Unsure of what Sigurd wanted, she went with the truth. “He slept.”

  His dark eyes narrowed and unease crept down her spine. “Did he offer you gold? Coins?”

  “Nay.” She shook her head, holding out her hands and opening them to show she clutched only her clothing. She kept nothing given to her and had few belongings or trinkets other than the clothing Sigurd provided.

  “He is not known to be wealthy or have lands,” Sigurd admitted. Those were the usual reasons he gave her to men to be used—wealth and lands. Or . . . power.

  “Who is he?” she asked, passing him to put down her cloak. Loosening the tie on her hair, she lifted her brush and began to ease through the tangles caused by the wind.

  “No one would say,” he reported. “He is known to
be close to Lord Davin and in his favor. His attendance last night and his place at Davin’s table speaks of that.”

  “Is he from Skye? Or the mainland?” she asked, pouring water into a bowl to wash.

  “No one would say, or no one knows. He stays in Duntulm Keep when he is here.”

  Isabel dipped a cloth in the water, twisted out the excess and wiped her face and neck. She would never prepare a hot bath while Sigurd was there; that would have to wait. As she continued to wash, the silence between them grew and a shiver warned her more was at stake than she’d thought. She finished her ablutions and faced him—better than having her back to him and not knowing what he would do.

  “ ’Tis perfect, really.” He smiled, neither lightening nor softening his expression. “You will discover his secrets and bring them to me. I will use what is important to gain control so he will do my bidding with Lord Davin.”

  Bile rolled in her stomach at his pronouncement. She hated her role as spy and secret-gatherer more than sleeping with the men he chose, knowing he would use such information to pull another man into his web. Isabel fought the rise of bile into her throat by pouring some ale into a cup and drinking it down quickly.

  She must refuse him. It was not right to use and betray another man for Sigurd’s benefit. She understood to the marrow of her bones how it felt and how he destroyed those from whom he could gain nothing. After sharing Duncan’s pleasure and something else she could not explain, Isabel did not want to be the instrument of his downfall. But any intent or desire to show resistance was ended as the door to the cottage opened and Thora stood there outlined by the growing sun’s rays.

  The tightness in Isabel’s heart eased as she watched her sister enter. Ignoring a whispered warning from Sigurd, Thora walked straight to her and pulled her into a rib-crushing embrace. Isabel closed her eyes rather than let him see her tears as she clung to Thora. Months had passed since she’d seen her sister and they’d had no time for words when they had arrived at the feast. Nor would she have approached Thora in public.

  “Isabel, you look pale.” Thora brushed the hair from Isabel’s face and kissed her cheek.

  Isabel could not think of a word to say. She swallowed and tried to clear the tears from her throat but she could not. Though she wished to release her sister and get her out of that meager place, she found her fingers clasping the folds of Thora’s gown tighter. Thora hugged her again before stepping back.

  “I am well, sister.” Amazed that she could even speak, Isabel smiled through her tears. “And how do you fare?”

  “Well,” Thora whispered back.

  “Thora,” Sigurd began with a growl. “I told you not to ever come here.” He took hold of her and pulled her free, tossing Isabel to one side of the room. When Thora moved toward her, he blocked her and pointed to the door. “Out. Now.”

  The gentleness in his voice when he spoke to her sister always shocked Isabel. How in one moment he could be so brutal to her and in the next seem warm and caring to Thora. But, that was their arrangement—saving Thora in exchange for her. She shook her head and watched in sadness as Thora left, turning to give her one more glance as she followed his orders.

  “Wait for me at the cart,” he told Thora as he closed the door behind her.

  Isabel underestimated his ability to change in an instant. But she remembered as he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back to him, slamming an arm around her chest. She fought to breathe under the pressure of his hold and the pain in her head.

  “Do not disobey me, girl, or she will pay for it.” He gave a hard tug on her hair, then flung her to the floor.

  Gasping, she could not rise. Her hair flowed around her, covering her face.

  “Prepare yourself and be ready when you are summoned.”

  “But . . .”

  He moved quickly to answer her hesitation in following his orders, crouching down and menacing her with his curled fist. “Do not think to naysay me or neither of you will survive.”

  Isabel nodded her understanding without moving. Sigurd stood and stomped away, leaving the cottage and following her sister. She could hear them speaking in low tones as she collapsed, allowing her anger and grief to flow unimpeded.

  Thora understood she’d angered her father in going to her sister’s cottage, but it had been months since she’d seen or spoken with Isabel. Too long for sisters to be separated. He’d looked stern as he’d left the cottage, holding out his hand to help her climb into the cart. But as she settled on the bench across the cart next to Erlend, who would drive her out to their farm, she watched as her father’s expression softened.

  “You should not come here, Thora. Your reputation and your value as a wife will suffer if you are seen with her,” he warned.

  “She is my sister and I want to see her, Father,” she answered. “You must understand.”

  He smiled and patted her hand. “When you were younger, it was another matter. But now, she will ruin any chances you have for a good marriage. I allowed you to be at the feast last evening and look what happened. She spared you no thought as she followed that man off to . . . to do whatever she does when she whores herself to men.” He lowered his head and shook it, his eyes and face filled with sadness.

  “Ah, Father,” she said, touching her hand to his cheek. “As you said, she made her choice when she ran from home and sought this life. ’Tis not your fault.”

  He lifted his head and nodded. “At least you are a virtuous and dutiful daughter. Your mother would be pleased by the young woman you have become, my Thora.” He glanced over at Erlend. “Now, you have a journey before you and I want you back at the farmstead safe and settled before nightfall.”

  “When will you return?”

  “Well, a few days at most I think. And, from the talks last night after you sought your bed, I should have news of an offer of marriage for you to consider.” He winked at her as he tantalized her with that bit of news.

  She smiled at him as he stepped away and waved his hand for Erlend to set off. They’d spoken many times of her feelings about marriage and she knew he’d have a care for her preferences as he bargained for her hand. He walked off and it was only as she turned to wave that she caught sight of Isabel’s small cottage. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye and she reached up to wipe it away.

  Isabel had always been the strong-headed and stubborn one. She had fought her stepfather on everything until the day she’d run away. By the time he’d found her, she had fallen from respectability and into a sad life. Thora would never understand why she’d done it, why she’d not accepted her father’s, Isabel’s stepfather’s, offer to return home and seek forgiveness for her sin of pride and disobedience. The separation had torn her own heart in two.

  He had promised to help Isabel in any way he could as long as Thora obeyed him and behaved as a daughter should. If that was the only way she could help Isabel, she would do so. And for the last year she had. She only hoped that her small lapse that day would not cause her father to turn his back on her sister.

  Thora could not bear the thought that Isabel would be harmed because she could not keep her part of the bargain. She considered all the possibilities of how she could aid Isabel herself while Erlend guided the cart and horse through the hills away from the coast. When they reached the farmstead, she’d come up with nothing—except to continue to obey her father and allow him to chart the path of her life.

  If that would help her dearest sister, that was what she would do.

  It was exactly what she would do.

  Chapter Four

  Duntulm Keep

  Duncan woke from the first deep sleep in months to find his bed empty and Isabel gone. He raced to the battlements to search below for her, seeing her on the beach, pleased that she did not enter the sea to wash his scent from her skin as she had so many times before. He stood above watching her, experiencing a panic and sorrow he could not explain.

  That was remarkable in itself, but the fact that
his skin was alive once more was even more so. The rough surface of the stone wall scratched his palms as he slid them along it. The chill in the morning air raised gooseflesh and he felt the tightness of his skin as it puckered and his hair rose. His stomach growled its hunger for the first time in months and he laughed aloud at the amazing sensations.

  He was alive, more alive than he’d been in so long and he knew for certain she was the cause of it. He must keep her at his side to find out the extent of her influence on the curse he bore. Caught up in things that should be mundane, he missed her standing and leaving the small stretch of beach below. When he realized she was gone, he ran to the other side of the roof and gazed down on the small village, seeking out any movement on the narrow pathways between cottages and outbuildings that would give away her position.

  Finally! She moved slowly along the path to the south, heading for the cottage that sat separate from the rest, far enough away to almost be outside the village. Even from a distance so far he saw her shoulders were slumped forward. Once more, waves of pain and sorrow echoed across the space between them and his heart ached in response.

  His intentions of meeting with the men from Orkney disappeared as the need to discover the source of her pain overwhelmed him. Had he hurt her during the night? He remembered relentless passion and pleasure. Overwhelmed by it, he might have hurt her and not realized it. A whore would never mention such things.

  His feet were running before he knew where, the sharp stones that covered the roof tearing into the skin on the soles of his feet. Only when Ornolf blocked his path did he skid to a stop.

  “Out of my way, old man,” Duncan said, trying to push his way around his servant.