“Truly?”
“Yes, truly.”
Traed seemed to think about this a moment. “Hmm. I will meet this Mozart.”
Rejar smiled faintly. “You cannot, Traed; he is from their past, but you can know him from his music. I will take you to a place called the Pantheon where you may experience it.”
Despite his aloof demeanor, Rejar could tell Traed was interested. So he was not surprised when the green-eyed man said, “Tell me more.”
Rejar walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured out two tumblers of whiskey. He handed one to Traed, then took the chair opposite him. “Try this—it is called ‘malt.’”
Traed viewed the amber liquid speculatively then downed the drink in one gulp. “It does not have much life to it. Surely this is not a warrior’s drink!”
“Give it time, Traed.” Rejar poured him out another glass, thinking that if he could keep Traed in a constant state of inebriation during his stay it might not be so bad. This might have merit.
A mellow Traed?
Rejar snorted, dismissing the foolish notion. With one such as Traed, it would probably take a great deal of malt. More malt than he could reasonably acquire. And even then there might not be any visible effects. The man was stone-clad iron.
Surrendering to the inevitable, Rejar eyed Traed’s Aviaran garments. “I will have to get you some proper clothes.”
Green eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “And what is wrong with the clothes I have on?”
As if struck by lightning, Rejar got a brilliant idea. Now this might work…
“Nothing—to me.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “However, I have found the people here to be most sensitive about their mode of dress.”
“In what way?” Traed took a drink of his malt.
“Well…” Rejar rubbed his jaw, “You will have to get some tracas made out of a…a red silken cloth. They are called pantaloons.”
Traed raised his eyebrows over the rim of his glass.
“Over this goes a bright green shirt…with frilly ruffles about the sleeves.” He gestured with his hand so there would be no doubt as to the amount of frills required.
Traed stared at him stonily.
Unperturbed, Rejar continued, “And you must never leave the place where you reside without artificial hair upon your head.”
“Artificial hair.” Traed’s even voice drawled. He placed his empty glass down, gesturing to Rejar to refill it.
“Yes, white artificial hair in fact, hanging tubes all about your head. It is the fashion.” Rejar laced his hands behind his head, affecting a knowledgeable air. “Here, in Ree Gen Cee Ing Land you will find that fashion is all. I have a friend named Brummell who has told me this.” Traed would refuse to be attired in such a manner and thus would be forced to leave. Honor would be satisfied and he could completely focus his attentions on instructing his wife in the art of Familiar love.
“I see.” Traed lifted his glass slowly to his lips. The pale jade stare pierced the younger man. “Are you telling me that you actually believe I will go about dressed in this manner?” he murmured in a low, sardonic tone.
Rejar’s eyes drifted to the left. Perhaps it was not such a brilliant idea after all. “I suppose not.”
Since Rejar was looking at the wall, he missed the slight twitch of amusement of Traed’s lips.
What else could he come up with? The Familiar ran a hand distractedly through his long black hair. Well, there was always that. Even for one such as Traed. He looked at him shrewdly, then refilled the other man’s glass to the rim.
“The women here are very amenable.” He picked up his own glass as if the topic were of no concern to him whatsoever, and, as a service, he was simply imparting an interesting tidbit of trivia.
Traed was not fooled for an instant. He knew exactly what the scamp was about; he wished to sidetrack him. Traed exhaled noisily. Shaking his head slowly back and forth, he intoned, “Rejar. Rejar. Rejar. What am I to do with you.” It was not a question.
Which was just as well because Rejar had a reply he was sure Traed would not appreciate.
In an irksome manner, Traed tapped his fingers against his glass. “Please do not feel you must curtail your… activities on my account. Feel free to do as you have always done, Rejar. Carouse to your Familiar heart’s content.”
Rejar frowned. Traed could be most irritating.
“I will even accompany you,” he offered magnanimously. “To observe your astounding technique.”
Rejar began to wonder who was toying with whom. “You will not.”
“I insist.” At the fulminating look on the Familiar’s face, Traed smoothly added, “Surely you do not begrudge me. How did you put it on Zarrain? A night of entertainment.” His glittering green gaze riveted on him. Why was Rejar trying to be rid of him? He was hiding something.
Rejar was through with the game. He stood up. “It is for you to go out carousing!” he bit out. “I do not wish to go out carousing.” He all but snarled.
Then he began to pace. Not a good sign. Familiars had to be watched when they paced.
“Why not?” Traed took an infuriating sip of his drink.
“Because I am mated!”
Coughing, Traed almost choked on his drink. “You are what?”
“You heard me—I am mated.” It was one of the few times Rejar could ever recall seeing true shock cross Traed’s face. He just stared at Rejar for several moments, utterly stunned.
The impossibility of the words won out over his stupefaction. Rejar mated? It was laughable. The Familiar was playing with him. “I do not believe you.”
Rejar bristled. “What do you mean you do not believe me?”
“Just as I say. You may cease this Familiar game, Rejar, it is not working.”
“It is no game! I am mated, I tell you!”
Traed stood, placing his booted feet in front of Rejar. “Forgive me if I sound disbelieving but I find this hard to credit. It was not so very long ago that you availed yourself of half the female population in my keep!”
“Yes, but I—”
Traed faced him, arms akimbo, looking very much the Aviaran warrior. “So you will understand when I say that I have known you most of your life and that I have yet to see any indication that there is a modicum of the seriousness such a state would entail. Do you get my meaning? So what game are you playing?”
Rejar’s eyes flamed with the feral light of anger. It was not a state one would necessarily want a Familiar to get into. That is, unless one could adequately defend oneself.
“Then you know me not,” Rejar said softly, dangerously. “Guard your tongue.”
Traed hesitated. He had never seen Rejar like this. Perhaps it was time he reexamined this younger brother-of-the-line. It appeared there was more here than he ever let on. More than Yaniff let on. Traed watched him obliquely.
“Very well. I believe you. Now tell me; who is this paragon who has mated herself to you?”
Traed’s jesting words served to settle Rejar down. He smiled slightly, relaxing his stance.
“She is—”
The door to the study crashed opened.
Lilac stormed in, hands on hips, ready to do battle. “Nickolai! What is the meaning of this?” In her fury, she did not even notice the tall man standing to her right.
“Emmy tells me you have instructed her to move your belongings into my room! Well, I will not have it!” She stomped her foot and shook her finger at him at the same time. “It is just not done! I have told you that I will not share a bedroom with you! And furthermore, just because I have to—to consort with you does not mean—”
A slight movement out of the corner of her eye captured her attention. An exceptionally good-looking man with light green eyes and long dark hair watched her with an amused intensity.
“Who the blazes are you?” she blurted out.
Rejar stepped forward. “Lilac, this is Traed. He is my…” How do you explain the intricacies of Aviaran relationshi
ps? There was no equivalent to a brother-of the-line here. The term cousin did not even come close. “He is my brother.”
Surprised, Traed looked over at him. An expression came over his face suspiciously close to pride.
“Your brother?”
She should have known that anyone who looked that good had to come from her husband’s family. She scrutinized him carefully, noting the lean, muscular build, the tall frame, the chiseled features, and the glittering eyes. She could come to only one conclusion.
“What does he turn into—a wolf?” she sneered, before storming from the room.
Rejar shrugged apologetically to Traed, a sheepish look on his face.
Hmm, Traed thought. This may prove an interesting journey after all. An idle, decidedly “wolfish” grin materialized on his enigmatic face.
It did not sit well with Rejar.
Not at all.
Chapter Eleven
Lilac leaned back against the rim of the tub.
The water was good and hot. Maybe it would help to alleviate some of the achy feeling she had. It was the second bath she had taken that day and it was only the late afternoon. Still, muscles she didn’t know she had yesterday were sore today.
It felt good to be in the privacy of her dressing room.
Emmy had balked about placing the tub in here instead of in the bedroom in front of the fireplace but Lilac had insisted. She was feeling terribly sorry for herself and had every intention of enjoying her displeasure. Alone.
Nickolai.
The autocrat.
After she had stormed out of the study, she had raced back to her room demanding that Emmy remove his things.
Emmy had gone back downstairs to check with his Highness. If anything could point out the difference in her station from yesterday to today, that was it. Her orders didn’t count anymore. He had last say. The interloper! It was infuriating.
However, she did feel a tad badly about the way she had treated his brother. For all she knew, the poor man could be completely ignorant of Nickolai’s errant behavior. And she had promised Nickolai she would keep his secret. She supposed she would have to apologize to his brother at dinner.
But she would not apologize to him.
Naturally, Nickolai had countermanded her instructions to Emmy, telling the maid to do exactly as he had said. He had moved into her room lock, stock, and barrel. Just as he had moved into her life.
He was odious!
A barbarian!
Unbidden, the words a rather cute barbarian popped into her head. Despite herself, the corners of her mouth twitched as she remembered the little lick he gave her in his sleep this morning. The Prince was very angelic-looking while he was sleeping. Too bad it didn’t carry over into his waking state!
She settled down into the warm water, closing her eyes in bliss. She could feel herself drifting into a doze. Mmmm, the water felt so nice…
Soft lips sipped gently up her arm…
“Nickolai?” she mumbled sleepily.
“It better be.”
Lilac opened her eyes. Nickolai’s blue-golden stare met her look. He was sitting down on the stool by the tub next to her. “I must have fallen asleep.” She yawned, then gasped as she realized she was stark naked and wantonly displaying herself to his view. In broad daylight. “What are you doing in here?” She was outraged.
“I was looking for you.”
“For what?”
Ever-so-slowly, his fingers walked up her arm. Those ridiculously long lashes of his lifted languorously, revealing eyes gone incandescent with a certain heat. A heat she was beginning to recognize.
“No.”
“Yes.”
Lilac pouted. “I don’t wish to.”
One strong finger reached out to flick her nipple. It went pebble-hard instantly. He bent down, taking the nubbin gently between his lips to suckle. A little sound suspiciously close to pleasure escaped her mouth.
“No?” he whispered against the peak of her breast.
“I—I don’t think—” His perfect teeth bit down on her. She groaned his name.
It was enough of a consent to him. Powerful arms reached under her in the tub, lifting her body out of the water and across his lap with impossible ease. Water dripped all over him and onto the floor, soaking through his garments, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“You shouldn’t do—”
His mouth closed over her own.
In a heated press, his lips demanded a response and the fiery penetration of his tongue received it.
Lilac clutched the open collar of his shirt, moaning at the fierce sliding motion of his tongue inside her. She could taste him, feel him, rich in her mouth.
He would show her a small portion of a Familiar’s special talent…
The palms of his hands slid along her damp body, reheating the water-cooled skin stroke by sensuous stroke as he continued to ruthlessly plunder the hot, damp well of her mouth. Lilac shivered at the sheer mastery of his kiss.
He withdrew to suckle sweetly on her lower lip, teasing her with small nips of his teeth, laving her with refined sweeps of his tongue—only to suddenly plunge into her again in a strong, powerful thrust. He drank of her.
As if he willed it, her breath started coming in short gasps.
Into his mouth.
Rejar took the gift of her breath, giving it back to her intermittently between his measured strokes and sweeps. Blood, like a savage, beating drum, pounded through her veins as he gave vibrant life to her senses. She writhed against him, prisoner to his skill; and she realized she could not take any breath except that which he deigned to give her.
She became captive to his rhythmic prowess. Avidly seeking his next breath, stroke, slide. His.
A tiny waterfall of pleasure spasms trickled over her body, increasing with each deliberate surge of his mouth against her. With every licking plunge into her. Nickolai effortlessly ignited her to sizzling point with just the talent of his lips and tongue.
No match for his expertise, Lilac thrashed wildly under him. “More,” she begged. She had to taste more. Have more.
So he opened his lips on her and gave her what she wanted. He purred into her mouth.
Lilac burst into a thousand flames. Vibrations flared unendingly through her; it was a long, hot blaze of completion. When it was finally over, she sagged against his chest.
The Familiar had brought her to peak with his kiss alone.
When she lazily opened her eyes in the aftermath and gazed up into the sultry, beautiful face above her, Lilac did the only thing she could.
She wound her arm around the strong column of his throat and brought that incredible mouth firmly back to her own.
Nickolai ran his hot, damp mouth over her throat.
She didn’t remember him carrying her to the bed. She didn’t remember him disrobing. She didn’t seem to remember much of anything.
She only knew that he covered her now like a feverish, throbbing blanket; that his palms securely clasped her shoulders; that he rubbed the head of his erection seductively between the folds of her nether lips.
A low sough of satisfaction rustled from his throat.
Words in a language she had never heard before were whispered huskily against her skin.
“K’mata ninqué shateer…”
Like an exotic spice, the mysterious words fell upon her, enhancing his torrid movements, making her want to savor him slowly, infusing her with the tangy promise of what he could give her…
How had he gotten her like this?
Wild and wanting?
Maybe those enticing phrases were more than just words. Maybe they were sorcery. Surely no conventional man could do this to a woman?
“Nickolai.” She placed her hands on either side of his face, raising his head to her. “You must not cast any spells over me—remember your promise? You must—” She panted as he slid along the outside of her cleft, gently nudging a very sensitive spot with his shaft. “You—you must give up the
magic…”
“Which magic do you speak of, souk-souk? This?” he whispered hoarsely, as he licked around her aureola. “Or this?” He laved just the very tip of her jutting nipple. “Or this….” He penetrated her slowly, letting her feel him sink into her forever, inch by blessed inch.
“Ohhh—Nickolai…” Her legs went around his waist. It appeared her husband possessed a talent that was completely natural.
When he had gained entrance to the hilt, Rejar moved that little fraction more to let her know real magic. Then he lifted his head, tossing back his black hair. His eyes sparkled down at her, teasingly.
“Kiss me, quick,” he whispered.
Without thinking, she did.
Her new husband showed her how much he approved the innocent touch of her mouth on his. He proceeded to give her a loving she would never forget.
“Good heavens, Emmy! That isn’t enough food to keep a child fit, let alone a man like this! Put some more on his plate!”
“Yes, mum.” Emmy dutifully ladled another dollop of potatoes onto the green-eyed man’s plate.
Rejar expected Traed to lift one supercilious eyebrow and stop that nonsense from continuing, but he surprised him by graciously nodding his head at Lady Whumples and accepting the extra helping.
For a reason no one at the table could quite fathom, Agatha Whumples had immediately taken to Traed ta’al Yaniff.
In the short span of fifteen minutes, she was already referring to him as “my boy.” While she also referred to Rejar in this manner, it was not quite the same. For one thing, Rejar never expected Traed to put up with it. For the second, it was difficult to conceive of anyone referring to an Aviaran warrior, especially one like Traed, as “my boy.”
If the truth were known, Traed was somewhat at a loss as to how to deal with the elderly woman. Never having known the kindness of a mother’s touch, he was completely out of his depth with the display of caring concern from Lady Whumples.
In typical Traed fashion, he decided to tolerate it until he understood it better.
“Prince Nickolai tells me you are his brother, yet you do not go by a title. I find this very confusing. I’m too old to be purposely confused, my boy—I don’t take well to it.”