The Queens of Merab 3 Temair’s Aire Page 2

  “May I?” Temair asked, taking the book he offered her and flipping through a few pages. It was beautifully rendered, seemingly hand copied, and the illustrations were exquisitely detailed.

  He was growing self-conscious again, color rising again to his cheeks. “I prefer histories, myself,” she commented before he could remember to be frightened. That fright gnawed at her a bit, enough to almost douse the arousal spearing through her when he chewed at his full lower lip. “This is one of my favorites,” she added, handing him the book she’d pulled from the shelf.

  “I’ve read many of the histories,” he replied, frowning down at the slim volume in his hand, “but not this one.” He sent her a surprisingly ironic smile. “It was not on the approved curriculum.” He turned the leather book in his hands, his fingers long and pale against the dark binding. “Too controversial.”

  “What?” Temair was shocked. This book had been at the foundation of her education. “It describes how our ancestors worked together to harness Merab’s wild magic. How is that controversial?”

  The look he gave her was almost pitying. “It describes men working along their women nearly as equals, a concept that the women of Emetra have little use for.”

  “That’s preposterous!” Horror joined her shock. Were there actually areas in the Queendom that believed this? Before she could question him further, though, there was a scuffle at the door.

  Pelagia’s voice came clearly, “The room is occupied at the moment,” and Temair recognized the low rumble of Nabal’s voice as Lady Aire’s nephew tried to talk his way into the room.

  Rari had frozen, face dead white and eyes wide. “I’ve stayed longer than I should,” he muttered, surging gracefully to his feet. Temair quickly stood and caught his arm.

  “I wish you’d stay longer,” she told him. He looked at her for a long, silent moment, and she swore she could see his soul in his eyes; wounded yet hopeful. Then Nabal’s voice came again, louder and more strident, and a shutter seemed to rise in that glistening gaze. He was clearly desperate to leave, and she couldn’t bring herself to force him to stay. “I’m glad we met, Rari,” she murmured. “You’ve been the most interesting” -- they both flinched as Nabal, apparently tired of arguing, slammed his hand against the doorframe -- “most pleasant person I’ve met since arriving at the Aerie.”

  He was all but vibrating with distress even as he sketched a slight bow. Clearly he hadn’t pieced together her identity, which oddly pleased her. “I enjoyed our conversation as well, my Lady.” He turned to go and she caught his arm one last time.

  “Take this.” She pressed the history book into his hand. “Read it. It’s a more accurate representation of how society was meant to be on Merab.” She frowned as Nabal began to shout. “Perhaps we can meet again and speak of it.”

  He nodded briefly, and slipped from the room by way of a pocket door Temair hadn’t noticed. She wagered Darmon hadn’t noticed it either, judging from his hissed curse.

  Retrieving the book Rari had dropped on his chair before he fled, Temair moved purposefully to the door.

  Nabal was a fool and a brute; there was no way she’d choose him as Consort, even if he were the only nobleman available to her. She sent a speculative look at the door through which Rari had made his escape. If Lord Zevan proved as disagreeable as Lord Nabal, perhaps she’d widen her view. The young man with the wide eyes and innocent smile called to her, bringing surges of lust and protectiveness in equal parts.

  Sighing in resignation, she gave Pelagia a firm nod, and he opened the door so quickly that Nabal lurched into the room and landed on one knee at Temair’s feet.

  “Why, Lord Nabal,” she simpered in her best impression of Nuriel. “You are only required to bow in my presence, not grovel.” She held back her laughter as he snarled in response, but just barely. Turning to her guards she added, “All this study has left me fatigued. I fear I must retire to my chamber and rest.”

  Eyes dancing, the two fierce warriors escorted her past the flailing Aire Lord and into the passageway.

  * * *

  “Rari, my Lord?” Zevan jerked in surprise, then relaxed as he spotted the servant working diligently to stir the fyre in the cold hearth of his chamber.

  “It was all I could think of,” he admitted with a wry smile. “I couldn’t very well give her my real name.” He suppressed a shiver, but somehow he knew the servant saw it anyway. “You know how my mother would react if she knew I’d been out and about while the royal party was here.”

  “Indeed,” the servant agreed, standing to his full height as the kindling caught and a warm blaze grew, throwing golden shadows over the drab gray stone walls.

  Zevan raised a brow at the acid in the other man’s voice. Tric had been in the Aerie’s employ for several months, had been Zevan’s personal servant for most of that time, and while it was clear the man had no love of Lady Alta, he’d at least kept a civil tone when speaking of her.

  “So, who was she?” the servant asked in a more even tone as he hung a pan of water over the fyre to warm.

  “I’m not sure,” Zevan answered, peeling off his down-filled vest. “One of the princesses’ servants, I assume.” He shrugged and pulled his woolen shirt over his head. “She was…” he searched for the right word, “sweet,” he finally concluded. “And kind,” he added in amazement. “She gave me a book to read.” He gestured to the book he’d tossed onto his bed. “Said it was a more true representation of how the sexes should interact.”

  Tric raised a brow, but said nothing as he removed the pan from the fyre and poured the steaming water into a basin for Zevan to wash.

  “I liked her,” Zevan concluded, feeling every bit as surprised as Tric looked at the admission. “She has kind eyes.”

  * * *

  Temair entered Lady Alta’s private sitting room with Sorcha and Nuriel flanking her. She left her two guards at the door.

  Lady Alta stood with a wide, false smile. “Why, Princess, what a nice surprise. I assume Nabal was a good host during your tour?”

  Oh, yes, he’d been a most interesting guide, never passing over a chance to paint Zevan in a bad light. At this point Temair was beyond the niceties of royal protocol. She needed to meet the Aire son, if only to help put Rari from her mind. Now was not the time to become infatuated with a man who was totally unsuitable.

  “Nabal was a knowledgeable host indeed. That is not why I am here, Lady. I must insist that I meet Zevan as soon as possible.” The friendly aire was sucked out of the room at her demand, and the Lady sat slowly back down. Her silvery eyes began to swirl and her mouth pulled down into a frown.

  “Princess, I assure you if my son was presentable he would be with you now.” She said my son with such disgust that Temair was even more determined to meet him. What in the world could be wrong with the man to deserve such derision from his own mother?

  “Lady Alta, I’m afraid my patience has run out. I can’t stay in the Aerie for much longer, so I must insist that I be allowed to interview Zevan immediately.” Her fyre started to smolder as her aggravation grew; add in the agitated swirl of her rayne, and she was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of her ears. Everywhere they had traveled she’d been treated with respect, and even with affection. Here, the Lady barely kept a civil tongue, and Temair was sick and tired of it.

  “Princess, as Zevan’s mother I know what is best for my son. Now is not the right time. Perhaps you might consider Nabal for…” Sorcha cut the woman off mid-sentence, moving to stand next to Temair.

  “Lady Alta, need I remind you that you do not dictate the terms of this visit? The Princess has been very patient in giving you time to produce your son. We shall expect him here, this time tomorrow afternoon.” The Lady opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. She could not say anything back to Sorcha, because she knew Sorcha was right. Temair hid the smile that threatened to emerge as the Lady inclined her head slightly in agreement.

  Chapter Three

&nbs
p; Tric quietly stirred up the fyre in Lady Alta’s sitting room as her guests arrived. Rather than exiting, he ducked behind a heavy silk curtain and settled in to listen. His gaze was riveted not to the Crown Princess, but to her flame-haired companion. She was a fighter, even if she didn’t carry a sword. He could tell. There was a fyre in her eyes that warned that anyone who crossed her would meet with a terrible end. She wasn’t put together as well as the blonde, or curvy like Princess Temair. Her red hair was curly and out of control. He noticed leather boots peeking out from beneath her dress. A dress, he noted, that was ripped near her shoulder. No, she was a complete mess, and he felt his stomach tighten. Now was not the time to be thinking of anything other than trying to come up with another plan since Storm’s failure. So why couldn’t he take his eyes off the flame-haired princess?

  Tric tried to concentrate on the conversation between the Lady and Princess Temair, but was drawn back to the other woman when she stepped forward and addressed the Lady. Her voice wasn’t smooth and cultured, it was slightly husky and rolled down his skin like fyre as her brows furrowed. He recognized that look: barely controlled anger. He’d studied people and learned body language. The redhead was impressive and when he heard her giving the Lady hell despite royal propriety he cracked a smile.

  Tric was rarely surprised, but she surprised him. Standing up to the Lady took balls and apparently the little redhead had a steel pair. This needed further investigation and he was just the man to get the job done.

  * * *

  Zevan was sitting at his desk poring over a strategy guide when the door to his room burst open. His mother stormed in, her face a dull red. Standing over him, she just stared for a moment before bringing her hand back and slapping him hard across the face.

  His cheek burned, but he knew better than to rub the spot. It would only increase her anger and double his punishment. She pointed her finger close to his nose. The Aire jewel in her ring was as big as his thumb, and he kept his eyes on the gem as she ranted.

  “I can’t get our fair princess interested in Nabal until she has met you. Though I know deep in my heart that once she gets a look at you she will run willingly into his arms, I want to make it clear to you that you are to make a horrible impression upon her and her men.”

  “Yes, Mother,” he answered, which was the required response to anything she said to him.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “I don’t like this princess. She is too well read, not easily manipulated. I need her to leave here and never return, as the Queen has done. If Nabal is her Consort, he can keep her away from the Aerie and leave us to live as we always have.”

  Zevan said nothing, though he knew why his mother was so agitated. Temair was intelligent, kind and gentle. She could very well be the kind of Queen who would take a closer look and see what was really happening within her realm. His mother would do anything to keep the Aerie as it was.

  “Keep your mouth shut and appear dumb. That shouldn’t be difficult for you. I think that would be the best way to draw her attention back to your cousin.”

  “Yes, Mother,” he said, releasing his breath. Of course he would agree; he’d do anything to be left in peace. But some small part of him was thinking what if… What if Temair chose him? What if he could escape the Aerie, and his mother, forever? What if he had the power to change things for his people?

  His mother turned toward the door, regal as a Queen herself. As she was almost through it she looked back at him over her shoulder. “Remember, you are to do as instructed. Do not disobey me, and do not make me look like a fool.”

  * * *

  Dathan stopped in his tracks and slipped into a dark alcove when he heard the strident voice of Lady Aire coming from the room opposite him. While her words were muffled, the tone was quite clear. She was berating someone inside the room.

  He shivered, feeling nothing but pity for the poor person on the receiving end of her wrath. Even when she was being friendly, the bitch was cold as ice. He could only imagine how arctic her anger must be. The door opened and he backed as tight against the wall as he could, hoping she was caught up enough in her anger to overlook him. She turned back to glare into the room for a moment, issuing a warning about not being made a fool of in a voice so cold it burned.

  Dathan tried to see who she was talking to, but from his hiding place he couldn’t see beyond her silhouette. Her final words made him wonder if the object of her rage had been her son. He strained harder for a glimpse, but she managed to fill the doorway with her skinny frame as she swept out of the room.

  He waited until she had slammed the door behind her and sailed down the hall before leaving his hiding place to return to his chamber. Maybe he should inform Temair of the Lady’s rather tumultuous temper. If she did indeed choose Lady Alta’s son as her Consort, they would have to make sure the man was completely loyal to Temair and not his mother. Though Dathan had a hard time imagining anyone being loyal to that icy bitch.

  With the attempts on Temair’s life, though, the last thing they needed was the added burden of worrying if Lord Aire would put Temair and the welfare of the Queendom above all else. Dathan had a feeling Lady Alta never allowed anyone to forget she was the Lady of the land.

  “I just saw something…” he began as he opened the door to their rooms. The words quickly trailed off into silence when he caught sight of the scene being played out in the center of the room.

  Temair was sitting atop their dining table, gloriously naked, her pale body lit by candlelight. He could only see the fall of Miach’s dark-ruby hair since his face was planted between her juicy thighs.

  Dathan’s cock swelled so fast he felt light-headed from the downward surge of blood in his body. He ripped open his breeches to free it from its painful confines, pressing hard at the root, desperate for a little relief.

  By the Elements, they made a stunning couple. The back of Miach’s head moved slowly up and down. Soft, wet noises filled the air. Temair’s hand was fisted in the silky fall of his hair. Dathan had fantasized more than once of being in Temair’s place, his hands tangled in that black-ruby mane while Miach devoured his cock.

  The heat made by these two might have been oppressive had they still been in Rayne, but here in the bone-chilling Aerie, Dathan was finally thawing.

  She spotted him with his dick in his hand and gave him the sexy smile she wore whenever she was being loved. She lifted her free hand, and delicate fingers traced her nipples, pulling the supple skin until they stood straight up. Every tug was like a tug on his balls.

  “We have company,” she purred softly. Miach turned his head, staring at Dathan with burning, chaos-black eyes and Temair’s honey glazing his full lips. Those eyes narrowed, but the warrior only grunted and ran his tongue over his lower lip before diving back between her legs.

  Dathan let go of his cock. One more stroke and he knew he would blow. Better to suffer the pain now and delay fulfillment. He knew his princess wouldn’t leave him wanting.

  He approached the couple, and his fingers itched as he passed Miach. The Fyre Lord tempted Dathan like no other male, but he’d made a promise to his wife -- and himself -- not to force the issue. Not until Miach could admit he wanted it.

  He was almost sorry he’d made such a promise. He was more than sure he could have seduced the warrior into some one-on-one with him. His wife was correct though; Miach had to call the shots when it came to that pleasure, else he’d hate Dathan, and himself, for it. Until then Dathan could watch and enjoy the play of each and every hard muscle beneath Miach’s pale flesh, even if he couldn’t touch.

  Dathan slid onto the table behind Temair and planted his legs alongside her. His cock brushed against her soft back and he shifted until he could wedge his cock-head between her ass cheeks. Leaning in, he rested his cheek on her shoulder. The new position gave him a perfect view of Miach as the Consort’s tongue thrust into her pussy. Dathan slid his arms around her, bringing up one hand to capture a nipple
between his thumb and forefinger. His other hand he slid down her soft belly, moving his fingers to her neglected clit. He rubbed his middle finger gently around the tight nub, causing Temair to cry out and buck upward into his touch. When she made the sudden movement, two things happened that took Dathan’s breath away.

  Miach tossed his head, and his hair was flung over the top of Dathan’s thigh, the strands tickling his sensitized skin like heated threads of silk. Simultaneously, Temair grabbed his other hand from her breast and led it down to Miach’s dark head, tangling both their hands in the Consort’s hair to push his face harder against her.

  Surprisingly, there was no protest from the Fyre Lord, so Dathan let his fingers delve a little deeper into Miach’s hair to guide his head back and forth across Temair.

  “Suck her clit,” he rasped sharply, guiding Miach’s head to the princess’s clit. The stimulation, the sight of Miach’s dark head bent over Temair’s honey-glazed pussy, the sensation of his warm-silk hair wrapped tight around Dathan’s fingers, and the satin rub of Temair’s cheeks over his cock was too much. Dathan started grinding his hips back and forth to scrape his aching length along the seam of Temair’s ass.

  Temair’s voice was faint with need. “Stand and stroke your cock, Consort. I want to see you come.” Surprisingly, Miach obeyed Temair’s breathless request without argument, and Dathan reluctantly released his hair so he could stand.

  Moving his hand back to her slick heat, he thrust two fingers inside of her while his palm scraped along her tender clit. She cried out and moved against him. Miach was standing now, his large dick surrounded by his equally large hand, the tip shiny with pre-cum. Dathan devoured the other man with his eyes, transfixed by the sight of the other male stroking himself.