Her King's Command Read online

  "I beg your pardon," she said snippily

  Dark eyes stared back at her boldly.

  "I said, beg pardon. Do you not understand me?"

  "I understand you perfectly well, madam." His voice was deep and thickly accented. "As did our good captain. Do you make a habit of putting on airs before those you do not know?"

  "What I do, Sir," she said, as she contemptuously eyed him from head to foot, "is not of your concern."

  "I will make anything I desire my concern."

  "Not when it involves me. You may step aside," Shannon said, her heart pounding as she boldly stared back into the menacing eyes of the man.

  He nodded and stepped to the left, making an exaggerated bow to mock her. "My lady. Please forgive the ignorant ramblings of a peasant. I am not worthy to be in your glorious presence."

  "No, you are not," Shannon snapped. She lifted her chin, and her skirts, and began to stomp away. She turned as he laughed at her. "What do you find so amusing?"

  "A well-bred lady never lifts the hems of her skirts. Nor does she clomp around like a horse with a flea in his ear. For one who is to be queen, you lack any courtly manners."

  "And how exactly would you know what a well-bred lady does?"

  "Because I keep my eyes open and my mouth shut. You would benefit from practicing the same. Your future husband dislikes ignorance, arrogance and falsehood. He might be taken with your beauty, but he will be soured by your disposition."

  "What my future husband thinks of me is none of your concern, Master Pirate. I suggest you go back and clean the piles left by the horses, or whatever other menial labor you perform, and remain far from my presence."

  "You think me to be a pirate? I am amused."

  "Be amused elsewhere. Be gone with you," Shannon ordered.

  "Be gone with me? Aye, a thorough strapping on the bare buttocks would serve you well," the man muttered under his breath.

  "A seat of stinging nettles would do you even better," Shannon countered. She hurried to the cabin that would be hers for the journey and closed the hatch behind her. Her hands trembled as she recalled the sinister way in which the crewman's eyes had devoured her. Thankfully, she would soon be on dry land, and far away from the ship, the unbearably rude captain, and his lackwit crew.

  Shannon poured herself a goblet of wine and drank heavily. Another followed, and yet another. Soon, she was swaying as much as the ship did in the rough waves, and her stomach felt as though she had eaten spoiled meat. She felt her gut seize, and ran from her quarters to the rails. There she placed her head over the side to empty the contents of her stomach.

  "The woman has not her sea legs," Captain Barton laughed. "Feeding the fish be one way to keep her mouth silent. It seems as though King Neptune grew as tired of her airs as the rest of us."

  More laughter was heard. Shannon closed her eyes as another heave of misery took over.

  "Leave the girl be," a deeper voice with the unusual accent commanded. "Remember your misery on your first day at sea."

  "She deserves the misery. She has brought this upon herself. Perhaps she will learn manners now."

  "Aye, but there are more effective ways to ensure civility. Girl? Sit down and watch the horizon. Put your face to the wind and drink this."

  "I desire no more wine," Shannon coughed. "It is the wine that brought me to this state of wretchedness."

  "No, it was your overdrink that did so. Sit down upon the deck and drink. Now." His dark eyes met hers, locking tightly into her gaze.

  "No."

  The man looked genuinely surprised at her refusal. "You refuse to obey me?"

  "I refuse to do anything any man orders me without a proper explanation," Shannon said hoarsely, leaning back over the railing. "I was taught by my surrogate father to challenge anything that is unfamiliar. And this, Sir Pirate, is most unfamiliar."

  The man stared at her for several seconds, clearly surprised by her words. "Very well, my lady. Please, sit and drink. This will settle your stomach. It is made of pennyroyal, ginger root, and wormwood steeped in honey water."

  He held out his hand to assist her. With the change in his tone, Shannon placed her hand in his and allowed him to carefully lower her to the smooth, damp deck. The condition of her elegant dress was forgotten as she sat cross-legged and tried to focus her eyes on the distant horizon. A wineskin was held to her lips. Shannon sipped, immediately gagging at the flavor of the beverage. "Are you trying to poison me?" she coughed.

  "If I were to do that, I would have made it taste pleasant to guarantee you finishing every drop. Drink more."

  "It is disgusting."

  "It is helping, though. Is it not?"

  "Yes, it seems to be. Thank you," Shannon said, rubbing her forehead. She accepted the wet rag he handed her. "No more wine for me."

  "Not during the first time at sea." The man squatted next to her, crossing his hands between his spread knees. "You would have known better had you traveled by water before. What is your name?"

  "Shannon McCleary. Yes, this is my first ocean journey, and I am pleased to learn it will be a short one. My legs were designed for riding atop a stallion, not folding in half on an unstable deck."

  Riding a stallion? Dom's mind slipped into a place that no gentleman should go. But then, the only ones who accused him of being a gentleman were his sworn enemies. "I am most pleased to meet you, Mistress McCleary. Yes, this route is a swift one. If the wind picks up and remains in our favor, we might even arrive before the high moon."

  "I'm praying for a monsoon, then. High moon is not for seven days." Shannon groaned. "Why must we go this route? France would have been closer."

  "Your journey requires that you be surrounded by allies of the king. The English and French are not pleasant bedfellows to Moldavia."

  "And how does a peasant pirate know these things?"

  "I told you. I watch closely and listen carefully."

  "I see. Will this misery end?" Shannon gagged again.

  Dom handed her the wineskin. "It will if you follow directions and do not exercise an obstinate nature."

  "I happen to be quite skilled in exercising an obstinate nature."

  "That remains to be seen. When one is inflexible, they tend to break much more quickly than those open to change."

  Shannon groaned, closing her eyes. "The only thing I desire right now is to die."

  "No, you do not." The man's tone grew dark.

  Shannon opened one eye, "Have you a name?"

  "Moarte."

  "No other?"

  "That is how those closest refer to me, madam."

  "And what of your enemies. What do they call you?" Shannon asked, sipping more of the vile liquid.

  Dom looked at her, his vision seeking to find the depth of her soul. Her eyes simply looked back at his like pools of cold water. "They call me Moarte as well," he said softly.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It is something you do not seek."

  "I asked you a question. What does Moarte mean?"

  He uttered a single word. "Death."

  ***

  Dom stood quickly, and turned away from the stricken woman. He need to regain control of his thoughts and try to understand why she was unaffected by his gift. For a split second, he was ashamed for breaking the promise he'd made to his father. He had given his word to never attempt to persuade anyone but an enemy. But—was this girl a victim of his father's meddling, or did she have an agenda for her own benefit?

  The only thing he could read from her had been terror when she stared back, yet she refused to give into her fear. He admired that. She spoke with a practiced tongue, as was expected when one was raised in the Orders of Truth. The religious sect was known for its immense library, and had gained the support of scientists, cryptographers, linguistic scholars and physicians. The members of the Order acted as bridges between science and faith; believing all, yet also believing none. However, the secret 'extra-curricular' education offered by the Northern
Ireland convent was only known to either the members, or supporters, of the Order. His father, the late King Malkai, had been a supporter. And now, by the responsibility of birth, he was a supporter as well. Not only financially, but intimately. A supporter of a pagan worshipper who was able to deflect his gift. What had Father done?

  The weary man leaned against the portside bow to look out over the waves. Closing his eyes, he lifted his face to the midday sun and inhaled the salty air. He had missed the fresh wind blowing on his face and, for the first time in months, felt strong and healthy again. His steward was correct as well; hiding in the shadows and allowing his body to fall into sickness was not the way to protect his people, his country or his future. What was it about this girl that the old king believed could help his world? Had his father known that the woman was immune to his son's gift as well? How would she respond to his other abilities?

  Mikel had also told him that the girl was said to be fair. Shannon McCleary was not beautiful in the ways described by proper society. She had, in fact, many flaws. Her skin, instead of being the palest white, was kissed by the sun and glowed with a tinge of gold. Freckles flecked adorably along the bridge of her tiny, pert nose. Her shoulders did not gently slope as those of a woman unaccustomed to work; they were strong and square, across the span of a generously endowed bosom. Her brow was naturally arched and not disfigured by the tweezing favored by ladies of noble birth, nor did she display a fashionable high hairline of blond locks. Instead, her fiery red, knee-length mass of gently curling hair framed her forehead in a graceful widow's peak.

  Large, round, azure-blue eyes, half-hidden beneath sweeping kohl-black lashes gave her a sleepy, yet exotic appearance, which was so unlike that of the plain, unpainted eyes of the higher class. And her lips—he felt his manhood stir thinking about them. Berry-red and swollen as though stung by a bee, her lips framed a set of unusually white, straight teeth. Even the pink blush of her cheeks was achieved without the help of a cosmetic, although, he chuckled to himself, at the moment those lovely cheeks held a slight twinge of seasick green! Her figure was pleasing; although again, not in the way of modern society. She was tall and willowy, her waist so small that he could wrap his hands around it, and her breasts plump and high.

  Dom ran his hand along the polished railing. His father had described Shannon's mother to him; how she looked, how she spoke, but mostly about her wild streak combined with innate gentle goodness. It had been those qualities that had made the old man fall in love with her. Dom recalled the stories told about the maidens of the Emerald Islands; druid women were known to be as unpredictable as the weather, and just as exciting, and he found himself becoming curious. Dom glanced over his shoulder. Shannon had not moved except to draw her knees to her chest. She had her arms wrapped around her legs, her face buried between them, and was rocking herself. Shaking his head, he approached her. This woman was to be his wife, and needed to learn to trust him to care for her.

  "Let me refresh that cloth for you," he said softly.

  Shannon looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Had she been crying?

  "Thank you. I am not accustomed to being looked out for. Only watched."

  "Why watched, Mistress McCleary? Do you have a penchant for mischief?"

  "Aye, that I do," Shannon sighed. "So much so that no one wished to accompany me on the journey to my new home. I know nothing of Moldavia or its people, nor do I speak their language."

  "Moldavia is a beautiful country. Much warmer than the green isle, and fed by beautiful rivers. The people are inviting and hospitable, and always make room at the table for a stranger. Most have been educated to speak English out of necessity."

  "The village I was from used to be that way. Then the missionaries came in and planted seeds of fear and hatred."

  "Not all who believe in the ways of the church are like that. Good, kind people do exist, even in this part of the world. My father…" Dom caught himself.

  "Yes?" Shannon looked up. "What about your father?"

  "He is gone. He was a good, righteous man who was loved and respected by all he met."

  "I have no family. I am alone in this world," Shannon said sadly. "My mother passed when I was but a child, and I was raised by the sisters. I called the king 'Father' for he cared for me as though I was his own. He and my mother were very much in love, but she refused to return with him to his country."

  "Why would she make such a choice? Surely she knew he could not relinquish his throne."

  "She was of the land. Her strength and faith were drawn from the soul and spirit of nature. Her clan was the last of the true druids, and she honored the old ways in healing and dance. She was burned in our hut before she could pass the blessing of the clan on to me."

  "I truly am sorry. Allow me," he offered his hand to help her rise.

  Shannon looked into his eyes as his hand folded around hers. "Death is kind," she said softly.

  "It can be. It can also be cruel, calculated and unforgiving. Let's walk to the bow and feel the wind on our faces. It will wash away your pain as well as your sickness."

  "Can the wind wash the bitterness from a broken heart?"

  "Aye, it can. That and much, much more."

  CHAPTER 5

  Shannon's legs wobbled as she stood upon the wooden dock belonging to the Danish seaboard. In her arms was a bundle that had been unceremoniously handed to her by one of the king's men, along with an order to refresh herself in an inn named the Golden Herring. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of fish, dead barnacles at low tide, and insect-ridden seaweed that promised to raise a worse stench once the sun began to rise.

  "Is the aroma of the docks not to your liking, Mistress?"

  Shannon turned to look at the ever-present Dom, now barefoot and bare-chested, and still wearing snug breeches that hugged his muscular thighs. She swallowed dryly, trying not to stare at his sculpted torso. "You again? Don't you have a ship to raid? I thought you would be leaving once we landed."

  "What gave you that impression? I intend to accompany you to your destination."

  "I doubt that my husband-to-be will appreciate a non-appointed escort, especially a peasant pirate. Thank you, but you must be on your way."

  "Your husband-to-be is a wise man and benevolent ruler. He will appreciate my attentiveness. It was I who helped to keep your stomach intact this past week, is that not correct? You have still lost weight," he observed, holding her chin firmly in his hand. "I will make certain you are given food as you refresh yourself."

  Shannon pulled her chin from his grip. "Yes, you helped me greatly and ceased not to remind me of that fact on a daily basis. I am also very capable of ordering food for myself, should I be hungry. As for the disposition of my future husband, I know him not. But I did know, and honor, his father, which is why I will not bring shame to his memory by shaming his son. I am also protecting you by behaving appropriately in the eyes of the people."

  "Protecting me? How might you accomplish that task?" Dom looked down upon her with amusement.

  "While you call the new king wise and benevolent, I have heard him to be vicious, heartless and cruel. Should he truly be that way, then he might have you killed for your over-concern of my plight. I will not have your blood upon my hands."

  "Are you saying you are concerned for my life?" Dom's eyes crinkled.

  "It matters not," Shannon's voice was firm as she stared unblinking into his dirt-smudged face, which was darkened further by a rough new beard. "You shall not be coming. While I appreciate your assistance whilst on the ship, it is time for us to part ways. I beg your pardon, but I need to remove the stench of fish from my flesh."

  "Hurry. We are to leave in two hours."

  Shannon turned on her heel and headed towards the inn, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel his eyes on her back. Eyes that seemed to swallow her whole every time she looked into them. Eyes that had power and strength hiding behind the dark orbs framed in thick, black lashes, and set evenly over a str
ong, masculine nose. She shook off the gaze from her back and heaved her shoulder against the heavy wooden door of the inn.

  "Mistress McCleary? I am Marta." The young woman made a quick curtsy before her. "I was instructed by His Majesty to assist you in dressing."

  "I can dress myself, thank you."

  The woman looked uncomfortable. "Mistress, I cannot disobey. If I do—"

  "Did he threaten you?" Shannon's eyes narrowed.

  "Threaten? He ordered. We obey."

  "I do not obey any man blindly. When I meet this king, he will hear of my displeasure."

  "You have not met His Grace? How can that be?" The woman looked confused.

  "Mine is an arranged marriage, Marta. I will not see him until I arrive at his home."

  "But…" Shannon did not see Dom peeking into the common room and shaking his head, but Marta did. "Yes, Mistress McCleary. Please, allow me to assist you."

  Shannon took a moment to study the nervous woman. "Very well. I would like some cold ale, if you please. I would also like some hot water brought up so that I might bathe."

  "Bathe?" The woman looked horrified.

  "Yes, bathe. With hot water and soap. Naked."

  Marta shook her head violently. "The priests say that bathing opens the doorway for evil spirits to enter into the soul. For water to touch your flesh mean sickness and death. No, Mistress. I cannot allow one such as you to be in danger."

  Shannon rolled her eyes. "Ridiculous. Did not the king tell you to assist me?"

  "Yes, my lady."

  "Then do as you are told. Assist me."

  Shannon paused on her way up the stairs to tell Marta to include soap and herbs with the heated water. She frowned upon seeing Dom speaking with the woman. He had his hands on her shoulders, his eyes locked with hers. He broke his gaze to look up at the stairs. Embarrassed to have been caught staring, Shannon made haste to her room.

  He disturbed her. His constant presence left her feeling uncomfortable, like an itch that she was unable to scratch. He carried within him a degree of self-confidence, or perhaps arrogance, which clearly intimidated the weaker-willed. Who was this odd man, and why would he not leave her presence?