WinterofThorns Read online

  Winter of Thorns

  Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Growing up together since childhood, Lord Seyzon Montyne and Prince Vindan Brell had shared everything, but if Seyzon had what Vindan wanted, the young prince would take it, break it, then toss it away.

  Some things never change. Now grown men, Seyzon has something Vindan desires more than anything—Seyzon’s beautiful bride, Lady Jana Reynaud. Locked in a dungeon on his wedding night, Seyzon must stand by helplessly as Vindan once again gets his way and takes Seyzon’s woman away with him. But no matter how much Vindan enjoys Jana’s body, he cannot win her heart.

  What happens when a warrior’s woman becomes the property of another man? Friendship becomes a thing of the past and all hell breaks loose!

  Reader Advisory: This story has graphic sexual language and scenes—no closed bedroom doors (or other rooms) here!

  A Romantica® futuristic erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  WINTER OF THORNS

  Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Dedication

  To my Tommy.

  I loved you yesterday. I loved you today. I will love you tomorrow. You were always my hearth, my home and my heart, babe. The fire in the hearth may have died and the home may be cold without you but the flame in my heart will always burn bright.

  Prologue

  Lord Seyzon Montyne looked up into the most beautiful green eyes he’d ever seen. He tried to lift his head but the pain was too great. Blood ran down his brow to blur his vision but through the wavering crimson obstruction he caught a gentle smile and a flash of very white, very straight teeth behind luscious full lips.

  “Stay with me, milord,” a heavenly voice whispered urgently. “Stay with me.”

  He felt arms sliding under his back, lifting him away from the blood-soaked mud and the overripe stench of death that invaded his nostrils. The crushing weight on his chest lessened and he could breathe easier though blood bubbled from his lips.

  “Please, milord, stay with me!”

  Her voice was insistent, filled with demand and a touch of rising panic as she held him to her, his head resting against her breast. A cool hand smoothed the hair from his forehead and slender fingers ran down his stubbled cheek.

  “Over here!” she called out and the rumble of her voice against his ear made him keenly aware of her heartbeat.

  “By the gods,” a man gasped. “It is Lord Seyzon!”

  “Quickly,” she said. “Get him into the wagon. Even now I can hear the beat of the Gatherer’s wings coming for him!”

  Rough hands thrust under his knees, replaced the soft arms that had been holding him. He groaned as he was hefted between two towering black shadows. As they carried him, he wanted to scream from the agony of the movement but he choked on his own blood.

  “Keep his head up!” she ordered.

  As he was lifted into the wagon, he blinked away the blood and saw her climbing in beside him, hiking her skirt to show a frilly white petticoat underneath. She sat down at the front end then bid them lay his head in her lap. The men placed him gently on the hard wooden planks, and soft hands cradled his cheeks as the wagon jerked into motion. At his gasp of pain, the tender hands stroked him.

  “Try not to hit every pothole between here and home, Jacob,” he heard her call out.

  “Aye, milady,” a man replied.

  “Thank you,” he whispered and darkness closed in on him.

  * * * * *

  He floated in and out of consciousness on the jostling trip to wherever they were taking him. A part of his mind pleaded with the gods that the hands he’d fallen were not those of the enemy. Jumbled thoughts of torture and imprisonment mingled with those of being ransomed and rescued, of being sent home to Lavenfeld in a pine box or wrapped in a dirty roll of canvas, his body torn and mangled. Visions of his mother dressed in black, mourning him, wailing to the heavens made his heart ache.

  “Be at ease, milord,” that sweet, soft voice told him, and the tender hands smoothed over his forehead. “You are with friends.”

  A long sigh escaped him—hurting his chest as he exhaled—and once more he fell into blackness only to be awakened by the sharp skirl of a trumpet. The unmistakable sound of a portcullis being raised made him clench his teeth for the noise drove spikes of agony through his temples.

  “We’re almost there,” she told him. “Hold on.”

  Hoof beats clopped against wood. The wagon bed shook as its wheels rolled onto what had to be a drawbridge. Sloshing water told him they were passing over a moat, and he racked his brutalized brain to remember which keeps among those he’d visited had moats. He couldn’t think of a single one.

  “Praise be to the goddess. The Lady Jana is home!” he heard someone yell.

  Jana? he repeated in his mind but the name did not bring recollection of ever having heard it before. Forcing his eyes open, he saw soaring sandstone walls then the metal saw-tooth points of the portcullis as the wagon rolled under it and into the barbican. The air was cooler inside the stone walls, but when the wagon left the barbican and began rolling over the fixed bridge that linked it to the castle, the sun beat down on him like a fiery torch. He squeezed his eyes shut.

  “Only a bit more,” she told him, and he sensed she had placed her hand above his eyes to shield him from the glare.

  The wagon stopped. One of the horses pulling it snorted and tossed its head, harness jingling. There came the sound of boot heels scraping across cobblestones then the squeal of the drawbridge being reined in, the portcullis going down.

  “Jana, where the hell have you been?” an imperious male voice demanded. “I’ve had men…” There was a pause. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Lord Seyzon Montyne,” she told the man.

  “Montyne? Montyne?” the man repeated. “By the goddess, woman. What have you done?”

  “Linus, have a room prepared for his lordship and make sure the healer is called,” she ordered.

  “Jana, if they find him here…”

  “Oh, do shut up, Alden!” she snapped. “You’re giving me a headache.”

  The wagon bed squeaked and dipped. Hands went under his back and knees again and he was lifted. Agony racing through him made him cry out.

  “Be careful with him, Daniel!” she told the man carrying him.

  “I’m being as careful as I can, Your Grace,” the man mumbled.

  “Hand him down gently,” she ordered. “Careful, Edwin!”

  Being lowered to another set of hands that shook him, jostled him, brought excruciating pain but he bit his lip to keep from crying out again. He had caught the worry in her words and did not want to add to her concern.

  “Should the Reivers overrun us, I’ve no desire to be hanged for harboring a man they are hell-bent on putting in one of their prisons, Jana,” the man she had called Alden stated. “Or at the very least lose my lands because of it.”

  “They are my lands as well, brother,” she reminded him. “Father left them to the both of us or have you conveniently forgotten that?”

  Brother and sister landholders, he thought as he tried to force his mind away from the pain of being carried. That could mean only one family. He was at Riverglade in the hands of the Reynaud twins. Though he’d never heard their first names spoken in his presence he knew quite a bit about them.

  “Having an enemy at Rivergla—”

  “King Nolan is his Leigelord the same as he is ours, and he is Prince Vindan’s adjutant general,” she interrupted. “He is not our enemy.”

  “That is beside the point, Jana! We are surrounded by Selwyn troops! They could attack us at any time!” her brother snarled. “Once they find out he is here they will come after him and we’ll be caught right in the middle! W
e do not have the men or resources to withstand a long siege.”

  “Nor will we need to. I sent word to Prince Vindan that we have his man,” she said. “He will send troops to our aide.”

  “Then you’d best hope they arrive before we are crushed by the Selwyn war machine!”

  “Have faith, big brother,” she said. “All will be well.”

  Those were the last words he heard as he was jiggled one time too many and the motion pitched him back into the netherworld of unconsciousness.

  * * * * *

  “A severe concussion is the least of his problems,” the healer informed Jana. “He has five broken ribs, and—if you didn’t notice—a rather jagged hole in his abdomen behind which his spleen has been lacerated.”

  “All of which you can fix,” Jana said quietly.

  “I can bandage the ribs and his head, take out the spleen and stitch up the hole…” the healer began.

  “As I said, you can fix him,” she stated. She was sitting across the room with her hands folded in her lap, ankles crossed in the ladylike manner her mother had hammered into her head from the time she’d been old enough to walk.

  “Aye, but he has lost a lot of blood—”

  “Which you can transfuse,” she interrupted.

  “True, but…”

  Jana sighed. “You can do all these things, Healer Cronin. Why aren’t you doing so?”

  “I will as soon as my assistant arrives. I cannot do it alone and she is with the servant who—”

  Jana got to her feet. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  The healer’s eyes widened. “Beg pardon?”

  “Tell me what I need to do,” Jana repeated.

  “Milady!” the healer gasped. “It is not fitting for you to…”

  “Healer Cronin, do not vex me,” she said with exasperation. “It has been a long and trying day and I would like to get to my bed at a decent hour this night. Tell me what I need to do.”

  Clamping his thin lips together, the healer straightened his shoulders, raised his chin then marched over to a cabinet from which he took a tray of instruments. “I will need to make sure his lordship remains unconscious while I operate.”

  “I would think so,” she agreed. “How do we do that?”

  “There is trastacáin in the tall cabinet beside the sink. Brown bottle with the green label. Beside it is a stack of clean cloths. Take one, remove the stopper from the bottle, fill the stopper to the second line then drop the drug onto the cloth in a circular pattern. You will need to hold it to his nose while I operate,” he instructed.

  “Should I keep the bottle at hand?” she inquired as she walked to the cabinet.

  “No need,” the healer replied. “A little goes a long way. It is the most potent anesthesia in the Megaverse.”

  “And he will not feel the surgery?” she asked.

  “Nay, milady. He will not.”

  “Good,” she said as she carried out his instructions. “He has suffered enough.”

  For over an hour Jana stood at the head of the table upon which lay Lord Seyzon Montyne. She tried not to look at what the healer was doing and instead concentrated on the still face of the Lord of Lavenfeld. Though his eyes were closed, she had no trouble picturing the vibrant blue that had stared up at her beseechingly as he lay on the battlefield. Her right hand holding the pristine white cloth over his nose, she used her left to smooth back the mop of reddish-brown hair stuck to his forehead.

  “His wife died in childbirth,” she said, stroking the lines etched into his forehead. “The child shortly thereafter.”

  “He has certainly known heartache,” the healer commented.

  “I wonder why he never remarried.”

  “Mayhap the Lady Jacqueline was the love of his life and he cannot bear to take another in her stead.”

  “Mayhap,” she said, her eyes roaming over the face of the warrior.

  He was strikingly handsome, she thought. There was nothing gentle in the hard planes of his face and the strong thrust of his jaw, yet he had looked up at her with tenderness when she had come to his rescue.

  “Thank you,” she said softly as she eased her fingertips over one deep line creasing his brow.

  The healer glanced over at her. “Pardon?”

  Jana shook her head. She hadn’t meant to speak Lord Seyzon’s words aloud though they echoed in her mind. His voice had been deep with just a touch of his Meiramanian accent coming from lips the goddess had created to entice a woman to impure thoughts. She wondered what those lips would feel like covering her own.

  “Jana?”

  She turned—mentally chastising herself for such a consideration—to see her brother in the doorway. “Aye?”

  “Prince Vindan’s men have been spotted five clicks from Riverglade. His outriders have engaged the Selwyn militia that has been camped in our north pasture,” Lord Alden told her.

  “That is good news,” she said.

  Her brother frowned deeply. “What is it you do, sister?”

  “Healer Cronin needed an assistant,” she replied then gave him a point-blank stare. “Pray do not venture your opinion of what I am about, Alden. Instead, Lord Seyzon will need blood. Will you see to finding donors for him?”

  Alden clenched his jaw. “Well, of course, I will, sister,” he snapped. “What else do I have to do with my bloody time?”

  She watched him pivot on his heel and disappear. She sighed.

  “He loves you,” the healer observed.

  “Aye, I know he does but he can be very irritating,” she stated. “He thinks me ten years old still and not a woman grown.”

  “Such is the manner of older brothers.”

  “By two whole minutes,” she complained.

  The healer smiled. “The elder just the same, milady.” He lifted Seyzon’s lacerated spleen from beneath the warrior’s left ribcage and laid it in a stainless-steel basin. He packed the wound with gauze then reached for the suturing material.

  “How long will his recovery take?” she asked.

  “Four to six weeks,” he replied. “He can’t be moved for at least a day or two. I pray he does not contract an infection but considering I cleaned mud from the wound, I am not optimistic.”

  “He will live,” she said. Her gaze was on the slow rise and fall of the warrior’s wide chest beneath a set of broad, heavily muscled shoulders. She had an overwhelming urge to run her fingers through the crisp hair that covered his pectorals then tapered into a wide band that ran past his deeply indented navel and under the sheet draped over his lower body. She wondered if he was naked beneath the covering.

  “Your sight, milady?” the healer inquired, glancing up at her.

  “Aye,” she said.

  Jana had been born with a caul and according to the midwife who had delivered her, the sight. Not every unbidden vision came to past but enough of them did to gain her a revered reputation among the inhabitants of Riverglade. She had foreseen the deaths of her parents, the suicide of a favorite uncle, the war that descended upon them with brutal purpose.

  And she had seen Lord Seyzon Montyne fall to a Selwyn blade moments before he ran his own through his attacker’s heart. Dressing quickly, she had flown down the stairs and through the bailey, mustering warriors as she ran, ordering a wagon be hitched and her horse saddled. Despite the frantic shouts of those following her, she had outdistanced the men in her headlong rush to reach the fallen warrior. Her heart racing, fear turning her body ice-cold, she had found him right where her vision had shown her and she’d all but tumbled from her mount in her rush to get to him.

  It was not only her concern for the Lord of Lavenfeld that drove her but the sure knowledge that he was her Chosen One, the male the goddess had decreed to be her life-mate. She knew she was destined to be Seyzon Montyne’s wife.

  But beyond their Joining, she could not see the future and that disturbed her greatly. No matter how hard she tried to scry what was to come past that day, it was kept hidden from her.
She had no idea if there would be children of their union or if the two of them would live into old age.

  Beneath her hand, the warrior tried to move his head. She saw his eyes flutter though they did not open and she heard a slight groan from deep in his throat. One quick glance at the arm that lay closest to her and she watched his fingers flex.

  “I fear he is trying to wake,” she said.

  “I am almost finished with the suturing,” the healer told her.

  She leaned down until her lips were at the warrior’s ear. He groaned again and his body tensed. “Shh,” she whispered. “Stay sleeping, milord.”

  “There,” the healer said. “All done. You can remove the cloth from his face.” He looked at her. “I will get a measure of triso to help with the pain he will know the moment he wakes.”

  She nodded absently for she was watching Seyzon’s eyes. When his lids fluttered again, she frowned, willing him to remain unconscious. She laid the cloth aside and let her eyes wander over the strong, slightly upturned nose, the faint cleft in his proud chin, the mouth that drew her like iron filings to a magnet. The shadow of his beard gave him a rugged, dangerous look that was eased only by the stillness of his features. Those chiseled lips parted and behind them she caught a glimpse of straight, white teeth. Another low moan came from him and she ran her fingers down his cheek.

  “Shh,” she repeated and did so again.

  His dark, finely arched brows drew together and she knew pain was reaching up to claim him. Her heart ached, knowing he hurt. She laid her palm on his forehead and the moment she did, his eyes eased slowly open. He stared up at her—the lustrous blue of his irises dulled with pain—and sluggishly ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip.

  There was a commotion at the door and she heard low voices. A quick glance told her the men she had asked her brother to find were there to give blood. For once Alden had done as she’d bid without too much complaint.

  “Where?” she heard the warrior ask in a weak, husky voice.

  “You are safe, milord,” she said, smoothing the worry lines on his brow. “You are at Riverglade and Prince Vindan’s men are nearby.”