Rejar Part 10

A small, choking sound of desire issued from her throat, distracting him. The pa.s.sionate response almost drove him over the edge of his control. Should he continue? Lilac moaned again.

Just a little more ...

He would stop now.

Soon.

His capable hands-hands that were trained equally well as both warrior and lover-reached around her, between the cloth of her gown, splaying powerfully against the bare skin of her back.

He loved the feel of her in his arms.

Overcome, he reared back, pulling her right up with him. Lilac's head fell backwards, her arms floating helplessly to her sides as the strange, terrifying, interesting dream continued and the man {who for some reason looked like Prince Nickolai} feasted on her with a totally improper hunger.

She never thought she would have imagined such a thing, but it did feel so exquisite!

"This is a superb dream," she uttered breathlessly.

Her words reached him. A dream. She believes this is a dream. Rejar paused.

He blinked.

He drew in a deep breath.

He did not release her from his mouth, but attempted to talk himself into it. Valiantly, he recited the entire Aviaran alphabet-all three hundred and thirty-three letters.

He called up his father's stem, disapproving visage from his youth.

He pictured the entire a.s.semblage of the Guild, their indignant, righteous expressions more than enough to freeze any man's ardor.

None of it worked.

It was the imagined shock and pain of discovery that would be in those lovely green eyes should he continue that finally did it. He was about to release her when he felt a small tentative hand rest on his head. His eyes widened in panic.

No! Not the hair.

Do not let her stroke my hair!

It was too late. Nimble little fingers tangled up in the long strands, ruffling through the silken locks of his mane. He closed his eyes in acute agony. In acute ecstasy.

It was the one thing that completely undid him. The feel of a woman sliding her hands through his hair. Lilac's fingers moved in soft, gentle sweeps, lightly tugging at the strands just the right way.

The way he adored.

Closing his eyes in total bliss, Rejar growled deep in his throat.

He was lost.

And when those same wondrous hands began to ma.s.sage his scalp, displaying a skill which surely one must be born with- He fell upon her.

Rejar drained his gla.s.s, slamming it onto the table. He glanced at the "cards" in his hand with red-rimmed eyes, not really paying any attention to the game of wagering he was presently involved in. Why should he? He always won these simple pastimes the men of this world seemed to amuse themselves with.

He rested his chin in the palm of his hand and sighed. It was late. Almost dawn. He was tired and yet he knew he would not be able to sleep.

Especially next to her.

No! He would not think on it. Absolutely not.

It was not altogether his fault!

Wearily, he closed his eyes, admitting the truth to himself. Yes, it was all his fault.

Why was he behaving in such a manner? It was totally unlike him.

He didn't remember exactly what had happened after that red haze of pa.s.sion had swept over him, but the next thing he knew, they were rolling across the bed together, his arms embraced about her waist, his face buried within her neck. Her scent enveloping him.

He had swiftly rotated her on top of him, his hands wildly stroking and caressing everywhere at once; down her back, her legs, cupping her rounded- Ironically, it was f.a.n.n.y b.u.mey who had shocked some sense into him.

In his pleasure-seeking frenzy, his elbow had knocked into the small table next to the bed; the book Lilac had placed there earlier went cras.h.i.+ng to the floor. The heavy thud had snapped his hold on her; she instantly stiffened.

He had only a moment before her confusion focused into full consciousness. Quickly, he flung her from his arms, transforming himself even as he leapt from the bed.

It had been close. Very, very close.

She had not seen him but the abrupt manner in which she had been propelled from his mesmerizing inducement made him sure she would remember much of her "dream."

He would not risk it again. He dare not.

No, he must change his strategy with her now.

This was indeed turning into a challenging hunt. If only he wasn't so restless, he could enjoy it more! The only time he seemed able to get some peace from this strange malady was when he lay beside her. There was something about her presence which calmed him, even as it inflamed him.

Truly, it was most odd.

His desultory gaze scanned the smoky, dimly-lit room of the seedy gambling "h.e.l.l" in this place called Covent Garden. What was he doing here? He should be out carousing. ...

Yes, that was it! This was foolishness. Why should he suffer like this? It did not make any sense. No one had asked it of him.

He would find a woman. Any woman. Tonight. They would lie together; he would feel like himself again and then he would proceed with Lilac. It made perfect sense. He would not make the same mistake he had at Byron's; he would choose and that would be it. He would not think about hair color or eye color or any such nonsense. Women were all beautiful in their own way. Equally so to him.

Feeling much better now that he had resolved in his mind what he had to, must do, Rejar gathered the tokens he had just won in front of him. The gentleman on his left grumbled, stood up, and vacated his seat. The man on his right handed him the deck of cards. Smiling, he began what was called "the deal." When he finished, he sat back in his chair, briefly glanced at his cards, then let his sights scan the hall. A group of garishly dressed women stood by the stairs on the far side of the room. His blue-and-gold gaze lingered on them.

"Up fer a bit of wenchin, guvna?"

A peculiar man with a weathered face and a contagious smile plopped down on the seat to his left. He was dressed in bright green from head to foot. An unlit pipe dangled out of the corner of his mouth.

Rejar looked back at the women again, then winked at the man in green beside him. "Mmm, most definitely."

The man snickered good-naturedly, elbowing Rejar several times in the side. "That's the way to go fer a youngblood on the town!" Glancing over his shoulder, he eyed the women who had captured Rejar's attention. "Just don't get no pox though," he murmured in an aside, "Be a shame, a good lookin' bloke like you."

Pox? Rejar was confused. "What is pox?"

" 'Tis a cryin' shame to see a man drinkin' by 'isself." The man pointedly stared at Rejar's now empty gla.s.s.

Amused and mildly diverted, Rejar motioned with an expert flick of his wrist {perfectly imitating a dandy he had seen earlier} to a server for a gla.s.s of spirits for the man. The man gulped it down as if he were dying of thirst. Rejar was momentarily sidetracked by the game.

The man watched the handsome n.o.b place a shrewd bet onto the table. He nodded in approval. Sharp, he is...

Having placed his bet, Rejar turned to him. "So, what is this pox you speak of?" he innocently asked.

The man sighed loudly, as if to convey there was a difficult job to be done here and "I'm the one who has to do it." Leaning toward his new companion, he draped a guiding arm over the man's broad shoulders. The pitch of his voice dropped theatrically to convey the seriousness of the subject he was about to discuss. "Wot's yer name, lad?"

Rejar threw a bemused glance at the hand resting familiarly on his shoulder. His senses had told him much about this man already. The man had been avidly watching his pile of tokens, but he was harmless; the brusque exterior hid a gentle soul. "I am called Nickolai."

"Nickolai, is it? Well, listen close, Nickolai-the pox is what you get when you lay wit certain wimen."

Understanding dawned. Rejar smiled broadly. "Ahh! We call it the coming. It is most pleasurable."

The man frowned at him. "No, ye b.l.o.o.d.y sot! 'Tis a terrible affliction!"

The true meaning sunk in. Rejar was horrified. "You mean ... an illness?" He'd never heard of such a thing.

"Aye, now you've got the size of it."

The smooth brow furrowed. "But-What does it do?"

"Wot does it do!" The man's eyes bulged out so far they looked like they were going to jump from his head. "Why, it shrivels up yer pizzle and makes it fall off, that's wot!"

Rejar went deathly pale. He had a sickening idea exactly what a "pizzle" was.

"Of course by that time yer stark bloomin' mad! Yer might not even notice you don't 'ave no pizzle no more."

That would be the day. Rejar rubbed the side of his temple, which suddenly began throbbing. By Aiyah, this idiotic world! It would drive him mad! He was fairly certain he would not be susceptible to such an ailment due to his inherent makeup, but the idea of it...

"You said certain women-which women?" The words escaped from clenched teeth. His head was pounding now.

"Them wimen," The man nodded to the group by the stairs, "is not fer you."

The man noted that the young buck looked disappointed and somewhat desperate. The handsome man briefly closed his eyes and knocked his head against the back of his chair. Twice. Poor lad. You might have thought someone had just told him suns.h.i.+ne had been outlawed.

"Ye got a girl, lad?" he asked kindly.

The fleeting expression of horror flas.h.i.+ng across the sultry face gave the man his answer. "Go back to 'er then. Wot you want to go lookin' fer trouble fer?"

"You do not understand. She is for later. Right now, I need-"

The man tsk-tsked, shaking his head. "I can see wot you need the guidance of good ol' Jackie boy 'ere. That's me name, Jackie Mulligan." He puffed out his chest proudly, pointing to it with his thumb. "Irish-Cit, I is, and proud of it. Me father and me mither come from Ireland, y'know; but I 'ail from the Cit, chum." The man's speech s.h.i.+fted rapidly back and forth from Irish lilt to East End tw.a.n.g. Rejar was having trouble following his meaning.

"Who is the Cit?" he asked, totally perplexed.

"Green as me garments, y'are, laddie." Jackie lowered his head tragically at Rejar's lack of worldly knowledge, then quickly raised it to pierce him with a cunning stare. "You, ah, you got someone to look out fer you 'ere?"

"What do you mean? Like a servant?"

"No, I meant a-"

Rejar interrupted him, thinking this might not be a bad idea; the man could instruct him in the hidden ways of this world. "Are you asking to be my servant?"

Jackie hesitated but a second; he swept the battered cap off his head, causing a few wispy hairs to fly out. "Are-are ye lookin' fer a man, sir?"

Rejar's eyes twinkled. The odd fellow was really quite comical. "I suppose I could use someone to help me-it is the custom here, is it not? For men of means?"

"Aye, chum, I mean, sir. That 'tis!"

"Then I will take you."

Tears of grat.i.tude {or was that mirth?} formed in Jackie's eyes. "You ain't jesting me, sir, are you?"

Rejar was offended. "Of course not. I am a son of Krue." As if that should answer any doubts the man might have.

Jackie wiped his eyes with a suspiciously shaking hand. "And you would know, guvna. Where can I find you, then, o' kind sir?"

"I am at the Clarendon Hotel. Tell them I said to arrange lodging for you as well."

"But who shall I say wot sent me?"

"Hmm ..." The magic in the name has worked well enough so far, Rejar thought. In all likelihood it would get lodging for this fellow too. He waved his strong hand imperiously in the air. "Tell them Prince Azov has sent you."

"Blimey, a bleedin' prince!" Jackie Mulligan looked as if he was going to faint. Or burst out laughing.

Chapter Five.

It was late morning when Rejar finally made his way back to his hotel suite. Totally weary from his evening of wagering and drinking, he staggered through the door, eyes red-rimmed.

Purposely, he had stayed out past the point of exhaustion in the hopes that he might fall into a dead sleep and thereby forget the unending torment he was forced to suffer in this forsaken world.

Pox! Who had ever heard of pox? What would be the next horror he would have to endure here?

It would probably be something like beautiful, young women forbidden to have s.e.x altogether.

He stopped a moment, snickering at his own imagination gone wild.