Rejar Part 28

"Do not play."

"I believe I can compensate for the imbalance in my throw."

Traed raised his eyebrow. Familiar's had an excellent sense of balance and coordination; he probably could. Traed swept his hand, palm side up, in front of the table, indicating to Rejar he thought this was an excellent idea. "By all means, brother."

Rejar grinned at him.

He threw a main of 8. His second throw was also an 8.

Shouts of, "By G.o.d, he nicked it!" ran throughout the hall. Soon, the area was swarmed with players converging on the table.

"I've got some blunt on you, my man. Don't disappoint me-deliver the ready."

At the insidious voice coming from across the table, Rejar looked up.

And went stock still.

The man, avidly watching his tokens, did not notice Rejar's stance. Traed did. "What is it, Rejar?"

"This man-I will destroy him."

Instantly, warning bells went off in Traed's mind, "Why? What has he done to you?"

"Nothing-to me. He killed a child in the street."

Traed's features went to stone. "How?"

"He ran over him with his conveyance. I was too late to save the boy. He did not even stop."

"Are you sure it is him ?"

"It is a face I will never forget." Traed could understand that; the man had a cruel, evil look about him.

There was one thing Traed could not abide and that was mistreatment of any living thing, especially a weaker-life form. His arm went to the hilt of the retracted light saber he had concealed within his waistband.

Rejar's hand on his arm stopped him. "He is mine."

"Take my blade, then."

Rejar shook his head. "I will do this the Familiar way."

Traed did not approve. "Challenge him and be done with it."

"There are worse things than death to a man such as this."

"Such as?"

"It will not be today, but over time, I will make his worst nightmare become his new reality. Watch ..."

Traed was surprised at Rejar's insight. The words he spoke were wise. Wise beyond his years. There was more here than he let on....

Rejar spoke to the man, a sharp smile carving the planes of his handsome face. "I will do the best I can. To whom do I give the pleasure of winning?"

"Lord Rotewick. And you'd best be winning me a great deal. I've had a nasty day; I'm not in the best of moods."

"Uh-oh. That be Rotewick 'is-self." Traed looked down, surprised to see Jackie at his side. They had left the man outside by the coach.

"Best tell yer brother to watch 'is step; the man is a fencing master, 'e is. Killed twenty men. Rumor what 'as it 'e once skewered a man dead for spilling white wine on 'is red coat only to later quip white wine ne'er went none with red-warn 'is Princes.h.i.+p, sir."

"Do not be concerned, Jackie, my brother can fend for himself."

"That may be true, but an extra set of peepers ne'er 'urt no one."

Traed smiled. "I will watch over him. What are you doing in here? Did we not leave you by the coach?"

Jackie grinned sheepishly. "I got a yen fer the h.e.l.ls sir. I met yer brother in one. Tis my ruination and that's a fact."

Traed nodded prosaically.

Rejar shook the dice in his palm. "Leave it to me. Your mood is in my hands, Rot Wick."

"That's Rotewick. Rote rhymes with smote, my dear fellow."

"Rhymes with fot." Traed murmured in an aside to Rejar, causing the Familiar to grin. Fot was an Aviaran word referring to a certain recess in the body. The description fit Rotewick perfectly.

"In my country, my dear fellow, we say Rot Wick." Rejar managed this straight-faced, even lifting his midnight eyebrow arrogantly at the end.

"And what is this country?" Rotewick disdainfully took some snuff.

"Russia. Allow me to introduce myself, I am Prince Nickolai Azov."

Rotewick clicked his heels together, nodding a bow. "Forgive me, your Highness." The pompous man was fuming.

Traed's peridot eyes danced with suppressed mirth. Rejar was at it.

"Nonsense, Rot Wick. I have nothing to forgive you for." Rejar threw the dice, scoring a 5. His second throw garnered a 9.

"Anything but a two, three, five, eleven or twelve, yer Princes.h.i.+p!"

Rejar threw a look at Jackie, who had somehow muscled up to the table to place his own bets.

"Who is watching the coach, Jackie?"

"Got that covered-don't ye worry "bout nothin' 'cepting throwing that nine, yer Princes.h.i.+p."

Rejar rolled his eyes and threw the 9.

The crowd cheered.

Traed took his elbow. "What are you doing?" He nodded Rotewick's way.

"Give me some time, Traed. Leave a hunt in the proper hands."

Traed stood down.

For the rest of the afternoon, Rejar threw and nicked it.

Lilac stared petulantly at the st.i.tches stretched across her hoop.

The sampler was supposed to say "A Happy Home Is Blessed" but it looked more like "A Naddy Momc Is Pitted." She sighed. She was not very good at this. Perhaps Nickolai would not ask to see her creation. Shoulders slumped, she attempted a little lilac flower on the edge, oblivious to the women's comments around her regarding their husbands and marital duty.

If Lilac had been paying more attention to the conversation, she would have realized just how revealing the ladies were getting. With each st.i.tch they took, the bolder they got.

The circle eyed the new Princess Azov with unabashed curiosity. Everyone was dying to know about the Prince. How had the handsome buck performed? Was he as promising as he looked? It was noted that the new bride, while reticent, had a becoming bloom to her cheeks which had not been there previously.

Lady Whitney gave a knowing look to Lady Hallston and started the conversation by saying, "Philip"-Philip was Lady Whitney's elderly husband-"is a once-a-weeker at best. But I can always count on him after a rousing hunt; it seems to get his juices going."

"Lord Whitney has juices?" Lady Henry quipped, causing a round of snickering.

"Well, he thinks he does." Lady Whitney smirked. Philip Whitney was twice her age and three times her weight. She had been taking lovers for years.

"What I can't stand is when they paw you to death." Lady Hallston took the helm.

"Oh, I know!" Lilac stopped st.i.tching for a moment. Even if she couldn't sew, she could at least try to join in the conversation. "And that business when they lick you all over..." Twelve needle-baring hands froze in midair.

Preoccupied, Lilac attempted a French knot, continuing on, "And then there's that thing they do with their teeth..."

All needlework was immediately cast aside.

The women avidly leaned forward, eager to hear whatever choice bit the new bride was unwittingly giving out.

"Thing they do with their teeth?" Lady Sugarton prompted.

"You know-when they nip you like you're a choice morsel or something! Or that other thing ..."

"What other thing?" Lady Whitney asked breathlessly.

"When they clamp their teeth on the back of your neck to hold you in place so they can ... well, I'm sure you know what I mean."

Several of the women, eyes glazed, gasped.

"I swear I must have Nickolai's teeth marks all over me." She didn't-Rejar had been very careful with her tender skin, but Lilac didn't know that.

"Men do have their odd habits, don't they?" That gorgeous h.e.l.l-born rogue of a Prince bit her? All over. Lady Whitney began fanning herself vigorously.

"Mmm, they certainly do." Lilac frowned as the French knot unraveled. Attempting another, she added distractedly, "Why, when I finish-"

"Don't you mean when he finishes, my dear?" Lady Henry interrupted, from the lofty viewpoint of years of experience with the opposite s.e.x.

Lilac waved her hand. "Goodness, no! Nickolai takes forever to finish."

Twelve pairs of eyes bulged at the very thought. "Sometimes," Lilac blithely went on, "I finish four or five times before he does."

Virginia Hallston's scissors crashed to the floor.

At that precise moment, the door opened and the butler announced, "Prince Azov-here for his wife."

Rejar walked into the Whitney drawing room.

Every female eye turned to stare at him with a such an intense scrutiny that his step momentarily faltered. What was this all about?

Briefly, he surveyed the room with a questioning expression. The women just kept gawking at him.

Spotting his wife in the far side of the circle of women, he said, "Lilac, are you ready to leave?"

"What? Oh, Nickolai, I didn't hear you arrive."

The twelve sets of eyes s.h.i.+fted to Lilac, incredulously. How could she be married to this magnificent specimen of a man and be so unaware? Several of the ladies present wanted to seal her up in the Egyptian sarcophagus which graced the center of Lady Whitney's drawing room.

"Um, yes, I'm ready." Lilac quickly stood, stuffing her erstwhile project into her bag. She said her good-byes to everyone, thanking Lady Whitney for inviting her.

Nickolai draped something around her, his hands lingering at her shoulders. She looked down. It was the green woolen shawl. Still within his embrace, she looked up at him.

"I do not want you to get cold." He spoke in a very intimate voice.

The shawl and his tone of voice brought to mind what had transpired between them earlier that day. Lilac's cheeks got noticeably rosier.

They stared at each other for an endless moment.

Even to the casual observer, the regard they had for each other was fraught with sizzling sensuality.

Then Prince Nickolai took his wife's hand and, saying farewell, left with her.

Several women began fanning themselves at once and Virginia Hallston rang for cold drinks for the ladies.

Ice cold, she informed the butler.

Chapter Thirteen.

Upon their return, Lilac decided to retire to her room to read until the evening meal. They had all elected to stay home that evening, which suited her just fine. It was chilly and damp outside; it would be a perfect night for reading by the fire.