An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
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Journey of the Wind
ISBN 9781419905759
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Journey of the Wind Copyright © 2007 Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Edited by Mary Moran.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication July 2007
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written
permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-
3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales
is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
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E – ROTIC
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JOURNEY OF THE WIND
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Author’s Note
The Six of Swords
This card signifies changing locations, taking a journey, entering a new phase of life
but it is also known as the Slough of Despond. A slough is a depression into which one
may fall and that is why this card often represents a feeling of sadness, listlessness and
functioning at a level that just barely keeps one’s head above water. Nothing is truly
wrong but things are not necessarily right either. The boatman appears to be trudging
through the water in a state of low-level sadness, but at least he—and his passengers—
are moving forward. The card points the seeker toward a more positive place, a place
where he or she can pick up the pieces of their life and start anew. The water on the
right of the card is turbulent—signifying bad times—but the boat is moving away from
those bad times and into calmer waters where the future looks abundant as evidenced
by the tree in the distance.
In its reversed and negative state, the card suggests insurmountable problems,
obstacles and deliberate lies, verbal outbursts that will embarrass the seeker and make
him or her even more depressed.
As this card was read for the hero of Journey Of The Wind, it advises him to realize
there is a problem in his life and that he must take steps to correct it if he is to live in
peace and find happiness. He must undertake a journey to find not only himself but his
destiny.
Journey of the Wind
Prologue
Dipping his fingers into the honeyed heat of his lover’s body, Alsandair Farrell
twisted them gently to get all three inside her, seeking that elusive special place where
his touch would give the woman lying beside him the greatest of pleasures. Hooking
his fingers upward, he felt the slight series of ridges and stroked her vaginal wall,
knowing he’d reached his destination.
“Oh yes!” Rylee McCourtland moaned and wriggled her shapely butt on the sheet.
She was panting with her eyes closed, her hands gripping the iron posts of his
headboard.
“Easy, wench,” he said. “We’ve all night.”
Rylee whimpered. He was already turning her inside out with his knowing hands.
She doubted she’d last until morning at this rate. She let go of the headboard and
snaked out a hand to clutch at his shoulder—digging her fingernails into the fabric of
his shirt. “Sandair, please!” she begged.
Alsandair grinned. “Please what? Please don’t do this?” He pressed his fingers
deeper inside her. “Or this?”
Bucking beneath his assault, Rylee slammed both hands down on his wrist to hold
him immobile inside her. Her vibrant green eyes fused with his dark brown gaze and
the first tremor of release shook her.
He licked his lips for her hot channel was milking his fingers—tugging, squeezing,
vibrating around them and oozing juices. When the last pulse left her and her hands fell
away from his wrist, he slowly withdrew his fingers from her, pulled his hand out from
under her skirt and brought them to his mouth.
Pure, unadulterated lust drove straight to Rylee’s belly to make her womb leap as
she watched her lover licking her juices from his flesh. Her heart was pounding and her
blood rushing in her ears as he splayed his three fingers to lick between them.
“Sandair,” she moaned. “You are killing me here.”
He was leaning on his left elbow on the bed—facing her—and when she sat up and
tugged at the hem of his shirt, he cocked a dark eyebrow. “What is it you want,
milady?”
Rylee’s eyes darkened with passion. “I want you and well you know it!” She started
jerking his shirt upward.
“All right,” he said on a long sigh and sat up. He allowed her to tug the shirt over
his head, obediently lifting his arms for her to undress him.
As it always did, the sight of her lover’s muscular body drove Rylee McCourtland
to higher heights of desire. With his broad shoulders, thick mat of crisp, dark hair
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
between his chiseled pectorals and dipping down past an abdomen as tightly ridged as
a washboard, he was one hell of a male specimen. If one discounted the sheer male
beauty of his face—cinnamon brown eyes, long sooty eyelashes, perfect nose, full lips
simply begging to be kissed and twin dimples that gave him a mischievous look—the
viewer still had to contend with thick, sleek black hair falling in waves to his shoulders
and a body made by the gods for a woman to stroke.
And stroke him she did.
Rylee ran her hands over the taut expanse of his chest, threaded her fingers through
his chest hair, massaged the rock-hard pecs with the hardened little nubbins that were
his nipples and then smoothed her palm over the steely muscles around his deeply
indented bellybutton.
“I never tire of touching you,” she whispered. “Do you know that?”
“I never tire of you touching me,” he replied, “but you are entirely too covered,
wench.”
It took but a few moments to divest her of her long cotton skirt and drawstring
&nbs
p; blouse she wore when she came to visit him. Dressed more like a peasant than the
daughter of a lord that she was, her attire added to her allure. Often barefoot, she
brought with her an earthy quality he knew damned well she hadn’t been taught in her
mother’s house. Tonight—because the weather had turned cold—she had worn slippers
and they were the last things he removed, bringing her small foot up to brace it upon
his shoulder. He massaged her shapely calf, his eyes on hers.
“Do you have any idea what looking at you lying there naked does to me, Rylee
McCourtland?” he asked. He lifted her foot to nibble at her toes.
“I know you are being unfair to me,” she said with a pout. “You have your britches
on still.”
He was kneeling down at the foot of the bed with the top button of his britches
undone, his feet bare—his boots and stockings having already been removed from him
by the delectable morsel reclining on his bed when she first arrived. He shifted his
body, feeling the strain of his cock against the tight fabric. As she writhed on the bed,
his balls drew up and felt as though they were about to explode.
“Then take me, you sorry wretch,” she said. “I don’t have all night to tarry with
you. I have other customers, you know.”
Her saucy playacting never failed to spur Alsandair to action and he dropped her
foot, spreading her legs wide as he stretched out atop her, sliding his chest over the hot
apex of her thighs before letting his full weight press her down into the mattress.
“Other customers, is it?” he growled, and lowered his mouth to her neck, nipping at
the succulent flesh. His hands molded to her breasts, squeezing lightly.
“Paying customers at that,” she said, and spiked her fingers through his thick
waves. She smiled when he growled low in his throat and moved his lips from her neck
to her shoulder to the soft rise of her breast. Her hand in his hair tensed as his teeth
grazed over one straining nipple.
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Journey of the Wind
“You are a witch,” he said as he began suckling her.
His mouth was hot and wet, and his teeth sent spirals of sheer delight coursing
through her as he took her nipple between them.
“But I am your witch, Commander,” she reminded him.
Without answering, he worked his way down her lush body while he still kept
possession of her breasts—running his thumbs over the swollen tips. He paid homage
to her bellybutton with tiny little flicks of his tongue and a deep kiss that made her
wiggle beneath him. By the time his lips slid over the wiry red curls at the top of her
fiery triangle, she had grabbed hold of the sheet to either side of her and was twisting it.
The man had a sinful mouth, she thought as he dragged his tongue around and
around her mound. With each circuit he went lower until one such trip had him graze
her clit and she arched up as though poked with a hot stick.
“Ah-ha!” he said with a grunt. “Methinks I’ve found your goody spot, wench!”
A wicked laugh escaped him and he hooked his thumbs under her knees and
pushed her legs up and apart, leaving her completely vulnerable and open to his view.
He met her gaze and she shivered as one dark brow slowly moved upward. “Shall I
torture you now I’ve discovered it?” he asked.
Reaching up behind her, Rylee took hold of the iron bars of the head post once
more and held on as though for dear life. From the moment his tongue touched the base
of her slit and lapped upward, she closed her eyes and gave herself over to the absolute
delight he wielded.
Licking her over and over again with the broad expanse of his tongue, he could feel
her juices flowing ever freer. The taste of her was like pure, warm honey and he never
seemed to be able to get enough. Even though he paused to stab his tongue into that
honeypot, he couldn’t get as much of that sublime taste as he would have liked.
Sometimes, he thought as he latched his lips upon her clit, he wished he could climb
inside her and feast until he was gorged.
“Sandair,” he heard her purr, and drove his fingers into her again.
Rylee tensed and felt the stirrings of release pushing at her lower belly. Her blood
was pumping quicker there and settling in that region. She wanted her lover in her,
wanted to be impaled on his large cock when the next wave of orgasm struck.
“Sandair, hurry,” she warned, writhing as he fingered her, his mouth toying with
her clit.
He heard—and understood—the urgency in her voice and moved so he could lower
his zipper enough to free his erection. It sprang out of his britches and unerringly
nudged at the entrance of her channel. He often wondered if the blasted thing didn’t
have a mind of its own where Rylee was concerned. Like a homing pigeon, it flew
straight up her sheath and he grunted as it came to roost at the very core of her being.
Throwing her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, Rylee rode
him, meeting him thrust for thrust as she arched her hips up for his penetration. Both
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Charlotte Boyett-Compo
their bodies were soon slick with sweat and the sound of his balls slapping against her
buttocks made her cry out with enjoyment.
Pushing into her as hard as he could—for she would have it no other way—
Alsandair could feel his climax galloping on steely hooves. Hot sparks arced through
his balls and his cock was one long, sensitive spike encased in hot silk. Each thrust now
made him grunt with the force of it and he knew his ribs would be bruised come
morning for Rylee’s knees were pressed so tightly against him.
The first ripple began in her velvet softness and with it his release poured out like
hot cream. They clung to one another and pounded their bodies together until the last
pulse faded away and he collapsed atop her—spent and drained.
Rylee held him to her, feeling his warm breath fanning over her naked breast as he
lay there with his head on her chest. She could feel the runaway beat of his heart
slamming against her own and the sound of his labored breathing made her very
protective, very caring of this man and her arms tightened around him.
Alsandair was half asleep as her hand touched the sore spot on his back and he
didn’t have enough energy not to flinch. He had been lying there with his eyes closed
but now they flew open and he frowned, holding his breath as her fingertips slid over
the wound.
“What is this?” she asked, gingerly fingering the puckered injury.
“It’s nothing,” he lied.
For a moment she said nothing but—as she always did—she uncovered the untruth
in his tone. “Let me see,” she ordered, pushing at his shoulders.
“Rylee…” he began, lifting his body off her.
“Let me see,” she repeated, and this time her voice brooked no argument as she slid
out from under him.
Alsandair could do no more than lie there on his belly as she sat up beside him. He
heard her gasp then speak his name in that tone that always made him wince.
“Alsandair!”
He sighed deeply then turned over to his back, looking up at her stormy eyes with
apology. “It doesn’t even hurt now, Ry,” he said.
“Aye,” he said in a reasonable way, sitting up. “When you poke at it, it still has
touchiness to it.”
“Touchiness, my ass,” she said through clenched teeth. “Who did that to you?”
“Does it matter?”
Tears entered Rylee’s eyes. To him, the wound was nothing. To her, it was another
foul scar on his beautiful body and it hurt her very heart to see it.
“Ah, don’t do that,” he begged, seeing the tears forming. “I’m here and—”
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Journey of the Wind
“One of these days they’ll bring you back on your shield!” she accused, flinging
herself off the bed. She snatched up her skirt, stepping into it with furious jerks of her
legs. “I’ll be a widow ever before I’m even a bride!”
Alsandair hung his head—not out of shame but out of weariness. They’d had this
conversation too many times over the years and he didn’t want to have it again tonight.
He looked up as she jerked her blouse over her breasts. “Rylee, please don’t—”
“We’ve been betrothed for five years, Alsandair Farrell,” she said. “Five years!
Every year adds another scar or two to your body and every year I worry that that scar
might be your last.”
“I am careful, Ry,” he defended, his warrior pride stung by her words.
“Aye, you’re careful, all right,” she said, eyes narrowed. “Is that how you got that
wound? By being careful?”
He held his hand out to her. “Come here, sweeting.”
“No,” she said, snatching up her shawl to throw around her shoulders. “I can’t take
any more of this.”
Fear wriggled into his heart. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean!” she threw at him as she stooped down to retrieve
her slippers. She stood there with them in her hand.
His anger surfaced to quell the fear. “You knew I was a soldier when we first met,
Rylee. You knew what it was I did for a living.”
“Aye, and I know you told me that you’d not be a soldier until the day you died,”