Charlotte Boyett-Compo - The Wyndmasters Lady

The Wyndmasters Lady

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Dedication

To my precious Buddha Belly, who has always been the wind beneath my wings.

Prologue

Lord Charles Henry Allen of Dragonmoor was considered to be the pinnacle of evil in his day. Since he was a member of the Justonian Royaltybrother to King Edmondhis peculiarities were rarely discussed even though his strange predilections for murder, mayhem, and mutilation were well documented. Few people knew he was so well-connected to the royalty and the ones who did kept that information to themselves.

For those aspiring to be classified a human monster, his was the pattern from which the wretched garment was cut. Possessing not one shred of compassion in his cold black heart or even a single drop of consideration in his malevolent marrow, his pale white handslong fingers tapered elegantlywere often coated with the blood of his enemies. Beneath his immaculately groomed fingernails, a tell-tale crimson stain was left under the index finger of his right hand to remind him of the pleasures of his day past.

Just as the sight of that fleck of red soothed him; likewise were the bloodcurdling screams of his victims' sweet music to Lord Charles ears. Upon viewing a broken spirit, a lacerated soul, the pitiful wretchedness of a man andin the odd moment, womancast forever into the bowels of Dragonmoor Keep, the Dungeon Master would sigh with utter contentment. In his element amidst the various ghastly instruments of torture, he preferred to be hands-on with his prisoners, taking an active part in their prolonged anguish. Those who had foolishly opposed his iron will, who rebelliously had gained his undivided attention or garnered his unceasing ire, were given special care in the dungeon beneath DragonmoorCastle.

Only one avenue of escape was offered the forgotten prisoners buried within the craggy walls of Dragonmoor and that was at the skeletal hands of the Grim Reaper who came to call on a regular basis.

Situated far beneath the rocky soil of the Allen ancestral estate, the dungeon had never been breached nor had a prisoner ever escaped the dank, dismal cells whose walls sweated rank water and were as frigid as a tomb concealed under the northernmost tundra. No light ever shone within the cells of Lord Charles internees. His captives were consigned to the dark, the only sounds penetrating their wretched four foot by four foot cubicle being the squeal of rats, the constant drip-drip-drip of the foul water oozing from the privies above them, and the occasional moanperhaps even a horrific screamtorn from the inmates throats.

Tall, lanky and with a cadaverous face that was as pale as buttermilk, Lord Charles could often be seen walking the battlements of Dragonmoor in the evening. Dressed all in red with a voluminous scarlet wool cape thrown over his thin shoulders for warmth, he would pace the wall walk, stopping to peer over the parapet to the moat far below where beasts snapped and splashed in the teeming water. Occasionally he would toss down a meal to the beasts, smiling gleefully as a helpless body crashed into the water and reverberating screams broke the country stillness as giant jaws crunched flailing limbs and turned the murky water crimson, whipping the waves to pink foam.

No one came to call at Dragonmoor and none of its servants ever left. Their own lives nearing their ends either by advancing age or having gotten on the wrong side of Lord Charles temper, the inhabitants of the keep knew there would be no decent burial for them, no gentle retirement in a cottage by the winding stream on the east side of the estate. Theylike the hapless victims who rotted away in the dungeonwould end up in the bellies of the beasts that guarded the moat.

There was but one thing Lord Charles held more precious than his ability to break a strong mans will or to send a haughty woman screeching into madness. Only one treasure was held dear by him and it was guarded as zealously and as obsessively as the Dungeon Master applied red-hot pinchers to a victims testicles. Only a select few ever looked upon Lord Charles priceless possession and not a single one of those carefully chosen, keenly watched guardians was allowed to touch that one thing held by the lord to be more sacred than life itself. Under penalty of the most excruciating agony, the most exacting anguish applied vigorously would a protector allow harm to come to the Allen crown jewel.

That prized jewel was Lady Anna Celeste Allen, Lord Charles only child and the one weakness that made him even remotely human. The sun rose and set upon her golden head and the light of his world shone from her pale blue eyes. In her frail, soft hand she wielded a power far greater than that of any king or queen for she could command the most powerful man in Aravar and bring him to his knees with love.

As evil as Charles Henry Allen was, as wickedly malevolent, he was putty beneath the gentle smile that turned his daughters lovely face from beautiful to exquisite. Save her freedom to venture beyond the walls of Dragonmoor, he could deny her nothing for he had wrapped himself around her little finger and there bound himself for as long as he lived. She was his precious child, his heir, his every wavering breath and he loved her as he had never loved even the woman who had brought her into his world. To him, she was everything and a wealth to be kept pure and unsullied, as innocent as on the day she had been born.

Let no man ever dare lay hands to Anna Celeste for in the doing, the Dungeon Master, the Keeper of the Gallows, the Lord of Agony, would descend like the Hound of Hell upon the poacher and the Abyss would open up to spew forth a fury and retribution the likes the world had never known.

Woe be unto he who might cast a seductive glance upon the Lady of Dragonmoor.

Chapter One

Pain was something Sierran Morgan knew all too well. Hed endured more than what he considered was his due over the last twenty-nine years. From his mothers cherry laurel switch applied to his bare legs to the grouchy slaps of his sisters, from his fathers razor strap laid heavily on a bare ass to the enraged fists of his brothers, he knew what hurt meant. But no matter how many times his mother had cut the blood from his legs or his fathers leather had come down unsparingly on his backside, nothing could have prepared him for the cat-o-nine that striped his back from left shoulder to right hip then from right shoulder to left hip in a perfect X. When the third lash came to bisect him from ribcage to ribcage, he could not stop the grunt that tore from his throat. The fourth through the seventh blows slammed him brutally against the wooden beam to which he was shackled. It was all he could do not to cry out, so he buried his forehead against the splintery wood and clamped his jaw tightly shut, unwilling to let another tell-tale sound of agony escape him.

He was vaguely aware of the other soldiers behind him as his sentence continued. His men were shuffling their feet but not a one of them dared to open his mouth to protest their commanders punishment. They had been assembled to watch his disgrace but he knew there wasnt a one among them who agreed with the penalty.

Having lost count after the twelfth blow, Sierran dug his nails into the wood and, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, silently endured. His back felt as though a caldron of fire had been tossed upon it and the muscles of his arms were quivering, sweat pouring down his face. The nine knotted cords with the brass barbs at the end sliced deeply into his muscles with each pass of the cat. When he was barely conscious, his blood dripping to the ground at his feet, the blows finally stopped.