SECRETS OF THE WIND by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Read Free Book Online

glared down into the moonlit courtyard. The fragrance of late roses filled the air and vied with the faint tang of salt that floated on midnight waves from the Northern Sea. If he listened closely, he could hear the roar of the ocean and…
    Giggling?
    He frowned and opened the window wider, poking his head out until the sound that had caught his attention made sense to him.
    “Daval,” he said, naming his youngest brother.
    And Daval it was, running through the darkened courtyard behind one of the serving wenches. Both were as naked as the day they were born.
    “You little bastard,” Ruan chuckled and hunkered down so that his elbows were braced on the windowsill and he could spy upon his younger sibling.
    The girl was much older than Daval and—as Ruan knew all too well—extremely educated when it came to sexual play. She was leading the young prince deeper into the garden, unmindful of any eyes that could be watching their frolicking and oblivious to the bright moon overhead that cast its light upon them like a beacon. Her naked rump jiggled in the moon glow and washed over her shapely body as though attempting to clothe her in its rays.
    And Daval? The little son of a bitch was rollicking along the pathway with no care in the world. His wiggly was bouncing from side to side and—in imitation of their father—he patted his belly in anticipation of the feast he was no doubt contemplating.
    Ruan couldn’t help but chuckle as the young man rubbed his nearly hairless chest then reached down to grasp his cock to keep it from flopping so painfully.
    Daval glanced back once at the keep then shrugged, picking up speed as he ran after the wench, still holding his shaft. The two were being uncommonly quiet so as not to rouse those within the keep, but now and again a giggle would erupt from the maze of shrubs through which the couple was running.
    “I hope you get a briar up your toenail, you little fuck,” Ruan whispered. “Or in your teeny, tiny prick!”
    The couple stopped beside the fountain where bubbling water cascaded down from a tall statue of St. Padris. Stretching out along the fountain’s wide rim, the wench lay there with one leg crooked at the knee, her arms held out for her young lover.
    “Under the statue of a saint?” Ruan asked and whistled. “You’ll go to hell for sure, Daval Cosaint!”
    But what his young brother did next so shocked Ruan that his mouth sagged open, and he could not have torn his eyes from the scene under penalty of torture.
    Daval had dropped to his knees beside the fountain and had buried his beardless face in the wench’s lap, his actions leaving nothing to the imagination. The girl’s hands were in the young man’s hair, holding his head to the juncture of her thighs, and one of Daval’s hands was squeezing the girl’s breast as though testing a melon for ripeness.
    “By the Goddess,” Ruan whispered and realized the girl—what the hell was her name again?—was staring straight up at him, a knowing smile stretched across her practiced mouth.
    As he watched, the girl put one hand to her free breast and circled the nipple with her index finger. She plucked at the stiff nubbin then put the finger to her mouth to wet it before returning it to her breast.
    Ruan felt his groin tighten and wasn’t even aware that he had put a hand to the thick bulge between his thighs.
    Daval was showering kisses up and down the wench’s thighs and up her belly. His lips locked onto one dark nipple and seemed to stay there an inordinately long time as the girl lowered her hand to her cunt and played with herself there.
    Ruan groaned. Her eyes were on him, but her hand was between her legs, her hips arched upward as Daval kept on suckling her breasts—first one, then the other.
    Watching the wench lowering and raising her hips, catching his breath as Daval reached down a hand to place his fingers where hers had been, Ruan began to breathe so quickly, so shallowly, he began to feel