The Queens of Merab 2: Temair’s Rayne
Violet Summers
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Copyright ©2010 Violet Summers
ISBN: 978-1-60521-409-2
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The Queens of Merab 2: Temair’s Rayne
Violet Summers
On the world of Merab, women rule, while men wield the magic.
It’s been an equitable system, until now. Temair knew that one day she’d have to step up and take her place as Queen of Emetra; she just didn’t expect for it to happen so soon! Now she finds herself on a Tour of the Queendom in search of her four Consorts -- the four men whose Elemental magic will awaken hers.
She’s found her first Consort, the prickly Fyre Lord Miach, and they journey on to the Rayne Lands, where Miach comments the local uniform consists of… skin!
Rayne Lord Dathan is Miach’s polar opposite, fun and easygoing. Temair immediately wants him, while Miach wants to get as far away from him as possible. When the threats against Temair’s life escalate, Dathan must step up and prove to his Princess and her First Consort that he’s strong enough to love them, and strong enough to defend them -- and their world -- as well.
Prologue
“They’ll arrive tonight? That doesn’t give us much time to plan.” The conspirator frowned as he studied the nobleman facing him through the enchanted mirror. “I thought they visited the Earth Lands first.”
“It’s all the fault of that fool, Forn,” the man in the mirror replied with a sneer. “If he’d managed to do his job, the crown princess would be dead, and we’d be well on our way to a new, patriarchal world.” The conspirator noticed the fanatical light in the nobleman’s eyes with the slightest bit of unease. Fanatics made mistakes.
“Well,” he finally retorted, “the men of Villa Rayne are up for the challenge. We’ll take the necessary steps to protect the men of our realm, as well as those oppressed and enslaved in Turnin and Zirah.”
“See that you do,” the nobleman snapped imperiously. “The fate of all men rests on your shoulders. Do not let us down.”
Chapter One
Miach ducked under the rain of flower petals pelting down on their caravan and tried to force a smile. From the apprehensive looks on the faces of the children they were riding past, he didn’t think he’d succeeded very well.
The journey to Villa Rayne had taken nearly two weeks -- two weeks of both emotional and physical exertion. The emotional exertion had come from the knowledge that his new wife, the Crown Princess Temair, was the target of a political assassin. He’d spent his days keeping vigilant watch over her, vetting the safety of everyone and everything that came in contact with her. As far as the physical exertion -- Miach’s smile became a bit more genuine, if no less dangerous. Well, he could blame his new wife for that, too.
Temair had been virtually untouched when he’d met her, an innocent filled with dewy promise. That promise had been well fulfilled. The once shy princess had become a virtual tigress in bed.
Miach couldn’t help but wonder how that dynamic would change now, as she sought her second consort. Would two men occupying her bed prove too much for even Temair’s insatiable libido?
* * *
Dathan stood at his mother’s side, waiting to greet the Royal Entourage. He knew that, as the eldest son, he’d come under the tightest scrutiny as a possible Consort. He also knew that, of the seven sons of Rayne, he was the least suited to the job, and the least likely to be given a second glance.
Dathan enjoyed life far too much to become a politician. Besides, his temper -- as incredibly difficult as it was to stir -- was legendary among the citizens of the Rayne Lands. A Royal Consort needed to be far more serious and have much better control of his emotions than Dathan did.
And he was perfectly content with that knowledge. Until, that is, he got his first glimpse of the Royal Party.
They rode in a loose wedge formation much like the one Dathan and his family had taken up on the stairs to Villa Rayne. The Crown Princess took the lead, with the man who must be her First Consort riding ever so slightly behind her and to her right.
She was smaller than he’d expected, and rounder. Her posture was perfectly straight, and she sat her horse beautifully. As they approached she turned, probably to listen to something the pretty, but obvious, blonde riding behind and to her left had to say. Whatever the blonde, undoubtedly one of the other princesses accompanying her on her tour, said must have been funny, because Emetra’s Crown Princess tipped back her head and laughed.
They’d come close enough that he caught the tail end of her laughter, and it vibrated in him like a rain drop in a pool, sending ripples along his skin that tickled his balls and dragged out a full-body shiver of reaction. That laugher matched the rest of her, rich and voluptuous. Her hair, a deep brown, tumbled freely over her shoulders, and was scattered with the flower petals the people of his land had welcomed her with. It gave her a whimsical, approachable air. Her eyes were dark, too, in a face that he’d almost call plain if it weren’t for the incandescence that lit her up with her laughter.
The man next to her seemed her polar opposite. He, too, sat tall in the saddle, but where the Princess seemed all softness, her Consort seemed all steel. Dathan let his gaze take in every inch of the man, from the toes of his black boots to the warrior’s top-knot in which he’d confined hair so dark a red it looked almost black. The flower petals glowing white in that silky hair didn’t look whimsical at all.
There was nothing plain about The Consort. And damn if the man didn’t seem to demand his title in all capital letters. He was pure sex, which Dathan appreciated on a purely aesthetic level. His people were rarely bound by gender in their choice of lovers. The People of Rayne had long ago learned that it was a person’s soul that called to you, not mechanics like whether they were an innie or an outtie.
So the luscious little Princess had a hottie for her first Consort. It was nothing to Dathan. It simply meant one of his brothers would have double the eye-candy once he’d joined with them. For some reason the idea didn’t sit well with Dathan. Then the Consort had to go and totally fuck up Dathan’s comfortable litt
le world.
The Princess turned to her husband and said something indecipherable, laughter still lighting her face. Her husband shook his head as he responded, a tiny smile quirking the corner of a tantalizing mouth, and his eyes rolling with amused resignation. Lips still tilted, the Consort glanced in his direction, and Dathan felt it like a blow. The alabaster man with the black-ruby hair narrowed chaos-black eyes, and the look arrowed straight to Dathan’s dick. He felt the ripples caused by the Princess’s laughter threaten to become waves.
Well, hell, he thought. This was not a situation he’d planned for.
* * *
“Great Mother,” Nuriel breathed behind her, just loudly enough for Temair to hear. She twisted in her saddle and looked questioningly at her foster sister.
“Just look at them,” the lovely blonde continued in an awed voice, her eyes devouring the seven gorgeous men ranged in a tight arrow on the stairs to Villa Rayne.
The seven sons of Rayne ranged in age from sixteen to thirty, Temair remembered. She let her gaze roam from one to the next, and had to admit Nuriel had a point. Each was more gorgeous than the next. They stood proudly, their golden beauty on display, covered only by low-riding sarongs in a multitude of shades of blue.
Nuriel sighed gustily, and Temair didn’t even try to suppress her laughter at her friend’s salacious appreciation of their hostess’s sons. Her days of silence were over. They had to be if she were to be an effective Queen.
To her right, Miach snorted derisively. “It’s no wonder she’s got her own little army of sons, as the local uniform seems to be skin.” When she turned his way, though, Miach had that little smile playing around the corners of his mouth. The one that lit a fire in her core, and sent lava rolling through her pussy.
“I’d ask if you were jealous,” she quipped, laughing again at his outraged expression. “But you know full well you’re as gorgeous as any of them.” She gave him an exaggerated once-over. “Actually, My Lord Husband, you’re more glorious than most of them.”
Nuriel and Sorcha -- who was riding slightly behind Miach and to his right -- had been listening, and now both women joined Temair’s laughter as the rather moody Miach preened, subtly of course, under Temair’s compliment. Her sister princesses, though, didn’t receive the benefit of his smoldering gaze, and the promise of his body. That was reserved for Temair alone.
Firmly drawing her attention away from her Consort’s sculpted body and back to the task at hand, Temair directed her gaze to Lady Rayne, who was waiting regally at the top of the stairs. Her silvery-blue hair was dressed in elaborate braids, most likely to combat the heavy humidity of the land. Temair could already feel her own curls drooping and concentrated for a moment on the fyre within her, which had awakened at her joining with Miach. It took a moment, but she was delighted to feel the moisture gathering at her nape and weighing down her hair begin to evaporate.
The man standing next to the Lady, Temair knew, was her eldest son. The Lord of Rayne, the Lady had explained during their mirrored conversation, was out with the hunting parties. They’d not expected the Royal Visit for another few weeks, and so were “woefully unprepared.” Considering the parade of dancing citizens tossing handfuls of flower petals at her, Temair was a bit daunted at the idea of what prepared would have looked like.
She hadn’t paid a lot of attention to the eldest son during their approach. The Lady had also mentioned in their conversation that she thought one or two of her younger sons would make a good match for Temair. Her eldest, she’d confided, was a bit of a playboy, and not well suited for a life of politics.
Now, after fully appreciating the banquet of half-naked male flesh ranged over the stairs, Temair found her attention on the eldest son. He wore his hair in a loose, shoulder length cut; full of layers that should have made it look shaggy, but instead made it look tousled, as if he’d just crawled out of bed. It looked almost black from a distance, much like Miach’s, but when he shifted into the light she realized it was instead a deep, indigo blue, fitting of his element. He tossed his head, flipping longish bangs out of his eyes, and for Temair, for just a second, time stopped.
His almond-shaped eyes were dark, but as his gaze met hers they flashed with brilliant blue sparks. Temair felt that look like a physical touch, tingling over her body in a way very similar to Miach’s tendrils of fyre.
She must have caught her breath, or made some sort of noise or movement, because Miach was instantly at her side, utterly disregarding the protocol that dictated he should stay a stride behind.
“What is it, Spark?” he asked, his gaze following the line of hers. His movement, thankfully, broke the attention of the eldest son of Rayne, who flicked his gaze in Miach’s direction. This left Temair’s attention free to notice the way young Lord Rayne’s eyes widened and Miach’s narrowed as their gazes touched.
Interesting.
* * *
Miach sat next to his wife and tried not to glower. It wasn’t easy. He wasn’t a particularly social animal by nature, and something about the informal, relaxed, half-naked Rayne folk set his teeth on edge.
Ok, he admitted as a lovely young woman leaned over his shoulder to refill his goblet, it wasn’t so much the Rayne people that bothered him. It was one particular Rayne person who was pressing his buttons.
Dathan, the eldest Son of Rayne, had jogged forward with a deceptively lazy looking gait and lifted Temair from her saddle before Miach even managed to dismount. The look that passed between the two had been electric and, in spite of the fact that he knew Temair was there specifically to find her second Consort, he found himself gritting his teeth in displeasure.
Not that the man had done anything inappropriate. To the contrary, he’d been nothing but polite, friendly and welcoming. It was just the way he looked at them, laughter and secrets in his tip-tilted eyes. If he’d only been looking at Temair, Miach wouldn’t have particularly liked it, but he’d have understood. But Dathan was looking at him, too, and the gleam in those blue-black eyes was every bit as greedy when they locked on Miach as it was when they coasted over Temair’s lush form.
At the moment, Dathan was sending sultry glances at Temair from his seat at his mother’s right hand. Nuriel, to Temair’s left, was giggling with one of Lady Rayne’s younger sons and Sorcha, who sat in her usual spot to Miach’s right, was in an intent conversation with the head of Lady Rayne’s private guard. As Temair exchanged pleasantries with the Lady, Miach had the chance to take in his surroundings.
He hadn’t been kidding when he’d remarked that the local uniform seemed to be skin. The men wore sarongs of bleached linen that wrapped low on their waists, baring disturbing amounts of golden-bronze skin. For the formal dinner, the Seven Sons of Rayne had added loosely fitted shirts of linen so fine Miach could make out the shadows of Dathan’s nipples.
He blinked hard, wrenching his gaze away from the other man. He didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to keep his gaze to himself, but the compulsion to stare left a prickly ball of nerves in his stomach.
The women. He’d barely noticed what the women were wearing on the ride approaching the villa. In fact, he hadn’t really noticed at all, until Temair had appeared, ready for the feast. Then he had most definitely noticed.
The women of Rayne wore perfectly demure gowns, cut simply and designed to skim the flesh in deference to the sultry climate. Perfectly demure, that is, until one noticed that they were crafted of a fabric so gauzy and fine that it revealed as much as it concealed. Temair’s gown was a warm, glowing peach. The rich chocolate tones of her eyes and hair shone deep and lustrous against the gauzy fabric. The velvety buds of her nipples cast enticing shadows, fairly begging for his mouth, and the gauzy skirt caressed her thighs and mound like a lover.
He’d known the people of the Fyre Lands were a conservative bunch. He’d assumed, since the princesses had fit in with them so easily, that life at Court would be equally conservative. Now he wondered. They were eating outdoors, surrounded by lus
h flowers and lit by torches, sitting on cushions around a calm, recessed pool while being attended by partially clothed servants. He realized with some surprise that all three princesses seemed every bit as comfortable here as in the formal dining hall at Fyre House.
Sorcha passed him a serving dish that appeared to be one side of a large, iridescent shell, and he turned to offer it to Temair first. The torchlight played over her hair, painting it with streaks of gold and amber. She gave a slow, wicked smile and looked at him from beneath sooty lashes. Her warm brown eyes flickered with the crimson flames of her fyre, and he felt his belly heat.
“Will you take some, My Lord Husband?” Damned if her voice didn’t get more sultry every day.
“I’ll take anything my Queen chooses to offer,” he responded, forgetting for a moment the crowd surrounding them.
Temair’s smile grew as she examined the bowl and lifted a succulent slice of fruit. She brought it to her lips, sucking the drop of nectar that trembled at the end of the triangular slice in a way so perfectly erotic that Miach felt his breeches strain and his dick weep. Then, just when he thought he might disgrace himself -- whether by spending in his breeches like a green boy, or sweeping his wife into his arms and whisking her to their rooms he wasn’t sure -- she released the fruit with one last lick of her delectable pink tongue, and raised it to Miach’s lips.
He swore he could taste her on the fruit.
Her eyes stayed on him, on his lips as he licked away the sticky juice of the fruit. On his throat, working smoothly as he swallowed. On the erection threatening to burst free of his breeches with the slightest encouragement.
Her gaze, sparkling with fyre, called to his own flame, and Miach’s skin burned. He knew if he’d left it loose, his hair would be rising on currents of heat. Tendrils of Temair’s hair that had worked loose from the elaborate braids Nuriel had wound it in were even now floating free to frame her glowing face.