Free Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - Wyndmaster 1 by The Wyndmaster's Lady (Samhain)

bad with the deeper cut closed and
    the dried blood washed away from the wounds so the caked blood did not pull on his flesh.
    “By the gods, those bastards marked you bad,” Vargas said as he laid the warm, soapy rag on Sierran’s
    back to loosen the caked blood. “I’m wishing I could dig up Thurston and that gods-be-damned ta’zeer
    and kill ’em again.”
    “You took out the ta’zeer, as well?” Sierran asked, remembering well the whips-man's expertise with the
    Cat.
    “He enjoyed his work that day just a little too much for my tastes,” Vargas said with a sniff. “If’n he
    hadn’t been bragging about it in the pub, he wouldn’t have met his end.”
    When Vargas had washed Sierran’s back and legs, he bent closer over the lacerations and proclaimed
    them healed well enough. “Though,” he said, “they are going to leave some brutal scars, Commander.”
    “Help me sit up,” Sierran asked. “Is there any way you can wash this greasy mop of hair of mine? It
    feels like an army of lice are crawling around up there.”
    Vargas thought about it as he helped Sierran to sit up, carefully pulling the covers over his leader's bare
    legs. “I’ll need someone to hold the washbasin or I can hold it if the lady will do the washing. I imagine
    she’d been gentler than me.”
    Sierran smiled. “You’re determined, aren’t you, Vargas?”
    “Don’t know what you mean,” Vargas said. He picked up the washbasin and headed for the door. “I’ll
    get some fresh water and the lady to help me wash your hair.”
    Feeling much better now he was clean, Sierran barely noticed the roll of the ship as he sat in the middle
    of the bunk. The bank of windows over the massive desk at the stern of the ship continued to strobe
    harsh white light into the cabin from time to time and the rain lashed at the glass. He no longer heard the
    plink of hail hitting and that was a relief. No sooner had that thought entered his mind than the ship
    stopped rolling, the rain ceased, and the wind stopped howling. Frowning, he knew they had entered the
    eye of the tempest and the worst part of the storm lay behind them and was slowly coming toward them.
    “Let’s hurry this up before the ship starts bobbing around again,” Vargas said as he and Celeste came in.
    “Vargas said it’s going to get worse,” Celeste said, her expression revealing her fear. She was carrying a
    thick towel and a pitcher.
    “We’ll ride it out, milady,” Sierran said, flashing Vargas an accusatory look.
    She put the pitcher on the nightstand then turned to drape the towel over his bare shoulders. “Scoot
    down a ways in the bed then let your head drop back over the basin, milord,” she said as she retrieved
    the pitcher and Vargas moved so his commander could do as she asked. “We’ll be as quick about this as
    we can.”
    The feel of warm water flowing over his hair made Sierran groan with the pleasure of it but that feeling
    was nothing compared to the soft hands that rubbed shampoo into his curls and began gently massaging.
    “Sweeting, I’ll give you ’til dawn to stop that,” he mumbled.
    “Dawn’s not that far away, Milord,” she said as she dug her fingernails lightly against his scalp.
    “Did you eat?” he asked.
    “I had some broth, cheese, and bread,” she said. “It was surprising good for ship’s fare.”
    “This isn’t the first time you’ve been on a ship?” he asked, surprised since Vargas made it sound as
    though she’d never been allowed away from Dragonmoor.
    “Yes, it is,” she replied. “But I’ve read about shipboard life.”
    “You’re living shipboard life, now, milady,” he said as she smoothed his wet hair back from his
    forehead, rinsing the suds from the thick curls.
    “I know,” she said on a long sigh, then began toweling his hair dry. “It’s so exciting.”
    Relaxing beneath her gentle ministrations, Sierran wanted it to go on forever. She smelled of
    gardenias—just as her petticoat