Brits in Time

A Total-E-Bound Publication

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Brits in Time Anthology ISBN # 978-1-906811-33-4 To Conquer a Lady ©Copyright Aurora Rose Lynn 2008 Mist and Stone ©Copyright Bronwyn Green 2008 In the Dark ©Copyright Brynn Paulin 2008 Shortest Night ©Copyright Lisabet Sarai 2008 Georgie and the Dragon ©Copyright Cindy Spencer Pape 2008 Brazen Behaviour ©Copyright Saskia Walker 2008 Cover Art by Ann Cain ©Copyright August 2008 Edited by Claire Siemaszkiewicz, Michele Paulin, Christine Riley Total-E-Bound Publishing This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing. Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution. The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork. Published in 2008 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.

Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-burning.

BRITS IN TIME ANTHOLOGY

To Conquer a Lady Aurora Rose Lynn

Mist and Stone Bronwyn Green

In the Dark Brynn Paulin

Shortest Night Lisabet Sarai

Georgie and the Dragon Cindy Spencer Pape

Brazen Behaviour Saskia Walker

TO CONQUER A LADY Aurora Rose Lynn

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Chapter One

England 1322 Anno Domini Edmund de Montfort watched the beautiful Lady Isabelle half-hidden high above him on the castle rampart. His groin tightened merely thinking of her and of pulling her gown off her shoulders to reveal her delicate, creamy shoulders, then lower still to show the swell of her breasts. He knew he was in a bad state. Everything he had done for the last ten years had been to prepare to conquer the lady’s heart. But without a title, without sufficient lands to make a comfortable living, he had been merely a knight. Nothing to her. Nothing to himself. The crisp pennants with his new coat of arms whipped and snapped in the wind. The sun beat down on Edmund’s bare head as he shaded his eyes to catch yet another glimpse of Isabelle, the unusual golden-coloured hair he knew was her one vanity and her liquid blue eyes that reminded him of a clear blue stream on a cloudless day. He was a lovesick fool, but since the lady had captured his heart, what could he do but what the good Lord had given him to do? Conquer her and make her his not only in name but in physical fact. In an effort to kill two birds with one stone, as the saying went, he had ridden from the castle one night, five years earlier, and turned to the king for help. The king had the power to ennoble him after suitable service, and Edmund was determined he would receive lands to woo Isabelle with. But Edward’s queen, Isabella of France, had heard Edmund’s plea instead. And turned it inside out to her liking. If Edmund agreed to spy on the king, the second Edward of that name to sit on the English throne, then she would see that he was suitably recompensed for his efforts. Not knowing what else to do, Edmund had done as the queen ordered. He had been the poor fool to inform Isabella that her husband did not much care for women but rather cared for men in his bed. Isabella had been furious but had kept her promise. She had created the title the Earl de Montfort and provided appropriate lands, unbelievably, next to the lands of the Earl de Vieux. Edmund had promptly sought the hand of the lady Isabelle in marriage, but her

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father had refused. The old man wanted a better match for his only daughter than an upstart, newly created noble. Edmund, however, was single-minded in getting what he wanted no matter how much opposition was thrown in his path. Even if it came to kidnapping the lady, he would make her his wife. The kidnapping itself would lead to problems of its own. Her father would undeniably lay siege to the Montfort castle, and many lives would be lost. Edmund was not the kind of man who could stand by and watch innocent people die. He was not heartless like the queen was. The tale was being spread far and wide that she wanted her husband dead so she could rule as regent when the younger Edward took the throne. What kind of evil woman was she that she considered striking down her husband? He was God’s chosen and not to be trifled with. Edmund rubbed his temple and fought back the headache that was coming on. He no longer owed anything to the witch queen. He had upheld his end of the bargain, and she, hers. That was the end of the matter. The captain of the guard interrupted his thoughts. His face was lined from long hours in both sun and wind. “Lord, the men are getting restless. What do I tell them?” Edmund moistened his lips. “I want no life lost as we besiege this castle. Tell the men to wait a little longer.” The captain bowed his head in acknowledgment and walked away. Edmund sank back onto the wooden stool placed at the entrance to his tent. He did not want lives lost if he could help it, but he knew from living in the de Vieux castle for many years that their defences were equal to any assault he could muster. The Earl would stop at nothing to protect his possessions, his people and his daughter. The old man’s determination did not stop Edmund. Not after the heartless manner he had treated her. But had he had any other option that day? Several years ago, he had caught her sitting in the rose garden, surrounded by their fragrant scent, her hands demurely in her lap. He had strolled up behind her, wondering if he should say something. She was so perfect, so beautiful, with her hair plaited and the braids wound around the crown of her head more majestic than a real diadem. She was, unusually, alone. His presence had startled her. She had jumped to her feet, a dainty hand covering her mouth to suppress a scream before she had quickly recovered her normally calm composure.

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He had sunk to one knee and when she had gently touched his shoulder, he had tilted his head upward to gaze into her eyes. The sun stood directly behind her, creating an angel-like appearance, bathing her in a golden glow. Awed, he had sucked in a breath and immediately forgotten the words he had have said. “Are you well, sir?” she had asked in a delicate, musical voice that made his heart sing and did strange things to his body. Goose bumps had stood out on his arms and his manhood had immediately thickened. She had given him permission to rise with a slight nod of her head. “Yes, my lady,” he had murmured but he was not at all well since laying eyes on her. He swallowed hard. He had wanted to rip her kirtle from her shoulders and hilt his throbbing rod in her channel right here in the garden. She glanced away but not before he saw the arousal in her gaze. Her nipples peaked against the satin of her kirtle. He barely prevented himself from muttering, “Mon Dieu,” out loud. She was a noblewoman. He was a knight who was ten years her senior. He had no right to hunger after her like he was. But the loneliness and being unwed without children at his age ate away at him. Edmund had known better than to tell her that he had loved her from afar. She could have told her father, and Edmund would have been banished from the castle. Forever. He would not have been able to handle that, when all he had lived for was to set eyes on Isabelle for a few minutes a day. They had stood awkwardly facing each other. Her cheeks had brightened with a pretty blush. His groin had tightened even more. Her shoulders were bare in the new fashion borrowed from the French. His lips had puckered almost by their own volition. Jesu, he had wanted to kiss his way along her shoulders, up her neck and to her sweet lips. “Is there anything you need?” Isabelle had asked in a muted whisper. She had blinked then closed the short distance between them. Her small hands had landed on his broad chest, and his manhood had jumped wildly. He would have had to turn his back on her and walk away. While he could. “Edmund.” She had lifted her face to his, her eyes bright and yearning. She would have said more but he had hushed her with two gentle fingers planted against her lips. Then he had walked away stiffly, his engorged penis almost leading the

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way. It was the hardest thing he had ever done. He had wanted to take her, to slip her kirtle up to her breasts and thrust his rod in her. But he had known if the Earl found out, the price would be a heavy one to pay. Now, with the wind whipping the flap of his tent, his penis thickened merely at the recollection of Isabelle in her white gown. A slight movement on the castle battlements caught his eye. She moved out of sight but not before her hair caught the sunlight for the twinkling of a moment. Edmund’s breath caught in his throat. He reminded himself to breathe. Isabelle was his Holy Grail, and he had to have her. He stroked his clean-shaven jaw and would have hopped up and down in glee if it had not been for the men surrounding him. An idea struck him like an arrow ramming into a tree trunk. If the lady would not come out of the castle, then there was only one other option. Which greatly pleased him, not only for the inherent danger it involved but also for the satisfaction he would receive at the end of his mission. If Isabelle would not coming out, then he was going in.

**** “Great big knaves,” Lady Isabelle whispered into the late spring wind that was determined to tug her hair from the tight confines of the plaits wound around her head. “Before this next fortnight is done, you will all pay the price of placing my castle under siege. You will all die. I refuse to allow me and mine to be conquered!” Yet her heart lay heavy in her chest. She had heard that the Queen had bestowed lands and possessions on Edmund for some service rendered. He was the leader of the men surrounding her castle. Could she face the fact that she might have to put him to death? Time had not erased the desire in his eyes that day in the rose garden. Nor the shame of being spurned. More often than not, the shame warred with hatred for Edmund. How could he have turn his back on her and stroll away when she had needed him? How dare he toy with her feminine needs? The burden of defending the castle and its thousand inhabitants weighed heavily on Isabelle’s shoulders. Since her father had clutched at his chest and died a fortnight earlier, she had kept his death a secret. She fisted her dainty hands that were better suited to an

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embroidery needle and brewing tisanes than hefting a heavy sword. On the battlements, she could look down upon the mass of invaders who had placed her castle under siege the very day her father died, almost as if they had known. Her resolve built in her breast with such strength, she could imagine herself walking towards Edmund’s army and ordering them to lay down their weapons at their sides. Isabelle would give them a choice. Integrate into her own army and be watched with the eyes of a hawk for traitorous behaviour or die on the spot. The only cause she knew was to keep her people safe from upstart nobles. She squinted, trying to make out their leader, a man her father had trusted implicitly until he had vanished five years year earlier in the stillness of the night. Isabelle remembered him, tall, handsome as sin, and arrogant in his self-assurance. Even back then. Those eyes, a green that the leaves took on as dusk settled upon the countryside, pierced through her, searching mayhap for a secret that eluded him. She had stood up to him then, her shoulders straight and her expression guarded so as to reveal nothing of the feminine turmoil that heated gaze had placed in her. Her heart beat violently, and her palms broke out in a sweat. She swore she hated him. Every inch of his lean, tanned, masculine body. It was as if that body had been honed for fighting much like a weapon. The width of his broad shoulders, his massive chest, a lean waist that rode above muscled thighs. If she had allowed her feminine instincts free rein, she would have fallen in love with him or at least bestowed a favour or two on him. Isabelle turned her thoughts back to the besieged castle. She would never allow Edmund de Montfort to capture her castle. And somehow, she would find a way to seek vengeance on the man whose eyes still burned into her with unassuaged yearning during sleepless nights.

**** Isabelle had descended the long staircase from the battlements to the great hall, which was eerily quiet for a castle under siege. Her kirtle swished with each footstep. “My lady, there is a friar outside the portcullis seeking admittance,” Isabelle’s maid told her with a brief curtsey.

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“I would like some water,” Isabelle replied, unwilling to show any sign of weakness. She needed time to think and decide whether letting in the friar was the right course of action. Margot dipped her head, curtsied and hurried away. Ordinarily, monks stayed away from a castle whose inhabitants were locked away for safety but to turn one away was considered a slap in God’s face. Isabelle wrung her hands in her lap. If she let in the monk, and he prayed with her people, that was good. If she let him in, and he betrayed them, then she had not protected the castle and its inhabitants. She rose and paced the length of the great hall, walking by trestles set with trenchers and goblets. Fresh rushes had been strewn on the floor along with the sweet scent of perfumed roses. A black hound rested its great head on its paws. Edmund de Montfort was an animal to think he would conquer her castle! Over and over, Isabelle slapped a fist in one palm. She had a duty to the people under her protection. And, she frowned, a duty to rout Edmund de Montfort from her life forever. She had seen how he looked at her with lust-filled eyes when she had been barely sixteen. Then, foolishly, she had encouraged his attention. Not that anything had happened, of course. Her father had made sure, and that very denial had made her want Edmund with a fierce intensity that frightened her. Isabelle’s fist continued to hit her palm. She was older and wiser now. She should not have led Edmund to think she wanted to bed him. Although there was no heat in the great hall, she began to sweat profusely. How many times she had replayed his eyes lingering provocatively on her breasts before he crooked his lips in an uneven smile. Jesu, but he must have known that she wanted him. Desire had pulsed through her veins imagining his long, muscular legs entwined around her own as he lay beside her after they had made love. A blush crept into her cheeks. It was not proper for a lady to ponder such things as a virile male undressing. His member. Dared she think the word that played over and over like birdsong? His rod. Her maddened pacing stopped. Her whole body came to rest with the realisation that God in heaven had not struck her dead for thinking the word as the household priest taught. The word was like freedom. Glorious freedom!

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Despite the gravity of her situation, Isabelle burst into laughter. When she married, she resolved to use the word ‘rod’ often. If nothing else, it would outrage her husband. Her circumstances came into sharp focus. Now that her father was dead, and she was unmarried, she had no close male relative who made decisions for her. There was no one to say how much money she could spend, or where she could go, or whom she would wed. The knowledge was exhilarating. All marriages were more or less edging higher for social position. A father usually married his daughter to someone of the same social rank or even higher to cement some political alliance. Isabelle was free from those considerations. She could marry whom she wanted. After she dealt with Edmund de Montfort. “My lady,” the maid said, catching her off guard. All these thoughts of grandeur, of crushing the enemy with one brilliant stroke, even though women were not known to charge into battle, had Isabelle breathing faster. She was a woman, but she would never let a man get the better of her. Not ever!

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Chapter Two

Isabelle’s maid watched the odd glitter in the eyes of her mistress. Perhaps the ague afflicted her. Lady Isabelle shouldered a heavy responsibility to keep her people safe. Few, except Margot and one trusted advisor, the castellan, knew of the Earl’s death. If the people within the castle found out he had died, there would be good cause for rebellion. Fear often led to unwise choices. Fear that the old order, although not benevolent by any means, was changing to a new, and unknown one. The lady’s sire often punished any who offended with a heavy hand but there had always been plenty to eat. And now fear that the Lady Isabelle did not have the stomach for a man’s role in guarding the castle and safeguarding its people made for great uneasiness. A woman was meant to be ruled, not to rule. Margot herself was fearful, not only for her own life but that of Isabelle’s. Loyalty was often an easily exchangeable commodity. “May I speak frankly?” Margot asked, relieved that Isabelle’s frantic pacing had stopped, and she would not have to run after her with hitched up skirts. “Jesu, yes. Is the friar still without the castle?” Isabelle tucked stray strands of hair behind her right ear. Her cheeks were far too flushed for her to be in good health. If Isabelle was taken by fever and unable to rule, who would take her place? Margot might as well lower the drawbridge herself and let in the Earl de Montfort and his army. “Yea, the friar is still asking to be allowed in. His constant prayer is wearying the guards at the gate.” “I can imagine,” Isabelle said almost in a whisper. She smoothed her kirtle over her hips. “What is it you want to talk to me about?” Margot did not know how to broach the subject. If Isabelle was in a bad mood, or ill, she could simply have her ordered to the dungeon to rot away—like her father would have if anyone had dared speak thus to him. “This is a delicate matter.” Isabelle waved her hand in the air impatiently. “Go on. There is no need to spare my feelings.”

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She had been taught to rule, as her brother would have if he had not died of the fever two years earlier. Isabelle watched her with analytical eyes. “Perhaps it is not my place to make the suggestion but would it mayhap not be a good idea to take a husband?” Margot had been with her charge for far too long not to notice the sudden tension appear in the lines of her mouth. And just as quickly disappear. Isabelle turned her back, most probably to battle her inner demons without a witness to bear testimony. “That is all,” Margot heard the lady say. Margot clasped her hands and sent a quick prayer heavenward. “When the people discover your father, the Earl, is dead, they may rise up against you and do the very thing you do not wish them to do.” Isabelle spun around. “And what would that be, Margot?” Margot continued her silent prayers. “To open the castle gates and let the Earl de Montfort in.” Isabella’s face paled. Her slender throat dipped with a bare swallow. “And if I do this, what will it gain me?” Margot knew the lady would not care for her answer. Gave it anyway. “It will gain you a husband and give the people a man who will look after them whether he had to fight or take a ploughshare in hand.” A quick breath. “I do not need a conceited man to care for my people. I can fight like any man, and I can take a ploughshare in hand if I must.” Isabelle’s words were not spoken with arrogance or uncertainty. Only simple truth. Margot bowed her head. She should have known better than to suggest a husband. The lady was determined to rule on her own and, Margot feared, that would not only end Isabelle’s life but the lives of all the people she claimed to rule. To stave off any untoward punishment brought on by nervous tension, Margot gave a small curtsey. Lady Isabelle had the heart of a warrior but the weak body of a female. A female who would have served herself well to take the Earl de Montfort to bed, to bear him children and have done with ideas of ably ruling her people. Few women were capable of the task and most who tried were quickly disabused of the idea and deposed.

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“When you leave, please tell John to lower the gate, carefully mind you, and let in the praying friar,” Isabelle ordered. “I have a few prayers that mayhap a little friendly intervention would help.” “Where would you like me to send him?” “I will be in my solar.” Margot curtseyed again and rushed from the hall, grateful that Isabelle had not taken offense and wondering what kind of aid a friar could give. In Margot’s humble opinion, there were only two things Isabelle needed, neither of which the friar could help her with. One was to bestow some commonsense in the girl and the other was close the currently unbridgeable gap between the lady and Edmund de Montfort so they could bed each other. Neither were likely to happen any time in the near future.

**** Margot ushered the cowled friar into the solar where the sun forged a path along the upper walls from the high-set windows. Isabelle’s back was turned to the newcomer. A fire crackled in the hearth dispersing the cool air in the room. “You may leave us,” Isabelle said with as much authority as she could muster. The next few moments would be a test of nerves. Margot stepped outside and closed the door with a decisive click. Isabelle began to pray earnestly that her guess was correct. “What is your name?” she asked the friar without turning. “Morton, my lady,” came the quick reply. Her nerves tingled and her knees weakened. She kept her face to the fire. “You know that by coming here you have placed your life in great danger.” “Yea, my lady.” Isabelle’s legs trembled at the timbre of his voice. Rich, sensual, caressing. She ran her tongue over her dry lower lip. Now or never, she told herself. “And you also know that by coming here, you have placed your very life in my hands.” Her skirts whispered as she spun in a semi-circle and faced him. He had not changed much from the strappingly handsome man she remembered. From what she could tell with his body swathed in the monk’s

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trappings, he was taller than most men and his wrists were heavier boned. And his smile. Jesu, have mercy. Ravenously, tantalisingly arousing. “Yea, I know that, too, Isabelle.” His eyes twinkled as he threw off the cowl. His dark hair was mayhap threaded with more silver strands than when she had last seen him. There was no denying the man’s power and grace, attributes he could not hide under the monk’s homespun robe. “The years have been kind to you,” she managed from a dry throat. “Not quite as kind to me as to you.” He swept his hand in front of him and gave her a gallant bow. His eyes left her face only to return with a fierce possessiveness that made her tremble from head to foot. Had she made a mistake in allowing him into the castle? He might not be able to storm the castle as one man, but at the quickened rate of her heart told her he would not need a battering ram to get to her quivering body. Isabelle grimaced. “Now that you are here, what are you going to do?” Her voice was far too breathy for her liking. She had guards posted outside the door. He could not harm her person. He shrugged nonchalantly. “If you knew it was me, why did you let me in?” Because I wanted to see if you had changed. Because I wanted to see if my body reacts as irrationally in your presence as it did when I was younger. To know that I can control the animal passion, even now, building up in me. That is why. “Because I can keep an eye on you better this way.” Edmund moved closer. The room was suddenly scented with fresh-washed male skin and something else Isabelle could not quite define. Perhaps the musky scent of his sex. Or perhaps her nose was being oversensitive. “I was not close enough to please you out there, Lady?” he asked with a quirky grin. She held out her palm at chest level. “Do not come closer.” Her heart beat faster, and she desperately wanted to stop hating him. For besieging her castle, for intruding on her privacy in her very own room, for toying with her feminine nature. “Or else what? You will not know what to do with me?” “I should have you escorted to the dungeon,” she breathed, lowering her hand.

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He took another step closer, his gaze lingering on her face with something akin to devotion. “But that is not really what you want, is it?” What could she reply to that? Time had not dulled the ache in her loins. “You must leave.” “Because you made an error in judgment allowing me into your room? Back into your life?” “I—” The moment to protest was lost as he pulled his arms from the robe, yanked the fabric up and over his head and stood magnificently naked. Isabelle did not dare breathe or take her fascinated gaze from his body. Those hard sculpted muscles in his upper arms, the fabulously lean stomach, and oh Jesu! His staff bobbed towards her, its moistened cap glistening with a teardrop-shaped droplet. “Is this not why you let me in?” Edmund asked softly. “So I might consider giving you what you have wanted all these years?” She choked back a cry of dismay, irresistibly drawn to the man yet loathing him as her enemy. “I have men outside,” was all she could think to say, confronted by the impossible. How could she have thought to allow him to venture into the castle? Into her room? He laughed quietly, the sound barely reaching her ears. “You have a man in here, too.” She stepped back against the wall, felt the cool stone against her palms. How could she want him with every fibre of her being and yet hate him to the point of obsession? Isabelle had never seen a totally nude man before. Sure, she had given a cursory examination of men with bare chests, but they did not compare to Edmund who was muscled beauty in the raw. His eyes burned into her. “Where is your father?” came out of the blue. He was not in the least ruffled by the intriguing fact that he was naked in an unmarried noblewoman’s room. Alone. Caught off guard by the unexpected question, she blinked several times and wet her lips. How would she answer? She could hardly tell the enemy that her father was dead and she had now taken command without anyone’s knowledge. Or should she simply declare herself the Countess de Vieux and let the chips fall where they might?

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“Isabelle?” Edmund prompted. His steady gaze unsettled her. “He is well.” The words were much too stilted for her liking. “Is he?” Edmund asked, his eyebrows hiked upwards in disbelief. “Perhaps we need to talk to him. Together.” “About what?” Her pulse beat so quickly she feared she would faint. She could not let anyone know the Earl was already dead and buried as per her orders. “About us getting married, Isabelle.” “No!” she almost shouted before she recovered herself enough to shake her head. Feminine curiosity warred with the need to protect her position. “Why not?” He did not leave her to think overly long about a reply. He closed the arm’s length distance between them and wrapped his strong arms around her, holding her prisoner against his lean, muscled body. All she could do was look into his smiling face and wonder how their positions had changed so quickly, and why she felt as if the castle had already been conquered without so much as a single fight.

Edmund sensed the moment when Isabelle would begin to battle him. Apparently stripping and appealing to her feminine curiosity was not winning him anything but her animosity. He knew as soon as he had walked into the solar that something was wrong. In the last week, he had not once seen the Earl de Vieux march across the battlements, sizing up the enemy. Edmund had only seen the usual castle guards and the lady with her strawcoloured hair which glinted in the harsh sunlight. She made no attempt to scream or struggle. Only stared at him as if he were out of his mind. “I want to make love to you,” he said tersely. “Without attaching strings of any kind.” “Jesu,” she whispered. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. “But I do not want to force you. I want you to fuck me of your own free will.” He dared not hope for an affirmative answer. He lowered his lips to her sweet mouth. She still had time to escape or to call out for her guards. “I want you,” she said in a husky whisper. “On one condition.”

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He wanted her so much, he would have sworn fealty to her, but luckily his mind was the supreme ruler, not his engorged staff “I said no conditions. We are simply a man and a woman who have a need for each other.” She shook her head adamantly. The plaits of hair that wound around her head did not even budge. He released her right hand, which immediately came up to his face. She traced a caressing line across his cheek, driving him beyond wild. His hunger for her body ramped up. “I rule here, now. As soon as you walked in under the drawbridge, you came under my authority. You must obey me as your liege lord, or I will put you to death.” Her voice was steady, as was her unblinking gaze, and she showed no uneasiness. Merely a hint of superiority that she had played her cards. And won. He grunted. He was in a gravely sore spot. She still waited for his answer. One in God’s very truth, he could not give with a clear conscience. “Wench! You have turned the tables on me, have you not?” The smile of exaltation appeared on her lovely lips. Her father was dead. Long live the Countess! Edmund had stepped into a nest of vipers and was about to be bit in every place a man could hurt. His body, his possessions, his selfesteem. He had been such a fool to believe he could conquer the de Vieux castle with its valuable treasure, a headstrong woman who believed she could do what a man could. He defied her challenging stance. “I will make you my wife as I intended as I lay siege to ‘your’ castle.” “I think not. When you are done here, you will remove your army forthwith and let my people do what they must.” “I admire that,” he spoke softly, nuzzling her ear. “That you care about your people.” Once he made love to her, he would not be able to let her go as easily as she thought. “Make love to me,” she replied, her eyes dancing with a mischievousness that irked him. “As you said with no conditions attached. On your end.” It was then he realised that perhaps Isabelle was more of a she-wolf than her namesake, the queen. Isabelle held his balls in her tight grip, and she would not let go until he had

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accomplished what he had come for. The time spent with Isabelle would be sweet torment indeed.

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Chapter Three

Isabelle sensed she played with fire, the type that would consume her body and her castle. If Edmund discovered the castle inhabitants did not know her father was dead, he would command his small army to overwhelm the castle guards, and he would conquer them, as well as her. But she would never allow that. She did not have the solid backing and support her father had had, which he had earned through the trust of his people. The curls between her warm thighs were damp. Her breasts tingled with awareness of Edmund’s masculine nearness. His rigid staff pushed against her belly, and her defences against him continued to plummet. Not that she had had much to begin with. His intentions were not chivalrous. After all, he was seducing her was he not? “Make love to me,” she whispered, her voice husky with anticipation. He snorted, lifting her into his arms. Isabelle’s hands wound around his neck. She caressed the silky strands of black hair at the back of his thick neck. “Why have I always wanted you?” she murmured. It was not until Edmund replied that she realised she had spoken her secret out loud. “I have wanted you since you were all grown up. Your pert breasts jutting against your tunic and your hair wound around your head like a natural crown.” He laid her on the bed then straddled her as he rested on his hands and knees and kissed her eyelids. “I have never seen you with your hair down before.” Isabelle stayed his large hand resting on the plaits of hair on her crown. “I have never had anyone but my maid help me disrobe.” He shrugged. “I would say pretend I am your maid but she might not enjoy that poor comparison.” His manhood bobbed towards her, tempting, arousing. She said nothing and flicked a timid gaze down the length of his body. He pulled her hair free. One plait, two, three, four, then raked his fingers through the strands even more gently than Margot did. Her waist-length hair fell in a rich mass over the pillow on which her head rested. “You have glorious hair.”

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“Can you forget about my hair?” she pleaded breathlessly. “I want to feel you inside me.” He laughed again. “Getting to your wet folds is merely half the fun.” Oddly, she did not feel ashamed by the scolding. She rarely wore her thick hair down and the pressure around her head was relieved. Edmund slipped her arms from her gown, then her tunic. His gaze fastened on her breasts as she had seen some of the villagers do when they stood in front of the stone statue of the Virgin Mary in the chapel. Worship, adoration, awe. Isabelle shivered. “Are you cold?” Edmund asked. “The sun is almost down now, and I could build up the fire some more.” “My maid can do that,” she blurted out. “And catch you in a rather compromising situation? I think not.” Silently, she agreed. What would Margot think if she saw Edmund in her bed? Not that she would spread the tale around the castle as some of her other maids would. They gossiped far too much, like clucking hens in the courtyard below. Was she making a mistake bedding Edmund, a man she had fancied when she was younger? If rumour circulated throughout the castle that the Earl’s daughter had spread her legs wide open for the enemy, she would most likely be ridiculed as a female ruling alone. “Isabelle?” Edmund intruded on her dismal thoughts. “Where are you?” “Here,” she whispered, unflinchingly meeting his questioning gaze. He sighed. “Would you rather throw me in the dungeon and have done with me?” “No.” Isabelle forced a small laugh. She could do that after he made love to her. “I want you.” She spread her thighs wide. A refreshingly cool breeze fanned her burning pearl and the hot skin of her upper thighs. “Then I will do what I came to do,” he said lightly. “And what was that?” Although she already knew and asked more to hear him say the fateful words. “To ravish you.” “Are you sure it is not the other way around?” “Vixen.” His lips savaged her mouth, but she willingly opened for him and their tongues duelled in a heated frenzy of slick flesh and warring nerves. She stroked his back,

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across the length of his sinewed shoulders, down the muscles of his upper back, along the knots in his spine and lower to his ass. She explored the cleft of his cheeks lightly matted with fine, silky hairs. His mouth stopped driving her wilder and higher. “No, sweets, do not,” she heard him plead, his voice a low, tortured growl. “I will do as I wish,” she murmured in his ear. “Then that will be the very undoing of me,” came the guttural response. He dipped his head lower, down the side of her neck, nipping at her tender skin. Down to her pulse beating madly at the base of her throat, between her aching breasts. As if the torment was not enough, he pulled and tweaked one nipple while he sucked and laved the other with an expertise that made her wonder momentarily how many women he had had. Did it really matter? She would have this one time with him to initiate her, to teach her what happened between a man and a woman, to slake her thirst for him. Then she would become the conqueror, and he merely a prisoner in the castle dungeon, hers to do with what she would. For now, he was exquisite, all she could have asked for since the day she had first met him. He groaned with pleasure. “Your nipples are so tight. Is your channel wet for me?” His hand travelled down the flat of her stomach, along her upper thigh as she moaned, her need rising to an unbearable level. If this was near heaven, then Jesu what would it be like when his big rod inundated her passage? Her channel was slick. His fingers against her wet core made a light squishing sound that would normally have embarrassed her, but she was beyond caring. Isabelle only yearned for him inside her, stroking and thrusting until she burst out in a cry of delight. “Did you think of me while I was gone?” Edmund asked. “Did you press your fingers here?” He touched her hard nub and wrenched another moan from her lips. “Did you rub and rub until you came?” He exasperatingly circled her flower with the pad of his finger. “Did you smother your cries so your household would not hear you pleasure yourself? Did you?” Isabelle shook her head. She had, more than once, but she would not admit that to him. Even during evensong when she sat demurely in her place in the chapel and everyone’s heads were bent in prayer, she did not see anything but his rugged face, his eyes darkened

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with yearning for her. Afterwards, her orgasm left her unsatisfied, wanting more of something, but not knowing exactly what. He chuckled. “I am willing to admit I got myself off more than once. Or twice.” Edmund watched her face, his gaze merry and charming. “I would look into your eyes, tell you the secrets of the world as I bared your breasts. Then I would kneel in front of you, spread your thighs apart, and suckle your feminine jewel until your knees buckled and you fell into my waiting arms. After your collapse, I would start all over again.” “Stop!” Isabelle cried out. “Stop, stop, stop!” His provocative words created an inferno along her nerve endings. His eyebrows notched upwards in mock surprise. “And not torment you the same way you have tortured me for years?” He shook his head in amazement. “Do not do this,” Isabella begged. “I need you.” She realised her error in her choice of words, but it was too late. “Do you now?” His voice was low, his fingers intent on circling her flower. He dipped his head, licked his way down her belly and into her wet curls. He opened her nether lips wide and his hot tongue suckled that aching spot. Isabelle whimpered. She clutched the blanket with curled fingers and willed herself not to come but the determination was slow in the making and the deed was done. She bit into her bottom lip to keep from sobbing out. She had no time to recover. Edmund spread her thighs wider, straddled her and touched the tip of his manhood to her drenched sheath. “My rod is larger than most other men’s. This might hurt.” “I do not care. Just fuck me.” Her eyes widened at the intensity in her voice and the use of ‘fuck’. She had never used that untoward word before, but with Edmund, it sounded right, comfortable, feminine. He tipped his head forward, seized her mouth between his lips and kissed her. Isabelle planted her palms against his shoulders and pushed as hard as she could. She did not want more kisses, more delays. She wanted— To shout in pain!

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Edmund clamped his hand over her mouth. Her nails dug into the skin of his shoulders. His manhood slipped past the slim, female barrier to pleasure, then fully hilted in her sheath, he paused. He removed his hand. Isabelle took a deep breath. Her querying gaze met his eyes. With an anxious expression, he hovered above her. “Are you all right?” “Why did you stop?” “I do not want to hurt you.” His eyes glittered strangely. As if he were pondering a dismal notion. “Do not stop,” she pleaded, lifting her hips high. He slid more easily into her. Jesu, he felt good inside her. When he began to move his shaft, slowly at first, then faster, her whole body tensed. She had wanted him for so long she had no longer dared hope that Edmund would make love to her. To make love to her. But now that he was on top of her, she tried to remember to hate him. After all, he was the enemy.

Even though Edmund’s awareness was intensely focused on pleasuring himself, he sensed a shift in Isabelle. A shift he could not quite name. If an apparition had appeared on the far wall to frighten him, he would not have been able to halt his building orgasm. He felt the muscles in his neck distend, and he knew the moment he would unleash the rising tide within him was very near. He had wanted to make love to Isabelle slowly, to make the burning passion within him last, since this might be, not only his first time with her, but his last. He was in a precarious situation. In danger of losing his life if one of Isabelle’s maids caught him with her and alerted a guard. Though he had bribed Margot, he could not bribe every person within the castle. He was dizzy from the pressure building in his rod. Underneath him, Isabelle’s back arched, pressing his manhood deeper into her velvet channel. When the waves of her orgasm swept over her, and she moaned over and over again. He ascended higher, canted his head towards the ceiling and loosed the floodgates. His muscles spasmed with the release. He barely caught himself from roaring his joy into the darkened air. A heavy, tense silence fell. His heart beat faster than if he had run three miles with all his armour covering his body. His skin was damp with sweat. The air from his lungs came

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out in ragged rasps. Isabelle lay quiet, her eyes closed and her lips pressed together in a grim line. Her cheeks were pale. “Isabelle?” The whispered tone betrayed his concern. She blinked her eyes open. Her blue gaze shimmered with unshed tears. “Edmund,” she murmured, but there was no joy in the sound. Only gaping heartache. “We…neither of us need this,” he told her, extending a hand at the castle. “I can make a living wherever I am. I promise I will take good care of you.” He was babbling. Something he had never done before. “We can go to France or Italy. I love you, Isabelle. I need you more than I ever needed anything else in my life.” Still she said nothing. Only stared at him with an expression he could not read. “We could go to court, if you are so inclined. Perhaps the Queen will take you on as her lady-in-waiting.” He grinned sheepishly. “If you want to be in a position of power. I know you have never been far from the confines of your home here, but there must be something you want to do.” Please talk to me. I cannot stand your disquieting silence. “You are heavy,” she finally said. Immediately, he rolled off her. She clutched her tunic in hand, threw her feet over the side of the bed and was standing by an open door before he could stop her. “Guard!” she called out. Edmund’s heart sank. Would she do the unthinkable? Have him arrested? “Isabelle!” he protested. A burly man appeared, one Edmund instantly recognised. John Marshall who had always been a staunch defender of the old earl. “Take him to the dungeon!” Isabelle said, indicating Edmund with a slight nod of her head. “No.” Thank Jesu but she was about to change her mind. She looked straight at Edmund. He did not see a sign of compassion in her gaze. “Take him to a tower room and lock him away. Treat him as if he were a royal person but under strict guard. No in and out, no privileges unless I give permission.” “Oh God, no, Isabelle.” Without any other immediate option to consider, Edmund threw himself on her mercy. And at her feet. He was nude, but he clutched her knees and

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stared imploringly into her eyes. “Please, Isabelle. Do not do this. It will be an act you will always regret.” The guard seized him roughly, dragged him to his feet, and hauled him from the solar. She finally spoke, her voice strong and authoritative. “It is you who will regret your actions. From this day forward.” Then she gave him the sweetest smile he had ever seen a woman give.

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Chapter Four

Edmund gnashed his teeth as Marshall and a trio of guards led him up the steep tower stairs and into a windowless room which would have hardly been adequate enough to confine a small child playing with its toy. He had been a fool. First to lay siege to a well-fortified castle and second to think he could walk into the castle and seduce its Lady. Although to be fair, he told himself, he had not known that Isabelle now ruled. Inimitable, beautiful, double-crossing vixen. When he found a way out of this mess, with all his body parts intact of course, he would teach her a lesson or two. In and out of bed. He would show her who her liege lord was. He would lock her up, and when he felt the desire, he would command that she be brought into his presence, and she would make love to him. For now, he pulled the monk’s habit over his nudity, sat on the only stool by the bed and watched a single tallow candle flicker in an alcove. He gritted his teeth, repressing the urge to set the candle to the rushes on the floor and burn down the castle. But the one time there had been a fire when he lived here, it had been expertly put out. A line of men and women formed a human chain and one bucket after another made its way to the scene. Each bucket was emptied of its water and then made its way back down the human chain. Edmund jumped up, and kicked the stool into the far corner. It clattered against the hard floor and shuddered to a standstill. He scratched his head, and forced himself to think. There was no climbing out of here. Sheer stone up the wall and even if there had been a window, it would probably have been too small to fit his bulk. If there had been one, the sixty feet to the ground on the other side would have killed him. There were ways to scale the wall but without the right equipment, he was helpless. And that made him more irate. The anger faded, as it usually did when faced with dire circumstances. Edmund sank onto the bed and gazed at the ceiling with his hands crossed under his head. He drifted off to sleep on the idea that he was one against many but the odds suited him just fine.

****

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“The sins of the fathers will be visited on their sons,” the priest said in a monotone. His voice echoed in the small chapel. Isabelle adjusted her skirt and sat quietly, not giving a fig what he said during evening prayers. Although the sins being visited caught her attention and made her pulse quicken. She had confined Edmund to the tower and put him out of commission for a few hours, if not days. But she knew he was wily and could wheedle his way through any danger either using his wits or his strength. She tapped her leather clad foot against the cold floor, knowing she had little time to think. Darkness had fallen and a chill had settled over the castle. She had a reprieve of only a few hours before Edmund’s army, depending on his orders, decided to charge the castle. Then the battering rams and the arrows would start flying again, threatening her people. What did commonsense tell her to do with Edmund in the meantime? She could not just let him walk out under the drawbridge and begin his siege all over again. Could she have kept him in her bed, warming her during the cold night in the draughty castle? He had not wanted to hurt her. He had told her that. An idea flashed into her head. What if their tryst, if one could call it that, had left her with child? Surreptitiously, she settled her left palm, her fingers delicately spread out, on her belly. What would she do then? The thought alone made her nauseous. She quickly swallowed down the rising bile in her throat, desperately trying to calm herself. It had only been the one time. Could she hope? Her father had several ill-begotten children whom he had immediately sent away to be cared for by his vassals far from the castle. But she, ruling alone, could not very well do the same thing. And God punished women who bore babes out of wedlock, even if she was noble born. Should she reconsider her stance in regard to Edmund? Should she wed him even if she hated him? She rubbed her belly with extended fingers. How could she hate a man she had made love to? Who she had practically invited into her bed? The man who haunted her dreams for more years than she cared to remember? A man who pleased her beyond anything she could have imagined merely by examining his naked body?

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She let go a tiny sigh. He was so handsome! Those muscled arms, strong thighs and Jesu, but his rod was so long, directly proportionate to his bulk. And how his hardness fit so snugly in her passage, as if they had been made for each other. Isabelle set her hand on her thigh and began automatically threading the beads of her rosary through her fingers. The sound of one jewel hitting another soothed her. She could not think about Edmund as a strapping man who had loved her. He was the enemy, wanting to conquer her castle and its people. And her heart. And she would never, ever allow that.

**** The candle in Edmund’s gaol finally spluttered and died. He measured out the seven paces to the door and firmly rapped on it. Actually, it would not have been too difficult to run his fist through the rotting wood. He restrained himself. The door opened a crack. The light from a single candle partially illumined the doorway and the man’s face. “What d’ya want?” Marshall asked in a gruff voice. Half of his teeth were missing causing him to slur some of his words. Edmund relaxed his tense shoulders. “I want to talk to you.” “Yes?” “Come in here, man,” Edmund said impatiently. “I will not hurt you.” Although…he could knock him senseless then return to Lady Isabelle’s solar and perhaps take her hostage— only until she agreed to marry him. But he would try original plan first. It would hurt her more where it counted. Isabelle needed to learn that a man’s pride was sacrosanct. “Yes.” With his dagger unsheathed in one meaty hand, Marshall opened the door and stepped inside. The man smelled of ale and unwashed skin. “You know the Earl is dead, do you not?” Edmund began, feeling out the man’s loyalty. Marshall shook his head. His expression spoke for him. His mouth dropped open. He had had no idea. “Who do you suppose will take his place?” Edmund persisted while he had an edge. “I do not know. Perhaps the Lady?”

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“And is she married?” “No.” Edmund knew he was setting himself up for a huge fall if the man betrayed him. “Has a woman ever ruled here?” “No.” And then he began to talk openly, exactly what Edmund had planned and hoped for. “Beg yer Lordship’s pardon, but no lady ever ruled here. It is not how things are done.” Marshall’s eyes narrowed and his laborious gaze fixed on Edmund. “Mayhap it be that you become our lord. For defensive purposes, ye understand.” Oh perfectly. “Swear allegiance to me as the Earl de Vieux, and I will keep you safe from whatever might befall you.” Which included many untoward occurrences like vindictive noblewomen who betrayed their lovers. The man hesitated but the pros outweighed the cons and he sank to his knees. “I swear allegiance to ye, Edmund de Montfort, Earl de Vieux.” Edmund nodded in dismissal. “Now go forth and spread the word the old Earl is dead. Whoever you talk to will think you are spreading a rumour, and by the time the last hears about the death, you will be completely forgotten as the one who began the rumour.” Marshall squinted back at him. “Beggin’ your pardon, lord, but now that you are the new lord, couple of questions come to me mind.” “Speak.” “That ye be imprisoned here when ye are the ruler and when the Lady gives me an order, what do I do? Beggin’ your pardon, lord.” They both have easy solutions. “You will immediately give me the gaoler’s key and if the Lady orders you about, tell her that your foremost allegiance is to her Lord.” Marshall’s eyes widened suspiciously but he did not dare gainsay the new Earl. Edmund figured he was thinking that the wind could blow two ways, and he would be safe no matter which direction it took, and would be able to question Edmund no further. Wellintentioned men had lost their heads for less than that.

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Chapter Five

Margot quickly hid her smile as Isabelle glanced in her direction. It would not do for the lady to get hold of the information that she had been outfoxed. By a man no less. Not that the lady hated men. She only hated one in particular, and he was the one who had outmanoeuvred her at her own game. The solar was quiet and Margot had been sent to ascertain that the Earl de Montfort was locked away in the tower. The Earl showed no signs of languishing away and out of his hearing, Marshall asked her if she had heard the rumour making the rounds in the castle. He told her that the old Earl was dead. Which was no secret to her. It was also no secret that the Lady had bedded the Earl de Montfort, but it did greatly interest her that the rumour was spreading quickly. Which put the Lady at risk. Not a serious risk like losing her life, but she would have to admit that she had little power to fight the very man she hated. With her father dead, she did not have even a slim chance of taking over the castle. The castle guard owed loyalty to no other than her father and would not shift so easily to a woman even if it was his daughter. Women were generally too soft and most always required a man to back them up, a man from whom the peasants, vassals, and army took their orders from. Isabelle was assuredly beautiful, and she knew how to fight without a sword, but none of these were likely to garner her favour with the men. She needed protection. Margot sat at her embroidery, stitching with care. Isabelle sat closer to several candles that provided somewhat better light in the dim solar. Outside, the rain poured from the sky as if God himself were wreaking vengeance on the castle’s occupants. “Mayhap I would bring the Earl to entertain you,” she said to Isabelle without being asked to speak. Deep in thought, Isabelle had not taken a stitch for some minutes now. Merely looked at the crackling fire burning in the hearth with forlorn eyes. “He is a prisoner, and it is not meet that he entertain me.” Her voice was muffled.

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“You are both of similar rank.” Or the same considering Marshall told me in privy, that he had sworn allegiance to the new Earl. It is only a matter of time, mayhap minutes before he makes his appearance. “That has nothing to do with it.” “Then what, pray tell me, does the Earl have to do with you, my lady?” How would Isabelle respond? Would she admit she had no idea what to do with Edmund? Or would she bluff her way into thinking she could push him into complying with her will? “Absolutely nothing,” Isabelle snapped, giving Margot a direct and questioning glance. A quick rap on the door put an end to the rather one-sided discussion. Margot rose to see who it was although she did not think she needed much of an imagination to figure it out. She curtseyed to the new Earl as he swept past her. Jesu, but the lady was in for a surprise. The Earl’s expression was dark with rage. Margot thought this was the appropriate time to disappear.

Isabelle could not believe her eyes. Edmund stood before her dressed in the elegance that was now his. Dark blue cote-hardie, freshly shaven and a gold diadem on his dark hair. And his eyes danced with fire. He stopped mere inches from her. He practically dominated the large room. Her heart plunged to her feet in shocked surprise. She clenched her fists at her sides and marched up to him. He had perhaps six inches on her, but she stood up to him. “What do you think you are doing?” “Mind who you are speaking to,” he replied, “You are to get to your knees in acknowledgment of my rank.” Fury began to rise fast and furious in her chest. “I will do no such thing when you are in my castle.” The smile that crept onto his lips chilled her to the very bone. “It is no longer yours.” “Guard, guard!” she called out. She would not extend a kindness to him this time. She would have him thrown into the dungeon rather than back into the tower. “Do you think one of my men will respond to your cries?” Tears burned behind her eyes. “Since when is this your castle?”

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His eyebrows hiked upwards. “Since my army has now conquered it.” Isabelle fought to breathe. “Impossible.” She clutched her skirts in hand and ran to the door, but two hefty men blocked her way and held gleaming, crossed swords preventing her egress. Refusing to accept the evidence of her eyes, she turned back to Edmund. “You lie!” Edmund casually strolled forward, seized her elbow and led her outside onto the rampart. She fought to free herself, but he mercilessly held on. “Do you see anything unusual?” The wind whipped her loose hair in every direction. The sunshine did not warm her cheeks. Anger flared heavier in her heart and mind. She refused to acknowledge that the army that had besieged her castle for days on end was no longer in the field below. She clamped her mouth shut. If she could not shout for her guards, then there was no point in telling Edmund the obvious. That his army was no longer where they should have been. The wind picked up and roared in her ears. “Look at me!” Edmund yelled at her. She refused. He would have to force her. Which was exactly what he did. He chucked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. She had never seen him so angry before. “The army that was out there, is now in here. In my castle.” His triumphant statement curled down her spine and into the pit of her stomach. She said nothing. How had her world come to this? She saw nothing but helpless defeat, yet there was a way out. Was there not? She bucked up her sagging shoulders and looked him straight in the eye, unable to find a suitable plan to fight him. Her body was too much in need of his. “Make love to me.” Quickly, she reconsidered. “Fuck me.” Long and hard. Isabelle gracefully sank to her knees and bunched the fabric of his tunic together at his waist. Looking up into his face, she implored him. “Please.” He could not hide his sexual hunger from her. His eyes narrowed and his pupils darkened. His chest heaved up and down with his ragged panting. She had him right where she wanted him. In the palm of her hand.

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Edmund covered her small hands with his large palms. “No, Lady Isabelle. I have a much better plan for you.” His voice was ice hard and callous. The small smile on her lips died. “You are my ward now. I will arrange a marriage for you.” “No,” she moaned. Isabelle had never lived anywhere but in the castle. If she was forced to marry, she would have to leave and make her way in her husband’s castle amongst absolute strangers. Her heart began to pound fiercely. “Now what did you say about fucking you?” A single tear spilled down her cheek. She felt betrayed. And furious both with him and herself. How could one man upset her world so much that her only desire at the moment was to kill him? With her bare hands? Without warning, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to the bed. “As your guardian, there is nothing to prevent me from indulging myself, my little one.” “You bastard!” she spat out. “You think you can lay your hands on me then send me off to some unsuspecting fool?” She struggled, attempting to pull her hands free of his tight hold, but in vain. “Isabelle,” he said, raising his tunic and freeing his engorged manhood. “Every man is a fool at one time or another.”

He was being a fool now, craving a woman who had obviously used him for her own ends. But his need to hilt his rod in her deep core overwhelmed him. Why could he not think straight when he was in her presence? Was he making another mistake in making love to her? Had she not asked for it? Was her struggling an invitation? “You are a fool, Edmund,” he heard her breathe. “To think that you can trifle with me because I am a woman.” “But my dear, that is exactly what I like about you.” Unlike Edward, the second of the name, who preferred boys. “You have exactly the right corresponding parts to mine. Your pretty folds fit my manhood perfectly. And Mon Dieu, but your breasts, they fit my hands, and my mouth perfectly too.” He did not want to display behaviour that was less than chivalrous. He ripped away her tunic. Her eyes flashed fire, but his need was far too great to care.

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“You are far too tempting, and hot, for a man, fool though he may be, to keep away from you.” He took one nipple in his mouth and suckled urgently and hard. She stopped fighting him and lay without moving. Edmund knew how to change that. He kissed her full on the mouth and risked that she had roll out from under him. With both hands, he trailed his way down the flat of her stomach along her quivering skin. “You want everything on your terms, do you not?” she choked out. Edmund repressed a sigh. “When you treat a man brutally, do you not think that is exactly what you get back?” He witnessed the flush brighten her pale cheeks and added, “There are some things you should not fight. Should not even try.” He thought of all the time he had spent in making something of himself, begging to serve King Edward and ending up an unwilling servant of the She-Wolf, Queen Isabella. All so he had lands and possessions to win over Isabelle. He despaired that he would ever do that. He had never envisioned his marriage to her as one of brute force with her an unwilling partner at best. He buried three of his fingers in her weeping channel. There was no doubt that no matter how much she hated him, she still wanted him in a carnal sense. “If you are fucking me,” she whispered, raising her arms and wrapping them around his neck, “then why pawn me off to someone else?” He snorted. “To get you, wild vixen, out of my hair.” Although he preferred wedding and bedding her legally under God’s own law. His fingers slid in and out of her slick channel. She moaned. He was not certain whether the reason was his words or his action. There were other ways of making love to a woman other than thrusting his staff in her channel, Edmund mused. Her thighs spread wider and her back arched in what he hoped was an exquisite orgasm. How could he consider letting her go into the arms of another man who would not love her near as much as he did? Isabelle splintered apart as she cried out his name. Just once. But for Edmund that one time was more than enough to resolve that Isabelle would become his Countess and she would return his love. In a whisper, he said, “I will win your love, Isabelle. Even if you fight me every step of the way. Even if it kills me.”

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Chapter Six

Isabelle’s orgasm shocked her with its intensity. The waves rippled through her over and over again until she squirmed to free herself of Edmund’s thick fingers. A girl could get used to him making love to her like this. Fortunately, Edmund was not that man. Although her first plan had been foiled, she would bide her time until she could set the next one in motion. Edmund raised himself up and stared down at her with a smirking, triumphant expression. She rolled away, got to her feet and pulled on a clean tunic, not for shame of her naked body, but without the heat of Edmund’s body next to hers, she felt the cold. Goose bumps broke out on her arms and legs. “Isabelle,” he said, bringing her attention to him. The triumph was gone, replaced by a softness she had rarely seen in him. “I do not want to hurt you.” Your making love to me hurts. “Then do not,” she snapped. “Get out of my room.” “My room,” he corrected smugly. She did not hesitate. She marched up to him and slapped him across the cheek. He did not so much as flinch. He grabbed her trembling shoulders and shook her. “What do you want, Isabelle? You want me to suck your clit, whore myself to you?” “I want you to leave my castle.” There! She had told him what she thought of his thrusting himself into her life. “You do not understand, do you?” Her chest rose and fell with her panted breaths. “I understand that you want to conquer everything you were not able to years ago when you were here. When you were nothing!” Pain and bitterness warred in his eyes before he repressed his emotions and locked them away into the place where no man could tread. “Does the past matter so much to you? What I was?” he asked, his voice grim. “Yes!”

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When I wanted you that first time when we were alone in the rose garden, you walked away without casting a backward glance. You spurned me! And now you have the arrogance to think I would want you! Stupid fool! Isabelle knew she had hurt him to his very soul, but she did not care. She had spent too many years nursing his rejection to feel pity for him. “Did you really think that if you came back knighted and lordly, that I would want you? There is nothing,” she shouted, “nothing that would make me want you.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, and his anger boiled to the surface. “So I was good enough to make love to you once, but I am not good enough when it comes to being your husband?” He did not wait for a reply. He seized her, tore the clean tunic from her body and pushed her against the wall. She fought back, unwilling to allow him to destroy her resolve. “I will not let you have your way with me.” The taunt enraged him. Her spine was cold against the wall. Tears blurred her vision, but she could still see his face redden with suppressed fury. “Since you live in my castle, you do as I want,” he ground out. He dragged off his own tunic and threw it on the floor at their feet. Isabelle fought back but knew she could not fight an angry man who was almost twice her size. And if she called for the guards, they would come to protect him, not her. Those were the rules Edmund and she played by now. “Why fight?” she murmured, as he thrust into her. She cried out at the force but then bit into her bottom lip as he lifted her legs up and around his waist. “Exactly.” Her nails scratched his upper back, trailed along the knobby ridges of his spine as pleasure captured her in its snare. The verbal argument abruptly ended. Her woman’s flesh welcomed his hard shaft and demanded satisfaction. Edmund plunged into her as far as her passage allowed and then disappointingly withdrew. Repeatedly, he hilted his erection deep in her. She sensed he was about to climax. Suddenly he stopped, the tip of his staff touching, teasing her slick entrance. “Why do you hate me so much?” His question, even as he was poised to take her, startled her. “Hate you?”

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He nodded curtly. “I see in your eyes you love me but you tell me differently. You see, I have always loved you. From a proper distance.” His revelation made her heart sing, both with absolute delight and with fear. If he loved her, then she had been petty for locking him up in the tower. If he loved her, she could sing happily with the birds as they flew from one tall tree to another. “If you love me, then why did you turn away from me?” Edmund blinked. His lips parted. “When?” “That day in the rose garden. I wanted—” How could she tell him she had wanted him with such fierceness back then that it had hurt? That it had not mattered if he had been the King of England or if he had been a lowly serf? But he had rejected her. “What did you want?” She felt awkward that her legs were around his sweat laden waist, and they had been in the middle of making love to each other. Perhaps they were not any better than the beasts in the courtyard with their animal lusts. “I wanted you to do what you are doing now.” She met his inquiring gaze. “I wanted you to make love to me despite all this.” Isabelle waved a hand at the castle. “My father loved you like his own son, and when you left, it nearly killed him.” Her revelation must have surprised Edmund. His mouth gaped open. Then the ice expression returned. “This is not the time for talking about why I left.” He impaled her on his shaft and when he continued to pound relentlessly into her, he showed no remorse, no pleasure. Isabelle realised she had made the singular error reminding him of a past he did not care to remember.

**** Edmund finished with her and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Isabelle slid her back along the wall, hunkered down and cried. She had loved him. Once. When had she learned to hate him? Margot tiptoed in, pulled the blanket from the bed, and tenderly placed it across Isabelle’s shoulders. Then she sat down beside Isabelle and patted her shoulder in an attempt to console her. “What happened?” she asked gently.

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Isabelle lifted a tear stained face to that of her maid. She had not decided yet whether to banish Margot for betraying her and her people or to forgive her for bringing the one man back into her life who could make her happy. She would probably relegate her to the village, just outside the castle’s protection. “I used to love him,” she murmured, feeling helpless yet again. The choice to banish or forgive was not hers to make any longer. It was Edmund’s, as was his right as lord of the castle. “Mayhap you still do.” “No,” Isabelle replied, realising that none of her revelations were a surprise to her maid. “I cannot.” She burst into loud, racking sobs. “He wanted me once. I know he did. Now he wants nothing more than another title to add to his possessions. I am nothing to him. Do you not see?” “Mayhap after you wed him, he will change to the loving man he used to be,” Margot suggested. “Wed him? No, he told me he would send me away.” To marry a man she had never met, who she had nothing in common with. When, she had to admit, she loved Edmund. She always had. Her hate had simply been a way to deal with his spurning her in the rose garden. What did Edmund really want? She felt so confused and lonely. She turned away, hid her face in the pillow. The sentence hung between them like an axe hovering over a helpless vassal who had been condemned to death. Marriages were seldom made for love and were almost always arranged to further and strengthen the alliances between opposing families. Women rarely had a say in whom they wed. “I see.” Margot lowered her hands to her lap and wrung them together. “Why do you not tell him you love him?” Startled, Isabelle lifted herself to her elbows. “Tell him? That I love him?” Although he had told her, but then why could she not say the words back? Did she, after all, harbour ill will towards him?

****

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Edmund gave careful instructions to the castle’s servants. There were to be no guards around the Lady Isabelle’s solar or around her person. She was allowed to go where she wished but not outside of the castle. If she so much as set foot outside, he was to be alerted immediately. Three tense weeks had passed. He sank into his chair and irritably rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. If he loved Isabelle so much, why had he for the most part put her under lock and key? She was devious. That he granted her without qualm. But he could not go on like this for one more night, knowing Isabelle was only a few rooms away. His penis began to throb, warning him that thinking about her would only place him in sore straits. Again. Earlier that morning, he had gone for a swim in the freezing waters of a nearby river. The cold dousing his heated skin had done nothing to alleviate the ache he experienced merely thinking about Isabelle. A loud and unusual commotion outside the door made him bolt to his feet. Three quick strides took him to the door, which he threw open. Margot stood aside, demanding to speak to him. Impatiently, Edmund silenced the guards posted at his door and beckoned to her. “What is it?” “It is the Lady Isabelle. She has been thrown off her horse.” Edmund swore under his breath, already running for Isabelle’s solar, his heart pounding erratically. He made no attempt to enter her room quietly. She lay on the bed, her long hair fanned across the pillow. Her eyes were much too bright for his liking, and her cheeks were painted with a blush. He knew he had been had, and there was nothing wrong with the lady’s health. “What is the meaning of this?” Behind him, the servants melted away. The door closed softly. Isabelle threw off the blanket that had covered her. She was fully dressed right down to the silk slippers on her feet. “My lord,” she said softly, sinking to her knees compliantly. “I bear your child.”

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Erotic images flooded his mind. Isabelle’s belly huge and round with child and his rod entering her womanhood from behind. Then her greeting of ‘my lord’ slapped him across the face. Had she relented and seen her mistake? Unable to bear her kneeling at his feet like a common servant, he caught her by the elbows and raised her. Her fluttering eyelashes covered her eyes. The pulse at the base of her throat danced. “Isabelle,” he murmured, careful not to rejoice before he knew the truth. “Are you well? I have done you wrong. Forgive me.” Jesu, did her concern for the child override her hate of him? She unclasped the brooch holding her gown together. The material whispered to the floor and pooled around her feet. Her eyes met his. “I have done wrong too,” she said simply, lifting a tear-stained face to his. “Fuck me. It matters not whether you were ill-born or not. It matters not what you own or rule. It only matters that you love me and that you rule my heart. Because I love you with everything I have. My heart, my possessions, and my body.” Her sparkling gaze caught his. “You will not send me away, will you?” Her nipples puckered in the cold air. Edmund could only gaze at them in rapt fascination. Soon those nipples would suckle his child. He shook his head. How could he send her away if she carried his child? Even if she had not, he could not have. He was much too madly in love with her. “What made you change your mind?” he asked, his brain warring with his heart. He had loved Isabelle for so long he could not believe she had just told him she loved him. “My father, God bless him, always told me if you cannot vanquish the enemy, then join them. I have always loved you. From the time I was much younger.” A tiny smile hovered on her moist lips. “The enemy, eh?” He closed the gap between them, took her into his arms. Her skin was silky soft and her hair smelled of roses and female musk. “I have a small request.” She nodded and relaxed against him, her hand lowering to his once again erect shaft. “Wrap your hair around my rod after we make love.” She put a silencing finger across his lips. “You mean fuck you, do you not?” It was his turn to nod. “Yes, fuck me. With your hair. With your eyes. With your body. With everything you have. Warm me with your love for all the remaining days of my life.”

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She laughed, a delightful sound that spread warmth over the coldness in his heart. “I know you will do the same for me.” Isabelle batted her eyes. “Or else I will have to spurn your advances, and I do not think you would want your lady wife doing that, would you?” “You do not hate me anymore?” he asked, still cautious. “No. Hatred is not that far a feeling from love. Only different ends of the same stick.” She circled her hands around his neck and brought his face closer to hers. Edmund sighed into her hair. “There is nothing else from here on except for love.” He patted her belly, which would soon begin to swell. “Plenty for all of us to go around.” When Isabelle pressed her lips to his, he thought he was in heaven. And he was.

About the Author Aurora Rose Lynn, a bestselling erotica author, lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and conure. She enjoys writing romance with a sensual twist but first and foremost, her stories must be about love. When she isn't writing romance, she writes young adult and fantasy stories under a pen name. Email: [email protected] Aurora loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

Also by Aurora Rose Lynn Blue Dragon Challenge Lust or Go Bust Vampire’s Captive Shotgun Bride Wanted

MIST AND STONE Bronwyn Green

Dedication For my mom, who taught me four of the most powerful words in the English language Once upon a time…

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Chapter One

“Touch her, and I will geld you before you take your next breath.” Rage filling her vision, Willow stepped in front of the young priestess at her side and blocked the advances of the man before them. His thin lips peeled away from his teeth in a poor facsimile of a smile. “Mayhap, I will touch you instead.” As he reached for her breast, she drew her dagger from the sheath attached to her kirtle and pressed the blade against the man’s groin. Unprepared for her bold move, he gasped and froze in place. She did not bother hiding her smile as she pushed the blade upwards bringing him to his toes. Hooves clattered over the courtyard’s stones and a rider dismounted, but she refused to look away from the man in front of her. The rider moved beside her and locked a warm hand around her wrist. She turned to glare at the second man. “Have you come to protect your brother in arms from my blade?” Recognition hit her low in the gut as familiar eyes, blue as a bright autumn day, crinkled with poorly concealed amusement. Gareth. A crooked smile quirked his lips as he ignored her question as well as her barb. “While I am tempted to allow you to make good on your threat, I do not think the King would appreciate you spilling the blood of one of his knights.” He paused and eyed the man at the end of her dagger. “No matter how much he likely deserves it.” “Release me,” she demanded. She refused to allow either man to think she was a helpless child. In response, Gareth grabbed the other man’s tunic and gently, but firmly, pulled her weapon from its intended target. “The priestess is none of your concern, Maleagant. You will give her a wide berth or Arthur will hear of this.”

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The other man narrowed his eyes, rage bright in the icy depths. “They are pagan whores.” Yanking free of Gareth’s grasp, he stumbled backwards. “God does not care for them. Why should Arthur?” Willow shook with anger as he disappeared from view. She turned her scowl on the man who still held her wrist, caressing the underside with a callused thumb. A shiver worked down her spine as he continued to stroke the sensitive skin. “Ever the protector of the weak, Sir Gareth the Brave,” she scoffed as she shook her hair from her face, taking care not to reveal how his slightest touch affected her. Though she had taken pains to pretend otherwise, her childhood infatuation had never truly gone away. If anything, it was worse than ever. However, it was difficult to rectify the noble knight before her with the boy who had pushed her into mud puddles and put frogs in her hair. Gangly, red-haired Gareth had become a knight to be envied. Gone were the knobby knees and clumsy feet of a boy. In his place stood a man, tall and broad shouldered. If the heavy mail covering his body was any indication, he was also thickly muscled—he would have to be to support the weight of the metal as if it were no more cumbersome than his tunic. His hair had darkened to a russet brown, and his voice had deepened, though it still held the rich accent of the Orkney Isles. Only his eyes remained unchanged and right now they bored into hers. She attempted to tug her arm free of his grasp, but he held firm, pulling her closer until she needed to tilt her head to meet his gaze. The heat of his body surrounded her, chasing away the chill of the spring morning. “You have made a fierce enemy in Malaegant,” he growled. She shrugged. “I do not fear him.” “You should.” He tightened his grip on her wrist. Plucking her dagger from her fingers, he slipped it into his belt. How dare he appropriate her weapon as though she was a child who could not be trusted to handle sharp objects? Her irritation deepened. “You have humiliated him, and he will not soon forget it. If ever.” Lifting her chin, he forced her to meet his gaze. “You must take heed, Willow—especially while you are at Camelot. He is a dangerous man.”

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She leaned closer and gently lifted his hair from his forehead, enjoying the sensation of his silky locks sliding through her fingers. Squinting, she peered intently at him as if searching for hidden secrets. Frowning, he caught her wandering hand and pressed it to his chest. “What do you play at, woman?” “I play at nothing. I am simply searching for hoof prints.” His brow furrowed and confusion spread across his features. “Hoof prints?” She bit her lip, stifling the smile that threatened. “Your solicitous behaviour is so unlike your usual treatment of me, I can only assume your mount has kicked you in the head recently.” His firm lips twitched, but whether in amusement or annoyance, she was unable to tell. She fought the urge to smooth her fingertips across them. He leaned towards her, bringing his face so close she could feel the warm flutter of his breath upon her skin. Was he going to kiss her? Holding her gaze, Gareth slowly raised her palm to his lips and brushed a kiss across the centre. Nervous excitement trembled through her middle as he raised his head slightly. “Have a care, Willow, lest I feel the need to remind you that Malaegant is not the only dangerous man nearby.” Her breath caught in her throat as he nipped the skin on the inside of her wrist, his eyes never leaving hers. Releasing both hands, he replaced her dagger in the sheath at her waist. Before she could respond, he turned and walked towards the castle. Open-mouthed, Willow stared as Gareth walked away. For a moment, she thought she had seen desire in his eyes, mingled with the ever present exasperation, but that was ridiculous. He did not desire her. In his mind, she was likely still the troublesome little girl who had demanded to be a squire and train with the boys. This was probably his way of reminding her to be wary. However, she wished he would have chosen a way that did not leave her wondering what his mouth would feel like against hers. Nimue, one of the acolytes nudged her. “Who was that?” Willow smiled at the awe in the girl’s voice. “Gareth of Orkney.” When Nimue nodded at her to continue, she shrugged. “We grew up together. He is practically my brother.” She chose to ignore the girl’s snort of disbelief.

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As the Lady of the Lake’s foundling child, Willow had accompanied Morgayne to Camelot whenever she travelled to confer with King Arthur and Queen Gwenhwyfar. Both the king and queen had doted on Willow, allowing her to share her meals with their nephews and there she had met Gareth and his brothers. She had followed them everywhere wanting nothing more than to be part of their games. Once, in frustration, Gareth’s brother Gwain had tied her to a tree, but Gareth had taken pity on her and released her after extracting the promise that she would pester them no more. She had acquiesced, not because Gareth had asked, but because of the taunts she had heard that day. Gwain had called her a demon changling. He had told her Morgayne should have left her to die under the tree where she had been found. She had known others felt as he did. People had often made the sign against evil when she met their gaze—they still did. The difference was now she no longer cared. Over the years she had accompanied Morgayne to court less and less, travelling from Avalon only when the Lady insisted—as she had today. She was not sure why Morgayne had required her presence this day—particularly since she had not been invited inside. She supposed it had to do with the unrest spreading through the countryside. As the followers of the One God grew, some clung to the Old Ways more fiercely than ever. Despite both Arthur’s and Morgayne’s insistence that there was room for both paths, violence increased throughout the kingdom. Churches were sacked and shrines were destroyed. Willow had no idea what any of this had to do with her, but she was here just the same watching Gareth walking away from her without a backward glance.

Gareth resisted the urge to look back at Willow. He had wanted her as long as he could remember, but as a priestess of Avalon, she was bound to the service of the Goddess and the laws of the Lady of the Lake. While Morgayne enjoyed her share of lovers, he got the impression that she preferred her priestesses to be as chaste as nuns. He sighed. Perhaps it was simply the novelty of the forbidden. He wanted Willow for no other reason than she had been denied him. However, that didn’t explain the sensation that poleaxed him when she had whirled to face him.

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Her mane of golden blonde curls had bounced almost angrily across her back and her normally wide brown eyes were narrowed and full of fire. Splotches of pink stained her cheeks, giving colour to her pale, elfin features. The drape of her deep green dress did nothing to conceal her full breasts and hips. His fingers still itched to gather the soft cloth in his hands and bare her to his gaze. It had been nigh impossible to keep from touching more than her delicate wrist. He rubbed his hand across his face in frustration, groaning at the scent of her skin clinging to him—spring flowers and fresh greens. He sighed at the path his thoughts followed. She was a priestess, sworn to the Goddess, and he was a knight, sworn to Arthur and Britain. However, that reminder did not stop him from wanting to pull her full lower lip between his teeth and taste it. He pushed the thought from his head and focused on the matter at hand. The King needed not only the report on the northern territories but an account of Malaegant’s behaviour. Why Arthur had knighted the knave in the first place, Gareth would never know. Gareth had barely been able to contain the fury that had raced through him when he saw Malaegant reach for Willow’s breast. It had taken every bit of restraint he possessed not to run the bastard through. He suspected she had experienced the same difficulty. He could not stop the smile that curved his lips at the sight of dainty little Willow holding the rotter at bay. Left to her own devices, she probably would have happily unmanned the fool, but he had not wanted her to suffer the consequences of that act. Entering the great hall, Gareth sidestepped several servants to make his way to the throne room where he assumed Arthur would be holding council with the Lady of the Lake. They were deep in conversation when he entered, so he hung back in the entryway, waiting to be acknowledged. Morgayne glanced at him briefly before turning back to Arthur. “You are the king,” she snapped. “The land and her people are your responsibility. You should be the one to take part in the Great Marriage.” “I will not betray my queen by lying with another woman—even if it is for the good of the kingdom.” Realising this was a conversation he wanted no part of, Gareth attempted to back from the room.

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Spotting his movement, Arthur pinned him with his gaze. “Wait, Gareth.” Morgayne leaned closer to the king. “It is not just another woman, it would be the Goddess incarnate. By bringing together Britain and the One God with the Goddess and the Old Ways, we may yet bring peace to our people.” Arthur sighed and for the first time, Gareth noticed how the years had taken their toll on his uncle. The battles of age and sovereignty lined his face and his once golden hair was shot through with silver. He looked...tired. Guilt niggled at him. His parents had done much to plague Arthur’s rule. For years, they had contrived and manipulated in a desperate attempt to place one of their own children on the throne of Britain. Neither he nor his brothers had ever complied with their parents’ twisted schemes, though. Having been fostered under Arthur’s care at Camelot, they were more loyal to the king than their own parents. He glanced at the man who had raised him. “If I had a son...” Arthur’s thought trailed off. Gareth shifted, becoming more uncomfortable than ever. The Lady of the Lake laid her hand over Arthur’s. “You do have nephews.” His discomfort spiralled rapidly into unease. He needed to give his report and get out of there, before he somehow got assigned to taking part in a pagan festival. He cleared his throat. “Milord, I can return later to give you my findings on the northern territories.” “Do not be foolish, boy. We are almost done here.” He bristled, but kept quiet. He was not sure what annoyed him more—being referred to as boy or the appraising looks he received from Morgayne. “You need to choose someone to stand in your stead,” the woman said, never taking her eyes from Gareth. Arthur followed the Lady’s gaze. “What say you, Gareth? Will you act in my place?” “You want me to take part in the ritual?” “Aye.” He stifled a sigh. He had no interest in participating in a pagan rite. “I will help you find the best man to perform this duty, uncle.” Arthur nodded, but Morgayne frowned and turned from him to address the king. “Willow shall be the Goddess incarnate,” she announced.

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Gareth stiffened in shock. He had assumed the Lady herself would be fulfilling the role of Goddess. Arousal and anger roiled within him. The idea of some other man—any other man—lying with Willow twisted like a knife in his gut. He could see her with her hair spread across his bed furs, her petal-soft skin glistening in the firelight. Stifling a groan, he could not help but wonder if her nipples would be the same rosy pink as her lips. His cock swelled as he imagined them pebbling against his tongue. The sound she made when he had kissed her palm had drawn his balls up tight. How would she sound when he tasted her sweet cunt? The idea of another man taking what should be his tightened his fists, and his true reason for being there forgotten, he blurted, “I will do it.” Both Morgayne and Arthur stared at him with surprise, but the Lady’s eyes had a knowing sheen as if she had been waiting for him to volunteer. “You will do what, lad?” the king asked, confusion evident in his voice. He forced his discomfort away. “I will be the one to perform this ritual.” Morgayne studied him closely and a heavy silence blanketed the room. “You have already made your choice. Offering the Goddess your service from a place of jealousy is unacceptable.” “Morgayne,” the king chided. “A worthy candidate must be found.” Gareth forced himself not to growl. He was nearing thirty years of age and the woman still had the ability to make him feel like an errant child. He needed to thrash something or someone. After reporting on the state of the northern territories, he was heading straight for the practice yard. Dismissing the arrogant woman, he turned to his uncle. “I have news from the north.”

**** Arthur had been pleased to hear that the northern lords continued to pledge their allegiance to the crown and he was understandably disturbed by Maleagant’s behaviour. When the king sent his guards to bring the other man to the throne room, Gareth left for the practice yard, grabbing a sparring partner from the great hall on his way through.

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So intent on reaching his destination and working off his frustration, he did not stop to see if Willow and the others still waited in the courtyard. In retrospect, he decided that was probably a good thing. If he had spoken with her again, he sincerely doubted he would be able to keep his hands off her delectable body. Bending at the waist, he let his mail shirt and his under tunic slither to the ground as Bors, his sparring partner hefted a sword, testing its weight. “What has upset your cart?” Bors grinned as he swiped at Gareth. Straightening, he blocked the other man’s attack and their weapons clanged noisily, echoing off the stone walls. “I am not upset,” he gritted, thrusting towards his opponent, trying to knock him off balance. “Then you are saying I imagined you and Malaegant nearly coming to blows over the wench in the courtyard.” He scowled at his friend and blocked a well placed blow. “That wench in the courtyard, is Willow.” Bors faltered for a moment. “Willow? The Lady’s foundling?” Gareth did not miss the look of appreciation in his friend’s eyes. “Aye,” he gritted out. “The very same.” Grinning, the other man nodded towards the fence. “And now she watches you.” Gareth whipped around to find Willow and some of the other women leaning against the fence, staring into the practice area. Her eyes widened in fear and she clapped her hand over her mouth stifling a scream as Bors rushed him from behind. He had seen the advancement of the other man’s shadow along the ground and was able to turn and block the attack in time. He glanced at Willow where she watched the mock battle with a horrified expression on her face. If he had to hazard a guess, he would say she was worried about him. She gripped the fence post, holding to it as if it was all that was keeping her upright. Bors used Gareth’s distraction with the woman to knock him against the railing right next to her. She gasped as he hit the rough wood. How in the name of God was he supposed to give her to another man. “Worried about me, priestess?”

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A frown tugged at her full lips. “I was just thinking that not even the Lady of the Lake has enough magic to reattach your head if it gets chopped off.” He doubted the hag would even bother attempting to heal him. “It would never happen.” He winked at her as he pushed off the fence. “I am too good.”

Willow watched as he feinted to the left and leapt back into the fray. He was right—he was good. He was very good. She watched with barely concealed fascination as both men stopped the fight long enough to remove their tunics. Sweat coursed down the centre of Gareth’s chest and over his sharply delineated stomach muscles. For a brief moment, she imagined tracing each line with the tip of her tongue. Her woman’s flesh moistened and quivered at the thought of touching his sculpted body. What was she thinking? Gareth was a childhood friend—she should not be imagining touching him in such a way. She should not be imagining what his mouth tasted like. She certainly should not be imagining dragging her lips over his chest and neck. She gasped as he swung fiercely, blocking a deadly thrust from his opponent. She started to squeal and slapped her hand over her mouth. Gareth spared her a glance and grinned, his lips lifting crookedly. “Be careful, you fool!” His smile widened. “I knew you cared about me.” Taking advantage of the conversation, Bors swung viciously at Gareth. This time Willow could not squelch her fear. She screamed. Gareth seemed to anticipate the other man’s move. Parrying, he disarmed Bors with a swift move. Gareth extended his hand to his fallen comrade and hoisted him up. They clapped each other’s shoulders in the age old sign of male bonding over sheer stupidity. Ridiculously, she found herself completely aroused by this display of male prowess and domination. Gareth stood there panting. Dust and sweat mixed on his skin and she fought the urge to reach out and trail her fingers through the mixture. Walking to a barrel of rain water, he filled a pitcher and dumped it over his head. Water ran in rivulets over his head and shoulders, sluicing over hard-planed muscles and silky looking chest hair. He bent at the waist and shook his head like a large, shaggy dog. Droplets spattered everywhere—mostly over her.

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Willow drank in his wild beauty as he straightened and ambled towards her, a predatory gleam in his eyes. Her stomach fluttered in nervous anticipation as he drew closer. She clasped the fence in front of her, to keep from reaching out and touching him. “I have come to claim my token.” She could not make sense of his words, she could only follow the movement of his firm lips and watch the light in his eyes. “Pardon me?” “The victorious knight receives a kiss from his lady fair.” Her mouth dropped open, and Bors stood grinning at them. “’Tis true, milady. But I must confess, I let him win, knowing how much he was longing for your kiss.” Gareth tossed a wry glance over his shoulder towards his friend before turning back to her. “What say you, priestess? Will you give me your mouth?” he murmured. Her heart pounded. Give him her mouth? She would give him her whole body if he wanted it. She tried to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. “Since Sir Bors had the good grace to let you win, I suppose the least I could do is—” He never let her finish. His lips dipped over hers and captured her mouth, in a hard, breathless kiss that swept her senses. He cupped her face in both hands before sliding his hands through her hair and drawing her closer. Her lips parted on a sigh and his tongue slipped between her teeth, teasing and tasting. Unable to stop her response, she reached out to clasp his damp shoulders. The heat coming off his body surged through her along with his strangled groan. The small sound vibrated against her as desire tumbled through her middle. His fingers stroked the nape of her neck and scalp, pressing gently as he delved deeper. Her nipples peaked against the fabric of her dress, insistent little buds that begged for his touch. She moved closer, only to feel the rough, planks of wood pressing into her aching breasts. Slowly, he lifted his head, breaking the contact between their mouths. Her eyes fluttered open only to be caught by his brilliant blue gaze. Heavy lidded and watchful, his eyes seemed somewhat darker than they had earlier. He stroked her cheek with his thumb as a crooked smile lifted his lips.

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Disappointment pierced her and she tried to keep herself from leaning into his touch. His kiss, his touch meant nothing—this was as much a game as any they had played as children. The sound of a throat clearing pulled them apart and a flush spread across her cheeks. Her fingertips flew to her lips where she could still feel the heated caress of his mouth. Glancing to the right, she saw Nimue. “The Lady comes,” she murmured, glancing towards where the rest of their party waited for Morgayne’s return. “We return to Avalon. At once.” Willow nodded and looked through her lashes at Gareth. His hair hung in long wet, hanks and water droplets clung to his shoulders, glinting in the afternoon sun. The ridiculous urge to taste the water directly from his skin struck her, and she took a step back. He was dangerous to her ability to function. His muscles were tense as if he was ready to attack and he still wore the hungry expression he had before he had kissed her. Nodding at Nimue, she retreated further, trying to still her pounding heart. “Willow, wait,” Gareth called. She looked away, afraid he would see the naked desire on her face. He did not need to know how intensely he had affected her. It would only make things worse the next time they met. There were no rules against priestesses taking a lover...or lovers as was the case for the Lady herself, but Willow would not take Gareth. She had been half in love with him as a child. Now that she was grown, she refused to let him break her woman’s heart. And he would break it—of that, she was sure. Turning her back on him, she walked towards the barn where several stable boys waited with their horses. She could feel Gareth’s eyes on her as she mounted and led Morgayne’s mare to the courtyard to wait. His frustration was almost palpable, but she shrugged it aside. He likely thought that kiss would lead to a quick tumble. It likely would have, had Nimue not made that timely interruption. No matter—Gareth was sure to find a willing maid before the day was out. Her stomach knotted at the thought of him with another woman. The kiss they shared would be forgotten. Willow touched her still tingling lips. By him, anyway. As her party rode back to Avalon, Willow felt Morgayne’s gaze on her often. Had the Lady seen Gareth kiss her? Not that it mattered. He would soon find a wench to satisfy his desire, and she would return to the island of the Goddess where she belonged.

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Chapter Two

The taste of Willow haunted Gareth for the rest of the day. He had fought Bors again and again, hoping to drive the desire from his body by the force of sheer exhaustion. Despite his tired, aching muscles and throbbing bruises, she continued to dominate his thoughts. Every flash of green, every strand of blonde hair had him looking for her. Now he lay on his pallet in the dark of the great hall, trying to ignore the sound of Bors fucking one of the serving wenches several feet away. It did not work. The soft, wet sounds of their bodies moving together and the woman’s guttural cries had him hard and aching. Well, that was not completely true. He had been hard and aching since he had kissed Willow. He had cursed the fence that had stood between them, keeping him from feeling her supple body pressed against him. Closing his eyes, he remembered her timid response and the way her lips had trembled beneath his, and he knew he had been the first man to kiss her lush mouth. Frustration washed over him. Soon, her kisses—all of her sweet body—would belong to another man. A man he chose. Sighing, Gareth glanced at Bors and the servant woman. He should just find a willing wench and be done with it, but he wanted Willow. Rolling over, he remembered the way her nipples had peaked so sharply against her dress from a simple kiss. He could not help but wonder if she would beg for more if he suckled them. He knew she would be responsive— her breathless sighs and clutching fingers had told him that much. Recalling her surprised gasp against his mouth as he had taken her lips, his shaft jerked against the confining fabric of his braes. He wiped beaded sweat from his upper lip. He had not been this desperately aroused since he was an untried lad. Freeing his rigid cock, he grasped it at the root and slowly slid his hand up to the swollen head. Closing his eyes, he imagined her ripe lips stretched around his girth as he slowly worked his way in and out of her mouth. He wanted to lay her bare and explore every sweet, verdant curve of her body. Would she gasp and moan when he ploughed into her tight, wet passage? Fluid leaked from his cock at the thought of her snug

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heat gloving him. He spread it with his thumb as he stroked downward, pumping into his hand and wishing he was buried in the warmth of her cunt. Would her pussy taste as sweet as her mouth? He would make her come against his tongue as he lapped at her. He stroked his cock faster imagining her splayed out beneath him as she screamed his name while he fucked her into exhaustion. His balls drew up tight at the images in his head and he stifled a groan as his seed spilled hot and thick over his fingers. Sighing, Gareth closed his eyes. He would never know the answers to any of his questions. Once he chose the man who would participate in the ritual, he would lose his chance to find out. Willow was slipping from his grasp before he had truly gotten hold of her. He wiped his hand on the rushes in disgust. He was being a morose fool. She was the same as any other woman. What he needed was a warm body in his bed and then he could decide who would be the lucky sot that would sample Willow’s charms.

**** Morning found Gareth skirting the edge of the lake that sheltered the island of Avalon. Remnants of dreams flitted through his mind as elusive as the mist covering the water. Willow. They had all been about Willow. He could not get her out of his head. It made no sense. He would think himself bewitched, but he knew his reaction to her was not so easily explained. He had fancied her as a lad, and now it appeared his fancy increased to near obsession. His mount paused to drink from the gently lapping water at the shoreline. As Gareth glanced around, a furtive movement near the base of a tree caught his attention. Dismounting, he gently parted the thick curtain of bright green leaves to find Willow herself seated near the trunk. Her gaze narrowed slightly as he entered the leafy bower and sat next to her. “What do you want?” she asked. A smile threatened. “I might have said the pleasure of your company, but I can see it is too late for that.” A faint blush crept over her cheeks. “I apologise. I come here sometimes...to think.”

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He glanced around. If he remembered correctly, this was the same tree she had been found under as a newborn—her namesake. “Are you unwell?” “I am fine.” She smiled wanly, but it did not reach her eyes. “Last eve, Morgayne informed me that I have been given a new task. I am simply nervous.” He mentally cringed at her words. He had been so concerned with his own reaction to the Lady’s pronouncement, he had not stopped to consider Willow’s. He was an ass. “It is of no import. I am a priestess of the Goddess. If this is what I am called to do, I shall do it.” Her hand fluttered anxiously as she spoke. Gently, he took her chilly fingers in his own. “As a child you were the most headstrong creature I had ever encountered. That has not changed.” He drank in the sight of her. “Except, you are no longer a child.” Her lips quirked and he was rewarded with a hint of a smile. She tilted her head to the side. “I have missed spending time with you.” She looked away as if she had revealed more than she had intended. Gareth cupped her cheek, compelling her to face him. Her skin heated under his palm as a blush brightened her skin. He had meant to comfort her, but as soon as she met his gaze, all thought vanished. Her eyes darkened, appearing almost black as her gaze dropped briefly to his lips. Desire churned in his gut as her tongue moistened her lips. He had to taste her again. Sliding his hand through the silk of her hair to cradle the base of her skull he urged her towards him. He brushed his lips across hers, coaxing her to open beneath him. She drew in a trembling breath and granted him access to the sweet warmth within. She tasted of honey and apples and something that was uniquely Willow. Willow wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, so close he could feel her nipples hardening against his chest. He wanted nothing more than to bare her to his gaze and draw those tightening buds into his mouth. Leaning against the tree, he pulled her onto his lap until she straddled his thighs. Slowly she lifted her head and looked down at him. Her hair hung in a golden blonde curtain around them and in the dim light he could just make out the shape of her kiss swollen mouth. Almost shyly, she met his lips again, tentatively slipping her tongue into his mouth,

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flicking it against his while she tightened her fingers in his hair, her short nails abrading his scalp. The slight sting contrasted sharply with the softness of her lips and he wanted more. His cock throbbed beneath her as she nestled her ass against his length. By all that was holy, he wanted inside her sweet body. Now. Gripping her full hips, he pulled her more snugly to his straining erection. Her breathless gasp drew his balls up tight as he ground against her warmth. Sliding his hands from her hips, over the curve of her waist to brush his thumbs under the swell of her breasts, he kissed her deeper, harder. Her breath rasped into his mouth as he inched closer to his destination. Gently, he cupped a full breast, brushing his thumb across her already peaking nipple. A groan strangled in her throat as she arched into his touch. He needed more. He needed to feel her bare skin beneath his lips, her legs around his waist, her slick channel gripping his cock. He needed all of her. Trailing kisses along the side of her neck, he inhaled her sweet scent as he worked the neckline of her gown over her shoulders, revealing her to his hungry gaze. His breath stalled in his throat as her full, pinktipped breasts were bared. Engorged and tight, her nipples beckoned to him. He brushed the backs of his fingers across a distended peak, watching as her eyes fluttered closed and her teeth sank into her swollen lower lip. “You are so very lovely,” he murmured. He stroked her trembling flesh, drawing her nipples tighter. “Please,” she whispered. “What would please you, my lady?” Slowly, her eyes opened, pinning him with the depth of her desire. “More,” she whimpered. “I want more.” Holding her gaze, he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, watching as her lips parted and her breathing grew shallow. If he had ever seen a more beautiful sight than Willow’s eyes glazed with desire and her skin flushed pink with arousal, he truly did not know what it was. Unable to keep from tasting her a moment longer, he leaned forward and drew her sweetly budded nipple into his mouth, loving the way she trembled. Her fingers convulsed in his hair as he sucked rhythmically at the crinkled flesh. Her head dropped back and she offered herself fully to his ministrations.

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Using her hands, she guided his head from one nipple to the other, quietly moaning as she rocked against his cock. Her moisture seeped through the fabric of his braes, a tactile reminder of where he wanted to be. Desperate to touch her, to feel the proof of her hunger for him, he dragged the fabric of her skirt up her leg, baring her pale thigh. Caressing her tender flesh, he stroked the sensitive crease where thigh met groin. A shiver wracked her body and he repeated the motion. Twisting her fingers in his hair, she yanked his head back and kissed him, her tongue delving into his mouth and her free hand exploring his neck and chest. As if becoming more accustomed to touching and being touched, she grew more daring, taking liberties with his body. Opening her eyes, she flicked his nipple, watching his reaction as surely as he had watched hers. He admired her boldness, her responsiveness. She was a worthy partner, a desirable lover. Spreading her legs wider, he traced the outer lips of her pussy, watching with satisfaction as she shuddered, her breath catching in her throat. He repeated the motion, wanting her to experience the same, sharp need that pierced him. It was going to be so good when he laid her back in the soft spring grass and fucked her until she came pulsing around him. With a slow purposeful motion he swept his finger through her folds, as her sweet juices bathed his skin. Her eyes widened and she stiffened in shock at the sensation. Spreading her legs further, she canted her hips towards him, silently begging for more. He pushed her skirt higher, baring her glistening pussy to his gaze. Her cheeks flushed pink and she closed her eyes while he looked his fill. He wanted to spread her lips and slowly savour her, caressing her with his mouth and tongue as he drove her hunger higher. Judging from her embarrassed demeanour, he guessed she might balk at that. Instead, he focused on stroking her swollen folds and bringing her pleasure. Her body relaxed under his touch and she rhythmically pushed her hips towards him, meeting his caresses. Slowly, he slipped a finger into her untried passage, nearly coming in his braes when she clenched around him. By the saints she was tight. With careful pressure, he moved in and out of her taut channel while she rocked against him, her ass sliding against his rock-hard cock. “Gareth,” she breathed. “Please. More.”

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As if he would deny her. He added a second finger to her grasping pussy and found her puffy clit with the pad of this thumb. He circled the throbbing flesh and continued to drive his fingers in and out of her needy body. Clutching his shoulders, she rode his hand, trying to take him deeper while her breasts bounced tantalisingly close. She was close, he could hear it in the harsh rasp of her breath and the whimpering sighs that fell from her lips. He could feel it in the rhythmic clasp of her flesh around his. Snaking his free hand around her back, he urge her forward so he could capture a turgid nipple between his lips. If he could not have his cock buried balls deep inside her when she came then he needed to taste her, feel her flesh against his tongue.

Roughly, Gareth pulled her nipple between his lips and sucked hard before scraping his teeth across the engorged tip. A strangled cry escaped her as she bucked against his thrusting hand. Never had she imagined that a man’s touch would bring so much pleasure. She tightened her fingers on his shoulders as he suckled in time with her driving hips, never letting up, almost as if he was as desperate to have her tumble her over the cliff of pleasure as she was to fall. Releasing one nipple, he seized the other, treating it to the same merciless handling. Heat coalesced in her womb, spiralling inward into a pulsing knot that somehow managed to ache and feel dizzyingly wonderful at the same time. How was it possible? The man was a wizard. It was the only explanation. All thought ceased as he thrust deeper into her greedy body and without warning, bit down on her tender nipple. Shudders shot through her and the knot in her womb unravelled with startling speed as release whipped though her body in a wash of colour and sensation. She had never felt anything like the rush of bliss that tore through her. Panting, she slumped forward on Gareth’s chest and tried to catch her breath. He pulled free of her body and wrapped an arm around her, gathering her closer. With his free hand, he stroked her hair, dropping gentle kisses on her face. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he murmured against her ear. She pulled him closer, smiling at the comforting thud of his heartbeat against her ear. Absently, she wondered if the ritual would bring her even half as much pleasure as Gareth had. His heart continued to thump reassuringly beneath her cheek as icy horror poured over

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her at the thought of the Beltane rite. What had she just done? Morgayne had told her that she must remain pure until the ceremony. If she stayed here another moment with Gareth, she would fail the Lady and all of Avalon. If she had not already. As if sensing her growing dread, he tightened his arms around her, but she pushed against his chest. “What is it?” he asked. “I have to go.” She tried to disengage herself from his embrace, but he held fast. “What is wrong?” She struggled to her feet. “I should not be here.” She gestured loosely at him. “With you.” Her throat clogged with sudden tears. For once in her life, she wanted nothing to do with duty to the Goddess. She wanted only to be a woman and lie with this man in the shelter of tree and grass. Guilt scraped at her at the thought. She owed everything—her very life to the Lady. To Avalon. The gift she wanted to give to Gareth belonged to some nameless, faceless man who would fully initiate her to womanhood and complete the ritual. Gareth watched her, as he rose to his feet. “Willow, please talk to me. What is the matter?” Hurriedly, she straightened her gown, covering her breasts that ached for want of him. “I...I have to go.” He moved to follow her, but she whispered the words that would call the mist in from the lake, hopelessly entangling him until she was gone. Damp and grey, the mist swirled towards her. She chanced a look back at Gareth before the haze engulfed him. “Willow! Please wait,” he said as he started after her. Her heart ached at what seemed to be pain in his eyes. “I will find you, Willow,” he vowed. The unmistakable sound of footsteps headed towards her. Closing her eyes she chanted the spell to summon the barge. Hopefully, it would reach her before Gareth did. If he touched her again, she would be lost. The gentle swish of water hitting wood drew closer and she knew in a few moments she would be safe. She sighed. It was really too late for safety. She had gone and lost her heart to a knight under a willow tree. As the white-sailed barge floated into view, she

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stepped onto the wooden planks and let the boatman ferry her to the island of Avalon. Away from Gareth. How was she supposed to lie with another man when she had already given Gareth her heart? Her chest ached and tears burned her throat, but she swallowed past them. She had a duty to do, and she would do it even if it killed her.

**** The morning of Beltane dawned cool and clear. Willow stretched in the chilly morning air, anxiety her constant companion as it had been since she had left Gareth standing on the shore. Though she had resigned herself to her fate, she could not muster anything other than dread for the coming rite. Morgayne pushed aside the heavy curtain that covered the door of the sleeping chamber Willow shared with the other initiates and entered the room. The other young women had long since risen. Only Willow still laid in bed. Morgayne hesitated only briefly before sitting on the narrow pallet next to Willow’s legs. Leaning over her, the Lady smoothed her hair off her forehead, much as she had when Willow had been a child. Despite her unease at what was to come, she smiled at Morgayne— the only mother she had ever known. “We have prepared a bath and a meal for you,” she said as she continued to smooth her hair, her expression tender. Willow nodded and sat up, untangling her feet from her bedding as Morgayne rose and walked to the door. “Wait,” Willow called, unable to contain her morbid curiosity an instant longer. “The ritual—do you know who I will be joining with?” A tiny frown marred the older woman’s smooth brow. “I do not know. Gareth was to choose for you.” “What?” Morgayne paused as she ducked under the curtain and smiled reassuringly. “It does not matter. The man’s identity will be a secret—as will yours. You are both there to represent the God and the Goddess.”

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Willow nodded her understanding as she attempted to keep a rein on her rioting emotions. “We will be waiting for you in the temple,” Morgayne said as she exited the room. Shock and anger warred for dominance as Willow tried to make sense of what the Lady had just said. Gareth was to choose the man she laid with? What had he been doing under the tree—deciding which of his friends she was best suited for? Her hands fisted in her bed sheets in impotent rage. To think she had been mourning because she could not give herself to him. As if he had truly wanted her in the first place. The tears that had threatened for days finally loosed from their mooring and spilled hot and heavy over her cheeks. She was a fool. Only a fool would continue to desire him in the face of this discovery. Woodenly, she readied herself for the ceremony, barely speaking to the others as they wove spring blossoms into her hair and readied her gown. Gareth’s betrayal weighed on her like a millstone, but she tried to keep up a semblance of good spirits for the other girls. In the future, they might be called for the same task and she did not want them to dread it as she did. Hopefully, they would never have their trust crushed under the heel of a callous, thoughtless man. Her anger had not abated when she saw Gareth several hours later. Though they faced each other while they danced the maypole, she did her best to ignore him. Instead, she focused on the music wafting around them, on the pulse of the drumbeat thrumming through her body. Unfortunately, that only served to remind her of the throbbing release he had given her several days earlier. Tamping down her body’s reaction to the memory of his hands on her, she looked upward and watched as the coloured ribbons wove a pattern around the stripped fir tree. The streamers plaited the hopes and dreams for the future of every person present. Her gaze strayed to the other dancers. Most of them were local villagers, the poorest of Arthur’s citizens hoping that the magic of Beltane would give them a bountiful harvest come autumn. Willow wove her ribbon, under and over, smiling at the other dancers, but every time she passed Gareth, her smile faded. She did not miss the intensity in his eyes as they followed her. She could practically hear his confusion over her behaviour, but she was not

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about to enlighten him. As soon as the dancers reversed the direction and unwound the ribbons she was going to get as far away from Gareth as humanly possible.

Gareth watched as Willow’s eyes narrowed every time she passed him. He knew she had been upset when she had left him the other morning, but this was not sadness—this was anger. Extreme anger. He was unsure of what he had done to enrage her. As soon as the music ended, she dropped her ribbon and darted away from the crowd, without bothering to glance his way. Her pale green dress flowed behind her as she walked, as if renewing the earth with a sweep of her skirt. He half expected to see violets and daffodils blooming in her wake. Following her, he grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the side of the blacksmith’s shed. “Why are you avoiding me?” She tried to tug from his grasp, but he kept hold of her. Finally, she lifted her slitted eyes to his. “Take your hands off my body.” Glancing pointedly at where he still held her, his thumb absently caressing the petal soft skin at the inside of her wrist, she jerked her arm again. He lifted her hand and brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips across her palm. He did not miss her sharply indrawn breath or the shiver that worked through her body, and a thought occurred to him. “Are you angry with me because I brought you to your pleasure?” Her lips parted as an incredulous expression crossed her face. It quickly turned to a scowl. “No, you fool. I am angry with you because while you were bringing me to my pleasure you were planning which of your scabby friends you were going to pass me off to.” Confusion swamped him. What was she on about? “I know you have the task of choosing my partner for the ritual,” she all but snarled. “Who will it be? One of your barbarian brothers? Or perhaps that swine Maleagant?” The thought of Malaegant defiling Willow twisted his gut and he pulled her into his arms. “I would never allow him to touch you.” She stood stiffly in his arms, uncertainty colouring her lovely features. “But it was acceptable for you to touch me?” She frowned at him. “That is not the behaviour of a noble knight.”

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Before he could find his tongue, she railed on. “Perhaps you wanted to make sure I was worthy enough for the man you chose? Or was it simply that you wanted a taste of what would soon be given to another man?” He lifted her chin, holding her firmly so she could not look away. He needed her to see the truth in his words. “Do you think I want to give you to someone else?” he bit out. “Do you think I want to allow someone else to take you?” He speared his fingers through her hair and tightened his hold on her. “To take what is mine?” Her eyes widened. He had no idea how he would accomplish it, but come the ritual tonight, he would be the one laying with her. “No matter what happens this night, Willow, you belong to me.” Her eyes flashed darkly, and she shoved against his chest, her hands curled into fists. “I belong to no man. Least of all, you.” “You are wrong about that, sweet Willow. So wrong.” He closed his mouth over hers cutting off any further protest she might have made. Her lips parted beneath his—whether to acquiesce to his kiss or yell at him, he was not sure but he delved inside to taste the honeyed sweetness that was Willow. Her hands fisted in his tunic and she stood woodenly in his embrace for a moment before finally melting into him. The press of her ripe, full breasts against his chest instantly hardened his cock. By the saints, he had been half hard since he had first seen her standing by the maypole. Turning, he backed her against the building, pinning her between the sun-warmed timbers and his body. Arching into him, she drove her hands through his hair and pulled him closer. In spite of her angry words, she seemed to want him with as much desperation as he wanted her. Slowly he raised his head to look into her deep, brown eyes—eyes that were rapidly filling with tears. “How can you continue to make me desire you, knowing full well you will be casting me aside by the time the moon rises?” The hurt in her gaze strangled his ardour and his hold on her loosened. “I was wrong when I said it felt like we had never been parted. The Gareth I knew would never have used me in this manner.”

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Pushing against his chest, she freed herself from his embrace and disappeared into the throng of people crowding the marketplace, taking his heart with her.

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Chapter Three

Willow ran through the crowds out to the hillside where the villagers had dragged brush and fallen trees from the forest to build the Beltane bonfire. Soon the flames would tower above her head while the dancers spun to the rhythm set by the drummers. Her stomach trembled with nervous anxiety as she dashed at the tears that still leaked from her eyes. She was the worst kind of fool. She wanted to believe that his expression of regret as she’d pushed him away was genuine, but after everything that had passed between them, she doubted it. Despite her misgivings, she would rather perform the ritual with him than with a stranger. To know Gareth was responsible for choosing that stranger made her apprehension even worse. Willing her fears to subside, Willow skirted the area that would hold the bonfire and ducked down to enter the stone cave tucked into the side of the hill. The opening was small and close to the ground, but the area opened up considerably once one was inside. Her stomach trembled in nervous expectation. This was where the ritual would take place. Morgayne, Nimue and some of the other priestesses were already inside readying the stone chamber. The Lady glanced up sharply as she entered. “Willow, I did not expect to see you for some time, yet. Why aren’t you enjoying the festival?” She shrugged, unable to think of a suitable answer. “Do you need any help?” she asked ignoring the older woman’s question. Morgayne shook her head. “We are nearly finished here.” Willow looked around the interior of the cave. Tiny crystal formations peppered the walls, catching the light of the few fat candles that sat in the farthest reaches of the cavern. Holes in the ceiling of the cave let in a little sunlight, highlighting the dust motes that floated through the air. Soft furs and richly appointed blankets, Willow suspected came from the castle, covered a huge pallet in the centre of the stone room. Apple blossoms were strewn about the cave, scenting the air and reminding her of the ritual to come. Her stomach flipped nervously.

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Soon she’d be spreading her legs, offering her maidenhood to some unknown man. The act did not worry her as much as the fact that her partner would not be Gareth. She sighed. It seemed her foolishness knew no bounds as she continued to pine for him. Nimue set a cloth bag on the bed and removed a rough-hewn wooden tray that she set on the floor next to the back wall of the cave. Removing the rest of the items from the bag, the young woman placed them on the tray—wine, bread, cheese, dried meat. Willow frowned. It seemed she and her partner would lack for nothing.

**** Night had fallen hours ago and still the revellers danced around the fire outside the cave. The pulsing beat of the drums pounded through Willow’s body as the musicians continued to play. Morgayne had spoken the ceremonial prayer over her and left the cave to bless her partner before he came to her. Waiting for him to appear, Willow sat in the middle of the pallet, wiping her damp hands on the skirt of her dress. Before leaving, Morgayne had suggested Willow remove it, but she hadn’t been able to bring herself to bare herself entirely. There would be time enough for that later. The wine Morgayne had insisted she drink had heated her belly, making her feel warm and slightly dizzy. It tasted as if it had been mixed with an herbal tincture, but Willow could not identify the subtle flavours of the various plants. Whatever Morgayne had given her was likely meant as a relaxant. Willow finished the goblet and poured more into her empty glass. Along with the calming qualities, the herbs seemed to enhance the residual desire that still shuttled though her body from Gareth’s kiss. It seemed she only needed to think of him and her woman’s flesh grew needy. Whenever he touched her, the moisture gathered as if preparing her body for him. Unfortunately, her foolish body would not get what it craved most. Pushing aside that thought, she drained the glass a second time. She glanced around the cave. When the sun had set, the vast majority of the light had gone with it. The sputtering candles did little to light the area, serving instead to throw eerie

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shadows around the cave. She hadn’t even been able to make out Morgayne’s face as she had left. Unless she recognised the man’s voice, his identity truly would be a secret. Shadows fell across the opening of the cave and the murmur of voices reached her, but any words or even the identities of the speakers were impossible to discern. Just as suddenly, the voices stopped and a tall, hooded figure crawled through the opening, before rising to his full height. From where she sat on the floor he seemed almost hulking. The fretfulness she had never really quelled, flooded back with a vengeance. She gripped the soft fabric of the bedding to still her trembling hands. Perhaps she should have had a third glass of Morgayne’s wine. Without speaking, the man unbuckled his sword belt. It was difficult to discern his action in the dim candlelight, but the unmistakable creak of leather and clank of metal were impossible to interpret as anything else. Bending, he laid the blade next to the pallet. She should have expected that Gareth would choose a knight for her partner. The knight in question removed his cloak in a flurry of fabric. Two of the three candles sputtered out with the resulting draft of air, plunging them into almost total darkness. Willow’s eyes widened as she strained to see. The lone light source flickered wildly, throwing huge dancing shadows around the room, but there still wasn’t enough light to see his face. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry as her heart beat a panicked rhythm in her chest. The pallet sank underneath his weight as he knelt near her feet and she fought the urge to scramble away from him. Who was he? She bit back the question as he moved closer. “Shall I relight the candles?” she blurted as his knees bracketed her feet. He didn’t speak. Her worry intensified. While she knew Gareth would not knowingly choose anyone who would harm her, she could not push the thought from her mind. The man moved closer and slid his hands along her calves, up to her knees. She caught her breath at his touch, her stomach tumbling wildly through her middle. She tried to remain calm, but her breath came faster and faster. He cupped her cheek with work roughened hands and brushed his thumb across her lips. The gesture was oddly comforting, but still her unease remained. Gently, he pushed her shoulders back until she was laying on the pallet with his dark form hovering above her.

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Dragging his fingertips along her neck, he bared her skin and dropped hot, open mouthed kisses over the sensitive flesh. The nervous fluttering in her belly increased and she could not help wishing it was Gareth touching her instead of this man. It didn’t matter though. She had a duty to perform and Gareth or no Gareth, she needed to do what the High Priestess of Avalon had chosen her to do. Her careful reasoning did nothing to bring her peace over the situation. The best course of action would be to have the business finished. Sitting up suddenly, she knocked the man to the side. Despite the near darkness, she could sense his movement. He propped himself up on his elbow and waited while she stripped off her dress and dropped it to the floor. Reaching for the bottle of wine at the side of the bed, she blindly swallowed the liquid until barely any remained. She was going to need the help of the alcohol and whatever herbs Morgayne had added to it. Reclining next to him, she ignored the need to cover herself. “Let us be done with this,” she murmured, laying stiffly. “The night grows old.” A choked sound escaped him, but he gathered himself just as quickly. Resting his hand on her abdomen, he stroked her trembling stomach. Absently, she wondered if he could feel the tremors. Perhaps if she imagined it was Gareth touching her, her fear would diminish somewhat. Despite her anger with him, she would still prefer to share this moment with him rather than anyone else. The man’s large hand slid upward and cupped her breast. Her nipple peaked immediately against his skin. Her breath stalled in her chest as he rubbed slow, sensuous circles over her aching flesh with the palm of his hand. The dizzying effect of the wine and his touch dampened her fear and discomfort. She cried out in surprise as he twisted her nipple, pulling it slightly. Without warning, his hot, wet mouth closed over the other one and he suckled hard. Of its own volition, her hand lifted to the back of his head to tangle in his hair and press him closer to her aching nipple. His hair was tied back with a strip of leather. She released the tie, letting the long, thick strands fall across her skin. It was easier to imagine he was Gareth this way. As she pressed him to her breast, he suckled harder still, scraping his teeth over the sensitised flesh. He continued to torment the other nipple and her passage flooded with

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moisture. His touch felt almost as good as Gareth’s had. Guilt pricked her consciousness at the thought of him and she tried to push him from her mind. He had made his choice. The man nuzzled the side of her breast, his stubble roughened cheeks sending shivers through her body. His fingers left her nipple to travel down her stomach to her mound. Unable to stop herself, she squeezed her legs together as he drew closer to his destination. She couldn’t imagine another man touching her there. Gently, he rubbed her thighs, as if attempting to coax them, all the while continuing to torment her breast and nipple. Her cunt clenched with need and she slowly let her legs fall open. The sooner it was done with, the sooner she could leave, she told herself. At least she tried to tell herself that, however, his hands and mouth chased away her wine-soaked thoughts. With a sure caress, he stroked along her desire dampened folds. Her body trembled beneath his hand as he repeated the motion. She closed her eyes, remembering the pleasure Gareth had brought her only a few days ago. Sudden tears burned her throat at the memory. She didn’t want pleasure at this man’s hands, she just wanted this encounter over with. Spreading her legs wider, she tried to urge him to lay between them. “Finish it,” she demanded, her duty to the Goddess all but forgotten. She shut her eyes tightly as he moved between her thighs. As he settled there, she waited for the sharp sting of pain that would bring the ritual closer to its inevitable end. Instead of thrusting his shaft into her offered body, he scooted backward and draped her thighs over his shoulders. Willow struggled to her elbows, trying in vain to see him. “What are you doing?” Reaching upward, he pushed her to her back as she felt his warm breath bathe her mound. She attempted to roll to the side, but he locked a strong arm around her legs, holding her motionless. With his free hand, he parted her lips, baring her completely. The desire that refused to abate, increased and a rush of her juices coated her flesh. She wanted to blame the wine, but in her mind it was Gareth spreading her wide and that thought nearly made her beg for more. The swipe of his tongue against her needy flesh shocked a strangled cry from her throat. Breathing hard, he licked her again, the flat of his tongue covering her. Heat pulsed and shimmered through her body as she revelled in the delicious warmth of his mouth on her cunt. She had never known such pleasure existed.

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A callused finger slipped into her channel as he continued to taste her, licking and sucking at her flesh. He slipped a splayed hand under her bottom and fitted her more snugly to his mouth. She shuddered almost violently, silently begging for more. He added another finger to her slick passage and the cries she tried to hold back slipped past her lips with every move he made. Imagining it was Gareth’s head between her legs, Willow clenched her hands in his hair as he circled the swollen bit of flesh at the apex of her thighs. Flicking his tongue faster, he groaned as her hips rocked against his mouth. The sound vibrated along her limbs. Desperate for more of his wicked touch, she pumped her hips faster. It would have been impossible to stop the motion even if she had wanted to. His talented mouth and her memories of Gareth had combined to propel her needy body forward towards her rapidly approaching bliss. Her womb quivered as he drove her pleasure higher. Every muscle in her body tightened as she rushed headlong into her peak. He sucked her clit between his lips, gently dragging his teeth across it, and she cried out as shudders wracked her body. Jolts of breathless pleasure careened through her as he continued to lap at her moist flesh. Stroking her sensitised skin, he waited while she slowly became aware of her surroundings again. As she lay limply on the pallet, he rose to his knees between her spread legs and removed the remainder of his clothing. She felt him bend slightly and then something hard and hot dragged along her cleft, to brush across her swollen clit. Her breath caught in her throat as he rubbed what felt like a huge shaft over her wet pussy. Willow sat up slightly and reached out to touch him. Groping in the dim light, she explored his heavily muscled thighs and flat stomach before finally gripping his cock with both hands. Slowly she slid her hands up the incredibly thick shaft. As she drew closer to the bulbous head, his erection jerked in her hands and she heard the hiss of a sharp breath sucked between his tightly clenched teeth. She wished she could see him. Almost. At least this way, she could still pretend it was Gareth she held in her hands. Gareth who’d had his face buried between her thighs, moments earlier. Gareth who would soon fuck her. His hand covered hers around his shaft and he drew the head of his cock across her lips. She jerked in surprise at the sensation of the silky flesh against her mouth, but she

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tentatively stuck her tongue out and tasted him. At his muffled groan, she did it again, this time taking the huge head into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it. The muffled groan became a strangled curse as she sucked slightly. He quickly withdrew from her lips. Pushing her onto her back, he positioned his cock at her entrance. She tried not to hold her body tensely, as he prodded her opening but she couldn’t help it. With soft caresses, he stroked her as if willing her to relax. It was impossible when she felt how rigidly he held himself above her. Lifting her hips, she pushed against him. “Finish it,” she whispered. He hesitated, but in the faint light, she saw him nod once before he shoved forward, entering her in a single thrust. Willow bit her lip at the stab of pain as she tried to acclimate herself to his bulk inside her. Smoothing her hair off her face, he dropped gentle kisses over her cheeks and neck as he held himself perfectly still. The pain quickly subsided and a restlessness replaced it. She wiggled beneath him. Slowly, he began to rock back and forth, carefully pulling back and pushing forward, obviously taking care with her untried body. She knew many men would not have been this considerate while taking her maidenhood. Gareth had obviously cared enough to choose someone who would treat her with kindness. Thinking of him while this other man was inside her filled her eyes with tears. Bittersweet pleasure spread through her body as the last remnants of pain vanished. Thick and huge, he abraded her tender flesh, sending shivers of excited arousal coursing through her body. As he worked himself in and out of her body, hunger surpassed everything else and she began to move with him meeting him thrust for thrust. His speed increased and he fucked her harder, faster—his pelvic bone grinding into her clit. The friction was overwhelming and she knew the release she experienced earlier would be nothing compared to this. Need snaked through her body as she clung to him. Reaching behind him, he urged her legs around his waist, changing the angle of contact. Ever tightening ropes of pleasure wrapped around her body as he plunged into her. Her pussy grasped at him, greedily trying to hold on to his cock and the need within her coiled tighter, threatening to snap with every stroke of his cock.

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He slid his hands under her bottom, holding her more tightly to him as he ploughed into her. His thrusts became rougher as his control seemed to fray, but she didn’t care. He felt too good. Her pebble hard nipples rubbed against his chest with every brutal thrust and she arched into him, desperate for more. With his face buried in her hair, he bit down on the sensitive spot where shoulder meets neck and she cried out, rippling and pulsing around his shaft. The climax that had been building twisted through her womb and as his seed spilled hot and thick within her, she cried out Gareth’s name.

Gareth stiffened in the hot, wet clasp of Willow’s welcoming body, the aftershocks of her release still pulsing around his cock. He would swear he heard her call out his name. He was sure of it. Judging from the way she stilled in his arms, she realised what she had said. “I apologise,” she murmured, her voice small and barely audible. “I did not mean...” Her words faltered. Warmth had flooded him at the sound of his name on her lips as she peaked. An irrational part of him had been jealous when she had responded to his touch, thinking him another man. He had feared he had misread her attraction to him, but he had not been mistaken. She did want him. A commotion sounded outside the cave and the drums stuttered to a halt, but he was barely aware of anything besides the woman in his arms. “Gareth!” a voice cried from outside. “Where are you? Arthur needs you.” What in the name of the Lord was so important Arthur saw fit to interrupt the Beltane celebration he had decreed? Sighing, he leaned forward to kiss Willow, the way he had wanted to since he entered the stone chamber. He had not dared before now for fear she would recognise him. He had planned on telling her the truth, but Bors had beaten him to it. As he moved to touch her lips, she turned away. Beneath him, Willow quivered with anger. He did not need to see her face to know her full, lush lips were so firmly pressed together they had turned white. He had seen that expression on her face many times before and had often been the one to cause it. Tonight was no different.

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Kicking him, she shoved at his chest. “You lied to me!” Regretfully, he left the warmth of her body. “Willow, I—” She hastily gathered her dress from the floor and yanked it over her head. “Do not speak to me.” “Please listen to me, Willow, I—” “No.” “Gareth!” Bors bellowed again. “I will be there in a moment,” he snapped as he pulled on his clothes. He turned back to Willow. She had lifted the only still burning candle and raised it towards his face—so she could see him more clearly, he suspected. “Why would you not tell me it was you?” she asked, her eyes shining in the dim light of the single flame. “I could not. The ritual...the Lady swore me to secrecy.” She began to turn away, but he gripped her upper arms to keep her facing him. “She insisted that the ritual would be compromised if you knew the truth, so I agreed to her conditions.” She stared at him, her expression baleful, but she didn’t attempt to break his hold on her. “I was supposed to choose someone else to lie with you, but I could not.” “Of course not.” She glanced down at her body and back to his face, pain evident in her eyes. “You could not allow someone to take what is yours.” His chest ached at the pain he had caused her. He was twelve kinds of a fool. “I am sorry I deceived you.” “Just go.” The anger had faded from her tone. She sounded weary. “It does not matter anymore. The king has need of you. Go.” Pushing past him, she exited the cave and stepped into the milling crowd. Gareth followed behind her. The revellers had ceased their merrymaking and stood in clusters, nervously murmuring among themselves. Everything within him screamed to follow Willow, but his duty lay with king and country. He turned to Bors. “What happened?”

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“Malaegant,” his friend practically snarled. “He attacked the queen’s party while she was riding with her ladies. He killed Ywain and some of the women.” “When did this happen?” Gareth demanded swallowing past the pain. He would grieve for the dead later, now he needed to find Malaegant and stop him. “This afternoon. Gwenhwyfar and several others escaped, but they stayed hidden in the forest until Arthur sent out a search party. The queen said Malaegant had been muttering about finding the pagan whore. Arthur assumed he meant the Lady, so he sent me here to warn her and set you to guard her.” Ice ran through Gareth’s veins. Maleagant didn’t want Morgayne. He wanted Willow. His heart dropped like a stone as he whirled searching the crowd for her. The spot where she had stood only moments before was empty. “Find the Lady and stay by her side. Let no one near her until I return,” he yelled to Bors. “I need to find Willow.” He continued to scan the crowd as he made his way to his horse. It was as if she had vanished. Where had she gone? Avalon. It was the only place that made any sense. It had been impossible to miss the desolation in her gaze when she’d turned from him. Returning to her home made the most sense. Gareth leapt on his horse and rode hard for the lake shore. The moon was high in the sky, hopefully the light would call attention to her pale hair and dress in the inky darkness—as long as he saw her before Malaegant did. Worry tasted bitter in his mouth. He had warned her that the man would make a dangerous enemy, but after what had transpired between them tonight, he doubted the other man had even been a thought in her head. Whether he knew it or not, Malaegant was already a dead man. He’d attacked the queen and killed a knight of the round table and the saints only knew how many ladies of the court. He would receive a trial, as was Arthur’s way, but there would be no chance that he would leave Camelot alive. Of course, if he harmed Willow, Malaegant would never see the next sunrise, let alone the walls of Camelot. Gareth’s gut twisted in fear for her. If that bastard touched her... A flash of light coloured fabric disappeared into the forest that bordered the lake. She was here. “Willow?” he called. “I know you are here. Please answer me.”

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“Go back to the bonfire.” She sounded...defeated. He had done this to her—he had hurt her. Trying desperately to follow the sound of her voice, he skirted the tree line. “You got what you wanted from me,” she continued. “I have nothing left to give you.” “You’re in danger.” She stepped out of the trees and looked at him. “Only from my own foolishness.” Relief at finding her unharmed rushed through him and he quickly dismounted. He held up his hands when she took a step back. “Wait, Willow. I’m not going to harm you.” She laughed, the sound bitter. “The damage has already been done. Go back to the castle. Go back to your life.” She took another step back as if to fade into the trees. If she reached the lake and called the mist, he’d never find her again—unless she wanted to be found. He rather doubted that would be the case. He followed her. Slowly. “Please just listen to me for a moment.” She shook her head, her eyes full of tears. “Goodbye, Gareth.” As she started to turn away, she screamed, terror in her voice. Arms grabbed her from behind and dragged her from his line of vision. Heart in his throat, he followed the sounds of bodies crashing through the underbrush. Willow’s screams turned from frightened to angry as she fought her attacker. As he travelled deeper into the woods, he wished he would have had the foresight to bring a torch. Luckily, Willow continued to thrash making her progress easy to follow. “Maleagant, release her!” he bellowed. “This is none of your concern,” the other man responded. The earth grew more damp as did the air. They must be very near the lake. All sounds of fighting stopped suddenly and his blood turned to ice. He pushed through the last of the skin tearing branches to find Malaegant standing at the water’s edge, his arm wrapped around Willow’s chest holding a dagger to her neck.

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Chapter Four

Gareth’s heart thudded painfully against his chest at the sight. Every instinct roared at him to attack, but he could not risk losing her to this madman. “Let her go. She has done nothing to you.” The man stared at him as if he was the crazed one. “She attempted to unman me.” “You were trying to hurt my friend,” Willow choked out. “Silence!” Maleagant slid the sharpened blade across her throat drawing a thin line of blood. Holding Gareth’s gaze, he slid his hand down and squeezed Willow’s breast viciously and nuzzled her neck. “She stinks of sweat and sex.” The man was about to die. Slowly. He edged towards them. Willow’s eyes were wide with fear as she watched him move closer. “Stay back, Gareth. He will kill you too.” Malaegant laughed. “The whore is right.” Gareth drew his blade. “Release her and fight me. If I lose, you get the wench. If you lose, she belongs to me.” He said the last directly to Willow, hoping she understood what he was trying to express. “Do you think me addled? I have the advantage. If you think I would give it up because of honour, you are a simple minded fool.”

Willow’s heart ached at the pain in Gareth’s eyes. He was terrified for her and he clearly wanted to kill Malaegant. She was ready to do it herself. Bile rose in her throat at the sight of his grimy hand on her breast. He twisted her tender flesh and tears spilled over her cheeks. Thrusting her elbow backward, she tried to hit him in the stomach, hoping to loosen his hold on her. It only made him angrier. He placed his lips against her ear. “I will split him from gut to gullet and then rut on you while his life drains into the ground.” As he spoke, he pressed the blade more firmly against her neck and fresh blood dripped in warm rivulets, staining the neckline of her gown.

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He was mad. Absolutely insane. She had no doubt that he meant what he said. If he could kill Gareth, he would do it. Resolve tightened her fists. She refused to let him get the chance. She would not lose Gareth—not if she could save him. Despite what had transpired between them, she recognised her feelings. Goddess help her, she was falling in love with him. Closing her eyes, she ignored Malaegant’s muttered threats and tried to open herself to the magic of Avalon. Feeling the creeping tendrils of power, she pulled them closer and spoke the words of the spell under her breath, calling the mist to aid her. Damp wisps of foggy air rose from the surface of the lake and began to move landward to twine about their ankles. She met Gareth’s eyes and glanced down at the fog and back to his face again, hoping he would understand what she was trying to tell him. He nodded once as Malaegant twisted his head wildly from side to side. “What witchery is this?” he demanded, tightening his already bruising hold on her. Willow drew the mist up higher so it covered his face, hopefully blinding him to the fact that Gareth was moving towards them. As her captor glanced anxiously from side to side, the blade fell away slightly from her neck. Hoping to further distract him and possibly break free, she slammed her head backward into his face. Pain lanced through the back of her skull at the impact, but the blow was enough to throw him off balance. As he started to fall, she threw her weight to the side. His grip on her slackened and she was able to roll away, but the dagger still sliced open her shoulder. “Willow!” Gareth called. “Where are you?” “Here.” She reached out and caught his arm as he moved forward. Malaegant struggled to his feet and lurched towards Gareth, dagger raised. The mist continued to swirl around them, but it grew thinner as Willow was unable to expend the energy to keep the spell alive. Keeping himself between her and her attacker, Gareth pulled her to her feet. “Go, Willow. Call the barge—get away from here!” He pushed her towards the water. “Go!” Malaegant swung while Gareth’s back was turned and Willow screamed. Gareth turned to block the attack, but it was too late. Malaegant’s blade sank into her lover’s shoulder. His sword fell from his slackened fingers as the other man withdrew his blade and moved in for

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another strike. Gareth dropped to his knees and picked up his sword with the opposite hand and rolled to the side to avoid Maelgant’s next blow. The fog drifted around them in wisps not covering them entirely, but blocking her view. Willow edged closer. Gareth’s directive to go still rang in her ears, but she refused to leave him. He glanced at her, anguish in his gaze. “Leave, Willow,” he rasped, before turning back to his opponent. Blood heavily stained the front of his tunic and ran freely down his arm. If the wound continued to bleed so fiercely, he would not need to worry about Malaegant finishing him off. She needed to bind the wound soon before he lost consciousness. Malaegant circled him, brandishing his weapon. “Did you enjoy the whore? You should know, I plan to. I’ll be planting my seed within her before your corpse has time to grow cold.” Gareth growled and flung himself at the bastard as cold shock washed over Willow. She hadn’t considered the potential that she and Gareth could have created a child. A howl of pain pulled her attention back to the fight. Malaegant clutched his stomach while blood spilled through his fingers. Lurching upright, he lunged at Gareth who easily dodged the blow and brought the pommel of his sword down on the back of the other man’s head. His eyes rolled backward as he sank to his knees and fell face forward onto the damp earth. Gareth kicked his blade aside before pushing him to his back. Willow glanced at Malaegant’s wound as she darted around his prone form. She doubted he’d survive the night, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Dropping to her knees beside Gareth, she tore the fabric away from his body to assess his injury. His skin was clammy to the touch and appeared ashen in the moonlight that pierced the remaining mist. She needed to get him to Avalon immediately. Hoof beats shook the ground and fear seized her. Did Malaegant have help? She recognised the colours of several of Arthur’s knights. She recognised Bors and Gwain but the other two men were unfamiliar. Dismounting, they rushed to Gareth’s side. Gwain barked out orders for the other men to take both Gareth and Malaegant back to the castle, but Willow laid her hand on his arm. “No.” The knight scowled at her. “He is a knight of the round table. We will care for him.”

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Anger tightened her fists. She had almost forgotten what a pompous fool Gareth’s brother was. She took a breath to calm herself before she spoke. “He’s lost too much blood. He won’t survive the trip to Camelot.” “Then what do you propose we do? Leave him here to die, instead?” “Let me take him to Avalon.” Gwain opened his mouth, but Bors stopped him. “Look at him. She’s right. Avalon is his best chance.” Ignoring the other men, she leaned over her lover and smoothed his hair off his face, willing him to open his eyes. “Gareth? Can you hear me?” Her voice broke and she swiped away the tears clouding her vision. “Gareth, please. I need you to open your eyes.” She needed more than that—she needed him. Slowly, his beautiful blue eyes fluttered open, but they were dulled by pain and blood loss. “Willow,” he whispered. He tried to raise his hand to touch her face, but it fell limply to the side. “I love you.” His eyes drifted shut and his breathing grew shallow. Shock and joy filled her at his words, but at the moment, she could not afford the time to think about his confession. She looked at Gwain. “Please.” As though it pained him to do so, he nodded. Short lived relief spread though her. She still needed to get him to the island in time to save him. Closing her eyes she chanted the spell to summon the barge. It seemed to take years before she heard the reassuring sound of water on wood. Praying harder than she ever had before, she directed the men to lay Gareth in the bottom of the barge and pleaded with the ferryman to hurry.

**** Gareth pried his eyes open and then quickly shut them. Even the dim light of the room he was in was far too bright. Lying quietly, he tried to ascertain where he was. He recalled making love with Willow. His cock stirred at the memory of being buried in her lush body. He also remembered the metallic taste of fear in his mouth as he searched for her and the horror of finding her with Malaegant’s blade to her neck. His eyes flew open.

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“Willow!” he choked out, his voice sounding rusty as if he had not used it in years. He struggled to an upright position, pain tearing though his shoulder and chest. A glance at the area revealed fresh bandages and the scent of herbal salves drifted to him. Small, cool hands pressed him back to the mattress and he focused on Willow’s face above him. “Shh, I am here.” She brushed his hair off his forehead, relief shining in her beautiful brown eyes. “I have been worried about you. I was afraid you would never wake.” As his eyes adjusted to the light, he noticed the deep purple smudges under her eyes and her pale, pinched features. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in weeks. “How long have you been caring for me?” She shrugged. “I am not sure. Five days, I think. Maybe six.” As the cobwebs cleared his mind, he recalled more details. Willow calling the mist, the blood dripping down her neck... He pulled aside the neckline of her gown. Several angry red cuts marred her creamy skin and guilt tore at him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.” Her brow furrowed as she stared at him. “You saved me. You have nothing to be sorry for.” “I do.” He brushed the pad of his thumb along a wound. “This never should have happened. He never should have been allowed to touch you.” A small smile curved her lips. “He was mad. There is nothing to apologise for.” “Malaegant?” He feared the answer, but he had to know. A frown marred her features. “Dead. He died before Bors and the others returned to Camelot.” Quietly, she provided the details he couldn’t recall. It sounded vaguely familiar as if it had happened to someone else and he had heard the tale over a cup of mead by the fire. With sudden, perfect clarity, he remembered the threat Malaegant had made against Willow. “Did he...?” He could not bring himself to finish the question. She shook her head. “I’m fine. Truly.” Relief settled over him like a warm blanket. She leaned forward and brushed her lips across his, just a gentle touch, but he wanted more. He twined his fingers through her hair and cupped the back of her head, pulling her closer. Her lips parted on a sigh, allowing him access to the sweetness within. Finally, she raised her head and gazed into his eyes, and guilt assailed him yet again. “I do need to apologise to you. I should have told you the truth on Beltane.”

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She laid her fingers over his lips. “It is beyond us.” He covered her hand with his own, kissing her fingers before freeing his mouth to speak. “No. I should have told you—you deserve the truth.” “Promise me you will never lie to me again and it will be enough.” The warmth of her smile settled deep in his chest. “I promise.” She lifted herself from the pallet, but he snaked an arm around her and drew her down to his side. “You need to rest,” she scolded. “I need you more than I need to rest. Besides, Avalon’s healing magic seems to be working miracles. I feel far better than I should after a wound like that.” He smoothed away the small frown lines on her brow that had appeared as he had spoken. Contentedly, he noticed that she relaxed slightly, curling into his embrace. He shifted until he lay on his side next to her, looking down into her beautiful face. “I have another promise to make,” he announced, holding her gaze. “Oh?”

Gareth skimmed his hand up the swell of her hip and over the curve of her waist to rest on her ribcage, his thumb brushing under her full breast. Willow held herself as still as possible, willing herself to focus on his words. Conviction filled his bright blue eyes. “I promise that we will never again make love in the dark.” She swallowed hard as the conviction in his gaze turned to desire. Cupping her breast, he teased her hardening nipple through the fabric. The chafing of cloth against her sensitive skin sent shudders through her, and her woman’s flesh clenched in need. “I want to see every bit of your beautiful body laid out before me,” he whispered, his voice rough with disuse and arousal. The husky sound stroked her from the inside and she shivered. He bent forward and latched onto the tight bud of her nipple through the bodice of her dress and sucked at it. The wet heat of his mouth combined with the rasp of damp fabric had her back bowing off the bed as she tried to get closer to the source of pleasure.

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She drove her hands through his hair, holding him tightly to her. More than anything, she wanted to rip her dress from her body and the sheet from his so there would be nothing separating them. Finally, he released her nipple and nuzzled the sensitive skin of her neck. “I want to see your dripping cunt as I spread you wide and taste you,” he murmured against her throat. She could barely pull in enough air to breathe. Moisture wept from her body at the memory of his mouth on her mound. She was wanton enough to admit to herself that she wanted him to do that again. Soon. Following the line of her jaw, Gareth kissed a path to her trembling lips and delved inside. He took control of the kiss—took control of her body with the touch of his mouth and the sweep of his tongue. He had taken control of her heart, too. But that had happened long before he had ever kissed her. Slowly, he lifted his head and stared into her eyes. “Most of all, I want to watch your face while I’m thrusting inside your tight pussy. I want to watch you come for me.” A gasp strangled in her chest and she could not look away from the wicked promises in his eyes if she wanted to. Right now, she would give anything to have him inside her—thick and filling her completely. He obviously had the same thought, because he was hiking her skirt upward, baring her thighs until he finally tugged the entire garment over her head. With whispered encouragement, he urged her to straddle him. His cock rested hot and heavy between her thighs, slick with her juices. Carefully, she guided him into her body, unaccustomed to the unfamiliar position. Breathing heavily, he stroked her thighs and bottom, caressing every bit of skin he could reach. His cock throbbed within her, and she thought she would go mad if he didn’t do something soon. Gently, he pulled her forward until they lay chest to chest, his staff still lodged deeply. Her hair spilled around him, cocooning them from the rest of the world. Reaching out, he cupped her cheek, brushing his thumb across her lips, much as he had done the night in the cave. “You are the only treasure worth having. I love you, Willow.” Tears blurred her vision. “I love you,” she whispered as they spilled down her cheeks.

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A smile curved his lips and lit his eyes at her words. His hand slid around the back of her neck, urging her mouth to his. “Be my bride,” he whispered against her lips. “Let me love you for the rest of our days.” Joy spread through her and she nodded, her heart too full to speak. He slid his hands over her back, caressing her as he took her mouth in a hungry kiss. Lifting her head, she shifted on his cock. Her internal muscles gripped him as she gazed down at him with a mischievous grin she knew he would well recognise. Settling his hands on her hips, he groaned as she moved on him, taking him deeper. “And I will love you, Sir Gareth the brave,” she murmured. “The rest of our days.”

About the Author I live in Michigan with my wonderful husband, two amazing sons and five somewhat psychotic cats. When not tormenting my characters, I can usually be found helping with reading, writing and art projects in my sons’ classrooms as well as providing child care and tutoring for several daycare children. Besides writing, I also enjoy reading, knitting, sewing, cross stitching, pottery, drawing, jewellery making – basically anything that helps me avoid cooking and cleaning. Email: [email protected]

Bronwyn loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

Also by Bronwyn Green From the Ruins Celtic Fire: Solstice Seduction Celtic Fire: Moonlit Magic

IN THE DARK Brynn Paulin

Dedication For my grams

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Chapter One

Northern Britain 1351 Panic rushed through Katherine Wolf, the only remaining member of Bryant the Wolf’s family, as she stared with astonishment through her window, high in one of the castle’s six towers. Along the road leading to her home, dust billowed into the sky—dust that was obviously coming from a band of oncoming riders. Moments later, eight black steeds carrying eight men came into sight. Four wore mail. Knights and their squires… Katherine’s knees went weak. No. They could not be coming here. But they were. She watched in horror as the horsemen galloped towards the front gate. They stopped as if considering entrance, and Katherine willed them to depart with all her being. Of course, it would not work. She was not a witch as some would suppose. The rider who had been in the lead held up his hand, signalling to the others to stop. Deftly, he leapt from his horse and pulled off his helm. He shook his head, loosening the damp hair which had been trapped under the metal. Katherine sucked in a breath as his midnight hair splayed in the wind then settled upon his wide shoulders. His black cloak swirled about him, displaying equally black garments below. His beautiful face lifted upward as he surveyed her home. She quickly stepped backward for fear he would see her watching him, though she was quite sure he would not be able to spy her. She pressed a hand to her middle. Men. Here at her home, the one place she had always felt safe. Lifting her fingers to her face, she covered her cheek and the rose-coloured streak she had had since birth. Marked by the devil they said. She had been cursed to never set foot from this place or else be burned as a witch. But what was she to do now? The men would never find this hidden chamber constructed by her grandfather to hide his treasures. It was likely they would never find the hidden passages which gave her the run

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of the castle. She was rarely seen, but how long would that last before she accidentally stumbled upon one of the new inhabitants?

**** Calen the Black stared up at the fortress he had been given as payment for his valiant services to Edward while in France. Payment? This fief was to be a punishment for his popularity in court. The King knew Calen would never undermine him, but he had still banished him here to Warg, the castle of death. Some claimed it was haunted and as he saw movement in one of the towers, he wondered at that claim. No matter. No spirit would stop him from possessing his new home and urging the lands to once again flourish. The degradation he had seen on the ride to the castle had horrified him, but as in the rest of the land, the people had fled—or died—leaving the fields unattended. How much more so here with no lord to oversee them. The entire family of Bryant the Wolf, including Bryant himself, had succumb to the Great Pestilence. Calen set his jaw, surveying the grey stone structure set against the mountains. It was a modern sprawling construction with six towers reaching into the clouds. A jewel to possess and a nightmare to tame. The death of so many within its walls, victims to an untameable disease sent apprehension clawing across his back. “She is a beauty,” Alaric, his highest ranking man and friend, commented as he moved to stand beside Calen. Calen realised belatedly that his companions had also dismounted as he had stood there. “Aye. She is.” “What do you think of the King’s decree now?” Alaric asked. “Clement. But he is well known for such.” He swallowed, not believing his words. Edward expected him to fail and perish here. He would not. Waving his hand, he beckoned the three knights with him to move forward. He had already sent men into the village to gather workers for the task ahead, but he and the ones with him could get started. “Alaric, come with me,” he ordered. “James and David, start a fire as we have discussed. When others arrive, direct them to gather water.”

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Without waiting to see if his orders were followed, he crossed the fortress’ wide courtyard. James and David would follow his command without question and he felt his faithful companion close at his side. At the entrance to his future, he threw open the large wooden and iron doors, breathing shallowly of the air. It was not as stagnant as he would have supposed. Either someone had made freely with his holding or there was a significant draught flowing through the thick walls. He was more inclined to suppose the former, rather than the later. The thick-walled structure seemed sturdy, though he knew there would be some draught—all castles had them, even Edward’s mighty home. “Go with caution,” he urged quietly. “This place of death might not be as deserted as we suppose.” Vagrants? Robbers? He would see either quickly evicted. Light streamed through the doors to illuminate the great hall. He strode inside, taking in the heavy furnishings, stale reeds and mouldering wall-hangings, while behind him Alaric opened the two heavy, wood shutters covering large coloured glass windows on either side of the hall. Bryant had been wealthy to afford such, but wealth had not saved him from death. “All of it goes,” he told Alaric imperiously. “The tables, benches…” He pointed to the chairs where Bryant had his wife had no doubt sat for meals. “Those seats, the hangings, the reeds. I want the hall bare.” “The heritage…”Alaric murmured. “Not my heritage. A new era starts now.” Calen knew Alaric’s lips were tightening with unspoken disapproval. While a good soldier, his companion was also a proponent of history. He opposed the destruction of the past while further the King’s path into the future. “You are going to cleanse the entire castle?” he asked in a derisive tone only he dared to use with Calen. “Aye.” He said no more, knowing his friend’s oft-spoken opinion of his odd belief that washing not only his person but surfaces was imperative. Had Calen’s mother not been a seer who had beaten the notion into him ‘for his future safety’ he too would feel comfortable covered in a layer of dirt. Whatever Alaric might have retorted was cut off by a door swinging open on the far side of the hall. Calen’s hand went to the hilt of his sword as a sturdy man with greying hair and the garments of a servant rushed in. The man knelt immediately.

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“My lord,” he said. “I welcome you. I am Marcus, the steward of the Warg castle. We have long awaited a new liege.” Calen relaxed slightly. So there was a valid inhabitant here. “You may rise, then do not move.” He would deal with the steward as soon as his other orders were followed. “Alaric—” “I know. It all goes.” Fairly stomping, he went to the wall and wrenched down the first tapestry then dragged it toward the doors. Calen turned back to Marcus. “Now, tell me. How many of you are there?”

**** Katherine stared out the window in horror as the fire in the middle of the courtyard grew, its flames reaching toward the sky as the history of her family fed it. These men were destroying everything and her servant Marcus and his wife Esme, Katherine’s maid, were helping them. What were they doing? She wanted to storm down from her hidden room and demand an answer, but she dared not. She knew the consequences. Her father had told her often enough. She had best stay hidden or she would be added to those flames to burn as a witch. She bit her lip as she forced back the need to scream in frustration. Impotent rage made her shake. Going to her bed, she punched the silk-covered pillows, abusing the thin coverings then hurling them across the spacious room to bounce off the damask covered wall. Red-blonde strands of hair flew wildly around her head as she stormed. That however was not unusual since she had never been the well-kept, perfectly coiffed girl that her three sisters and mother had been. Katherine had refused to make the effort since she was closed away from the world. It hardly seemed worth the effort. She only combed and rebraided her hair at Esme’s insistence—which was every night. Now since her family had perished in the plague, Katherine made more of an effort just to please Esme. So much good that had been. Esme was out there destroying all traces of Katherine’s family. Katherine refused to look again. Even as she made that vow, the scent of wood smoke drifted through her window and her feet took her back to the window. That man with the beautiful face was leading them, telling everyone what to do. She hated him.

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He had discarded his cloak and outer tunic as he worked. She could see his muscles playing beneath the remaining garments and her teeth sunk further into her lip. She might be locked away from the world, but she had seen enough to know he was a fine manifestation of virility. Something in her middle quivered, and she turned from the window to eat a piece of the dry bread Esme had brought her earlier in the day along with a tankard of mead and some roasted meat. Katherine was not hungry, and she knew it, but she refused to believe the awful man in the courtyard would move her. She seethed as the day dragged on and the fire grew higher. When her mother’s clothes were brought and thrown in the fire, tears filled her eyes. When they brought her younger brother’s rocking horse, they coursed unchecked over her cheeks. Sobbing she buried her face in her blankets and hoped for strength to endure what was to come. When she had lost her family, she had at least had their belongings…her memories…her home where she could still feel their presence. Today it was all taken from her. By a devil with the face of an angel.

**** Weariness weighed Calen as he lugged a few of his belongings through the castle. The last three days, he had slept in the courtyard with his men each night after they had completed their task for the day. His footsteps echoed as he headed for the Master’s chambers. Late this afternoon, the last of the castle’s contents had been burned. Everything was gone except for the ledgers and a diary of historical records which Marcus assured him had not been touched by anyone but him since months before the plague took the household. Most of the rooms still needed to be scrubbed, but Calen had seen to it that the great hall and his chamber were the first cleaned, along with the passage between them. New reeds had been strewn across the hall’s floor and tonight his men would sleep in comfort…well, more comfort than he. A bed would be nice, but the one that had been his parents had not arrived yet, not that he was surprised. The amount of belongings being hauled here was unprecedented but if he was being exiled to the far reaches of Edward’s kingdom, he demanded that his things accompany him, no matter the personal cost. Not that he had a lot, but there was some furniture from his parents’ home.

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Tonight he would sleep on a pallet on the bare stone floor. It would be no worse than sleeping on rocky ground in France. He was a knight. He would endure. Calen smiled, wishing he had a warm body to share his pallet with him, but then…that was what had gotten him in trouble, was it not. A dalliance with a comely woman in Edward’s court. The wife of a high-ranking advisor. In his defence, he had not known she was married. At first. Granted, it had been bad to continue seeing her, but her cunt was so warm and her cries so sweet as he buried himself in her sheath. His cock stirred as he remembered his stolen moments with her, but it was not her he craved—just a woman. Perhaps he deserved this punishment Edward had bestowed on him in sending him far into the wilds and away from court and society. And Edward’s devotion to his wife, Queen Phillipa, played no small part in Calen’s banishment, but his benevolence had saved Calen from being sent to the latest skirmish on the continent. As Calen shut and latched the chamber’s door, he thought perhaps France might have been better. Every muscle ached from the labour he had done over the last days. While he normally trained daily for battle, his body was unaccustomed to the work he had been doing and now…he would sleep on a stone floor. The courtyard might be better, but he wanted privacy and time alone with his thoughts. Perhaps some time alone with his hand, as well. Tossing his belongings to the floor, he walked towards the small window on the far wall. The new architecture of the fortress enamoured him and he had spent innumerable hours marvelling at the changes in it compared to the older keeps where he had often stayed. And it was his. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared out at the few stars he could see and the bright full moon which were the sole illumination for his room. He should have brought a torch with him. It did not matter. He had always seen well enough in the dark. He did not want to look around himself and see the empty shell the fortress had become. It was necessary, but it did not make the cavernous space any easier to take. It echoed the lands surrounding the village. They had all gone fallow since Bryant had died. Many of the villeins and freemen had fled to look for work elsewhere. Those who remained were not enough to maintain the lands and support the castle. With the harvest fast upon them and nothing to reap, winter looked bleak. There was no livestock since, in an effort to stop the plague, it had been killed and burned. Marcus hunted daily to feed himself and his wife. Everyone else seemed to have given up.

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He could not let his people starve due to their own neglect. He closed his eyes against the pain in his head from muddling through the problem. Finding servants had been easy despite the sparse population. They knew serving him was the difference between survival and death. They would have to make do. Earlier, he had set men from the village to collecting firewood. Daily hunting parties would go out and the women who served in the kitchen would smoke whatever game was brought back until he deemed they had enough meat to last the winter. They would have to do more. Firewood and game—if they could find it—would not sustain them. With a sigh, he scrubbed a hand over his face and returned to his things then arranged his pallet then stripped off his clothes. He would think about this problem tomorrow. He could not solve all his people’s problems in one day. He doubted he could solve them in one month—but he would try. Naked, he stretched out over the blankets and reached for his cock, envisioning a fair skinned maiden who would gladly straddle and ride him until he forgot his worries.

**** His name was Calen the Black, and King Edward had given him the castle as part of a fief. Esme had explained that as well as why Calen thought it was necessary to burn everything. The destruction still pained Katherine but she grudgingly understood. He was not being malicious. He was doing what he thought was best. And as she had watched him… Heat flooded through Katherine as she thought of the way he had looked directing her father’s people. She closed her eyes. Not her father’s people any more. Calen’s. They belonged to Calen. Though his stature was the same as many of the men, he had looked huge amongst them. Commanding. More regal. More… Everything. She did not understand this odd attraction to him—particularly since she felt as if he was an interloper here. She had neither seen him up close nor heard his voice. She could imagine it. It would cut through her and touch her in that place that trembled whenever she

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looked at him. Her woman’s flesh seemed to have a particular wetness to it, too. It made her warm, then she became more damp. Was she taking ill? She could not blame illness on her illicit desire to touch herself there. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. She needed to get out of this room or she would be laying on that bed, once again doing the naughty thing she had done last night. Touching herself and thinking of him. Gathering her courage, she touched the lever that opened the secret door from her room. She had never understood why it was concealed since the only way to access it was the hidden passage beyond the chamber. Sneaking into the narrow walkway, she felt her way along the wall she had often traversed, carefully counting stairs and notches in the curving stone wall. At the bottom of the stairway, a draught of cool air signified the turnoff that led to the great hall. Driven by the desire for a closer view of Calen, she headed for the great hall. It would be risky, the doorway was concealed from direct view from the hall because it opened into the short passage to the larder. She could peek around the corner and be hidden again before anyone took a step towards her. She chortled to herself. They would think she was a ghost. Edging open the door, she looked to see if anyone was nearby. When she saw the area near her was empty, she pushed the door open a bit more and slipped out her head and shoulders. Katherine’s eyes went wide and she gasped at the sight before her. Calen was nowhere to be seen, but right in the middle of the floor in the great hall… Sweet heaven! Thankfully, the sound of her gasp was lost in the moans and growls of the lovers as they moved together. One of the women from the village sat astride the man who she most often saw at Calen’s side. Mesmerised, Katherine watched the man’s large hands on the woman’s rounded backside as she undulated over him, her breasts bobbing and his cock disappearing into her. A moment later, it would reappear shiny from the woman’s passage. Katherine’s hand dropped to her pussy. Even through her clothing the heat warmed her palm. She knew slick dampness would be permeating her folds. Her breasts were suddenly

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uncomfortable within her clothes as tingling awareness coursed across her skin. To be touched like that woman…to be free to tryst with a lover in the light from a fireplace. Suddenly, the man beside the pair rolled to his side and sat up. Without a word of permission, he leaned forward and took the village woman’s breast into his mouth. She screeched, but Katherine guessed not from outrage. The woman’s fingers buried in the second man’s hair. “Aye,” she whispered. “Oh please. Take me.” Katherine slipped backward into the passage and let the door slide shut as she leaned against the wall, her hand over her thundering heart. Her thighs trembled as need surged through her veins. Calen had not been in the hall. She could guess where he was. She could not explain the deep-seated desire to gaze on his face, but she knew before the she retired to her bed she would gaze upon his face in the darkness. Then she would sleep with a vision of the lovers in her head. Only she knew it would be her face…and Calen’s…that she would see.

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Chapter Two

Silence filled the Master’s chamber as Katherine edged open the secret door beside the fireplace. Listening intently, she heard Calen’s soft breathing. Halfway across the room, where the bed had once been, he reclined on a pallet of blankets. One arm was tossed over his eyes, while the other lay against his middle, the hand splayed on his flat belly. His flat naked belly. Her lips pressed together as her gaze drifted over his form. Even with the fuzzy lines created by the darkness, without his garments, he appeared larger. Almost without realising, she stepped into the chamber, letting the panel shut behind her, and crossed to his side. She did not stop until she knelt beside him. He was beautiful. There was no denying it. She knew from her parents’ bantering that a man might object to that description, but handsome did not describe the perfection she saw in his face. Women must fall at his feet, she thought. And look at me here. Attracted to it despite his destruction of my family’s belongings. She leaned forward slightly to see him better. Thick eyebrows made his face appear strong and masculine. He needed that, she decided. With his prominent cheekbones and full lips he might otherwise seem feminine. His nose was not quite straight and looked as if it had been broken more than once. She grinned. A troublemaker. Despite him being a warrior, she sensed this knight had gotten this particular flaw off of the battlefield rather than on it…after all, he wore a helm and armour when he fought. His arms…could she wrap her fingers around them and have them touch? She did not think it possible. Her breathing sped up at the thought of that strength closing around her and holding her tight against his wide chest. Kneeling here beside him, she felt tiny. She was tempted to lay down beside him to see how much taller than her he was. But that would be unwise…as was being in the chamber…as would kissing him. But she did. His lips parted slightly as he breathed and her resistance—if she had had any at all—faded. Leaning forward and carefully balancing on one hand, she brushed her lips to his. Calen groaned softly. In a lightning swift moment, she no longer had to wonder about his strength. Calen rolled, tumbling her onto her back with his body over hers. A blade pressed to her throat.

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“Who are you?” he rasped before she had a chance to wonder where the dagger had come from. Her hand clamped on his steely forearm as she futilely attempted to push the weapon from her neck. Her breath stuttered in her chest as her heart beat out of control. “I…I just wanted to see you. To—I was…I was curious. I just…I am unarmed. I did not intend harm,” she finished in a rush. She saw him smile in the dark, his teeth white in the faint moonlight. “So, you have come to lay with me.” It was not a question, but a statement. Her mouth opened in shock. Lay with him? But… She started to deny him, then stopped thinking better of it. Did not she want to experience what the woman in the great hall had? To feel a man within her—and not just any man. Calen. The only man who had ever made her quiver inside. She lived her life exiled in a hidden room. If she ever left the castle, she would be killed not loved. What other opportunity would she ever have? “Aye,” she whispered. Calen did not give her a chance to say more as his lips covered hers, his tongue stabbing inside. A small startled sound escaped her before she moaned and opened her mouth wider to receive him. The taste of mead and the aroma of man filled her senses as odd feelings travelled through her. The tingling in her breasts she had felt when spying on the lovers intensified to a painful need she could not explain. She wanted to rub against him, feel him against her nipples, experience his hands or his mouth. Both. Sweet heaven what had overtaken her. Katherine did not know, but she realised there was no stopping now. She had wanted to experience more in life, the sexual connection between a man and a woman…well, here it was. And her body relished it. Between her trembling thighs, her pussy burned as it grew wet. What would it feel like to have his cock filling her like his companions had filled the woman from the village? She had been told enough about coupling to know that there would be initial pain, but her mother had explained it would be fleeting…then she had only smiled, sharing no more except to say this was something only for husband and wife. There would be no husband for Katherine. Even if she did not have her mark, she had no father to make the contract and no real dowry to pay. Most of what would have gone with her to a new home was now burned.

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Calen had taken it all in his ‘cleansing’ action as Esme called it. He had taken it all and now he could give her this. He pulled his mouth from hers and sat, straddling her. The dagger skittered across the floor. “Let us see if you truly are unarmed,” he growled. “I am,” she vowed. “I am expected to believe the claim of a could-be assassin?” “I am not!” “Hmm…we will see.” Rolling his weight backward, he lifted himself to his feet in one smooth motion and pulled her with him. “Take off your clothes.” “I…” “Do you have something to hide?” Not in this light. She shook her head. She had asked for this and in truth had ached for it for days, though she had not known. Here, in the dark, was her one chance to know this man in every way possible and for him to give back some of what he had taken, even if he would take her most valuable, but worthless, treasure. Biting her lower lip and holding his gaze, she grabbed her surcoat and the tunic beneath, hiking up the fabric until her fingers were on the embroidered hem. She paused and he nodded. Sending steel down her spine, she closed her eyes and tore the garment away, tossing it to the floor beside his pallet. With full realisation that he would demand all, she did not wait for the order to remove her linen shift. Though her panic filled her, she summoned false bravado and yanked it off as well. Her slippers were kicked onto the pile of clothes and she stood naked upon his pallet. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to hide her fear, but there was nothing she could do to stop her arm from crossing over her breasts or her hand from covering her pussy. “You look like a brave little deer facing a monster,” he said, amusement in his voice. “I do not bite.” She stared at his long, thick cock as he spoke. She did not believe his assertion at all. He would bite. He would have her as his meal to break the fast. “Turn around,” he ordered. “What?” He made a circular motion with his finger. “Turn.”

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Slowly, she faced away from him, cringing as a beam of moonlight fell across her belly. As long as it is not my face… “Hmm…See, I knew you lied. What is this weapon?” he murmured. “I have none!” she exclaimed. “Have you not?” His breath was hot on her shoulder as he moved close behind her. Katherine swallowed around the tightness in her throat as his cock brushed against her back, leaving a damp trail. “This rope,” he said, wrapping the braid that fell to the top of her thighs around his hand several times. Gently, he tugged so that her head tipped back. “Did you think to use it on me?” he asked as his mouth fell on her vulnerable skin. His lips and tongue left a hot trail across her flesh as he tasted her from ear to shoulder. Katherine shivered wanting more of his mouth, unsure of what he would do next. Wanting more, yet fearing more. “Did you perhaps think to wrap it around my neck?” he asked, looping the length around hers and giving another gentle tug. She gasped in fear. Would he kill her? Murder her with her own damnable hair? Calen nipped the skin behind her ear. “You tremble like a fawn, but you do not try to run away. So brave, little one…” “I want…to…be with you,” she whispered. She cringed as her quiet words seemed to thunder across the room. But Calen did not laugh at her. “Soon, little one,” he said. He quietly pulled her braid behind her back and she felt him unravelling it with more care than anyone else ever had. He ran his fingers through the strands then splayed them around her shoulders. “A finer cloak no other lady has. Such fine hair…” She felt his heat leave her back and looked over her shoulder to see him sinking down onto the pallet. She stepped to the side as he settled onto his pillow. His hand caught her ankle. “Come lie with me,” he rasped, holding his other hand out to her. Ribbons of tenderness threaded through her, weaving her need for him into the tapestry of her memories. This moment would stay with her forever. No matter what happened, she would remember tonight as the night when she had been wanted as a woman, not shunned as an outcast. Katherine sank to her knees beside him so much like she had when she had first entered the chamber, and he pulled her over his body. Her legs fell to his sides. His cock pressed

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against the inside of one thigh and a tremor, unlike any she had felt before, slammed through her, stealing the little breath she had. “Not a deer,” he said, catching her chin between his fingers and bringing her mouth toward his. “A little bird, ready to fly away. Feel how your heart flutters against mine. A wild thing that senses the hunter.” His lips brushed hers. “I will capture you, little bird.” “You already have.” How appropriate that he would call her that. Were not birds captured and kept in gilded cages such as hers? She had been in a cage her entire life. “You hold me in your arms,” she continued. “I cannot escape.” “Do you want to, little bird?” She had never wanted anything less. “No.” Hungrily, Calen took her mouth, consuming her senses along with it and refilling them with the wanton sensations and needs of a woman foreign to Katherine. She arched against him and moaned as he took her breast in his hand, cupping it in his palm and rolling the peak between his fingers. Her muffled cries filled the room, echoing off the stone walls. Mindlessly, she rubbed her pussy against his groin, the hard pressure relieving some of the tension coiling inside her. He sat up and pressed his hand to the middle of her back. He held her there while he dipped his head and snaked out his tongue to flick repeatedly over her nipple. She shot up on her knees to press more firmly to his mouth. Her fingers drove into his hair, the long, silky strands so wonderful against her skin. He was all hard planes and smooth skin, his hair both coarse against her body and soft in her hands. And his mouth…oh so hot on her breast. He pulled hard with his mouth. Katherine’s head tilted back, her mouth dropping open at the sensation that shot to her middle to tug at her womb. Instantly, her pussy responded. Flooding. Opening. All thought disappeared and she dropped her cheek to the top of his head while he suckled. This was what it was to be a woman. Calen cupped her behind with one hand, squeezing the buttock before sliding his hand to her hip then between them to her throbbing flesh. She could not hold back her breathy gasp as his fingers slipped between her folds to touch her intimately. She bit her lip, afraid of what he would say to find her so wet.

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“You want me as much as I need you,” he said, turning her so that she lay upon his pillow, the blankets barely keeping her from the hard floor. “I would rather take you in a bed, little one,” he murmured. “But alas…” “You have burned it.” She closed her eyes at the accusation in her tone. She would rather have forgotten, but the hurt was not far from her thoughts. “I mourned every piece,” he answered. “Destruction is not easy, love. But for my people, I must.” Reaching down, he lifted her leg high against his hip. Immediately, her other followed suit. Trembling, she waited, excitement sending goose bumps over her skin. She moved her hips and found his cock there a mere fraction from her. “I need you now,” he said. “No more playing…” “Aye. Now. Please,” she begged. Reaching between them, he fit his cock to her slick opening. She closed her eyes at the sensation of the hard wide head pressing her there. Her hands clenched on his forearms. He paused. “You are not married?” he asked. “Betrothed.” She shook her head. “Good.” Katherine knew the pain was coming. She had been warned. She fought to keep the sound from escaping. But it did. Only…it sounded like a moan of pure unadulterated pleasure. She felt so full with him inside her and he had only thrust partially inside. “More,” she whispered. She wanted all of him. “Please do not stop.” “No, I will not stop now.” Katherine waited for more pain, then he moved… Pleasure unlike anything she had ever known flooded through her. Bliss. Pure bliss. She could die now and she would not care.

Calen looked down at the beauty spread out beneath him. Her legs hugged him tight, her hands gripped his arms as if he was all that gave her life, and her wild, curling hair fanned out around them, a gorgeous background to their passion. He stared at her face, wishing he could see her better. Her eyes were beautifully shaped, but he could not tell their colour. Her mouth was dropped open with beautiful passion. She

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felt so small beneath him, he feared he would break her if he let loose his full desire and claimed her as hard as he wanted—no, needed—to take her. Her sheath convulsed around him, grasping him as he waited for her body to grow accustomed to his girth. All women took some time, but this woman…she was tighter than any he had had before her. “Oh…little one…you are so…oh the way you squeeze my cock. You have not lain with many men.” She shook her head, pressing up into him. “Please more,” she begged. “And you will not,” he growled. “You will lay with none other than me. None.” He ploughed forward, fully taking her cunt. With a groan, he paused within her firm clutch. “Tell me you understand.” “None other, my lord,” she cried. “None…” Satisfied with her answer, he lost himself in the feel of her and the scent of her musky passion. Next time he would take the time to taste her and make her scream from the feel of his tongue in her cunt. She would be like the sweetest honey. He turned so she was over him and he planted himself deep within her. Her low moan can from so far inside her that he felt it around his cock. Her hair fell around them like a curtain. He buried his hands in it, bringing her mouth to his as he leaned upward. Jerking her hips, she tried to move, the unschooled movement confirming his suspicion about her lack of experience. “I have never…” she whispered. “Shh, love. Like this,” he replied gently. Taking her hips, he guided her up and down his shaft. She flattened her palms on his chest, her keening cries driving him on as she took her pleasure in him. Suddenly her cry became a scream and the top of her head slammed into his chest as her channel convulsed around him so tight he could do nothing but lose his own control. His seed burst from him in such a rush, his vision dimmed. His arms clasped around the amazing woman who had come to him in the dark and calmed his soul. Still within her, he gathered her close and turned to her side. The days of travelling here, the days of labour that had immediately followed and the hours of worry all took their toll on him. Fatigue settled in as he hugged his woman tight and sleep claimed him. He would find out who his lover was in the morning, and it would be a long time before he ever let her go.

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**** Katherine had never felt as wonderful in her entire life. Or so awful. At her back, the first rosy rays of sunlight were poking fingers through the window and before long they would wake Calen. She had to leave his embrace and make it to the door, hopefully before he opened his eyes and saw her in daylight. Carefully, she lifted his arm from her waist and settled it on his. “Do not,” he murmured but the drowsiness in his tone combined with his soft snore told her he still slept. She had only to remove herself from his other arm and her hair from his fist. She managed both with only a slight grumble and several strands of her hair left in his hand. Not daring to look back at him, she scrambled to her clothes and darted for the door, ignoring the nagging ache between her thighs. She had to flee while she could. She did not pause until she was within the passage, then, and only then, did she permit herself to look back at Calen. To her relief, he slept. His brow furrowed, he buried his face in the pillow, his arms wrapping around it. Sweet heaven, she thought as darkness surrounded her. She already wanted to feel those arms around her again. But she dared not. Instinctively, she knew she would never leave his bed as easily again.

**** Something was wrong. Calen opened his eyes and flew to his feet. Completely alone. But… He scrubbed his hand over his face. But…he should not be. Where had the woman gone who had taken him to heaven yester’eve? He looked to the door to see it still latched. What… Had she been a dream? Calen sank to the blankets, raised his knees and buried his face in his hands. Insanity had never been in his family. Would he be the first? Something tickled his face and he pulled his hands away. His eyes widened at the redblonde strands of hair threaded through his fingers. He looked again at the door. The dream

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woman had not been a fantasy. But, how had she gotten into his chamber? He jumped to his feet again. She had not come through the door… There had to be another door. A thorough examination of the room later, Calen was growling angry. He had woken alone, he was hungry and by all that was holy, he could not find the door. The day wore on and he had duties. He would find the door then she would pay for leaving him in the night. He smiled as he envisioned the sensual tortures he would visit on her before he rode her sweet body again. Perhaps his bed would arrive today. He would tie her to it and explore every inch of her body. With his hands. With his tongue. With his cock. He looked down at the appendage as he felt it grow in response to his thoughts. His eyes went wide and his fingers went to the shaft. God’s teeth…no. He touched the streak that could only be one thing. She must think him a barbarian. He had breeched her maiden’s head with nary a word nor a care. In his need, he had not noticed. No wonder she had fled his bed at the first opportunity. He was one hundred times the fool. Even now, she probably hid her face and cried for what he had so callously taken. And he would likely never hold her in his arms again nor even know her name.

**** Katherine sighed as she rolled over in her bed. A smile came to her face as she felt a slight pull in her folds and remembered the feel of Calen within her and his arms around her. Lethargically, she rose and wandered to her window. He had exhausted her and the position of the sun told that she had slept past the noon hour. Below in the courtyard, she saw Calen storming back and forth. His cloak billowed around him, and even from this distance, it was evident he was agitated. His movements were jerky and impatient as he worked and spoke to those in the area. Repeatedly, he shoved his hands through his hair, giving it and even wilder look than it had already had from the wind. She wanted to go to him and hold him and calm whatever was eating at him. The way her belly quivered when he lifted his countenance towards the sky in frustration told her perhaps, she knew what he was upset about—the emptiness of his bed that morn.

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Perhaps she was giving herself too much importance. Perhaps he had been glad to have her gone when he had woken. There was much to be done…much that had been left undone after her father’s death. She had known there were matters to attend but they had been too much for Marcus and everyone except Esme and Marcus thought her dead. They had urged her to remain hidden for her own safety. And lacking the skills to lead the people, she had complied. Turning from the window, she went to the books on the far side of her room. Many were blank, but many held her thoughts and drawings. Over the years, she had grown in talent using what she had been taught by her mother to occupy her time. Her mother had taught her to make her inks and colours as well, and now, Katherine made them, using the supplies Marcus brought her. Sitting on the stool at her desk, she turned to the next blank page in her book and wrote about Calen. She described his arrival at the castle, what he had done, how she had felt about it. She described the other men and the comings and goings. She dared not write about that which was most prevalent in her mind. She had only to close her eyes to relive those moments… On the facing page, she etched a picture of Calen at work. Despite her misgivings, he seemed somehow…right…in the position he had taken. Watching him became less foreign by the hour. This was now his rightful home. Her bottom lip quivered. As much as she wanted him and as pleasurable at it had felt in his arms…how long could she stay here at the castle? The notion of leaving terrified her, but perhaps it was time. Perhaps she should take her chances and leave the castle. Could she even take care of herself? She had always been attended by a trusted servant. What skills did she have? She could write and draw. She could not live by her skills. And with her mark… Troubled, she turned back to the drawing. Esme came in while she worked, bringing her food and a pitcher of water. “I cannot stay, or I will be missed,” she hastened to say. “Lord Calen has us all busy with preparations for winter. A good planner he is, but his eye is on everything.” “That is wonderful,” Katherine said, keeping her eyes on her drawing as heat crept up her spine. From the corner of her eye, she saw Esme give her a strange look. “Well,” she explained. “He will keep the castlefolk and village from perishing.” “Aye,” Esme replied slowly. “Are you well, Lady Katherine?”

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Katherine nodded. “I have been thinking…of perhaps leaving Warg.” “No, Lady Katherine! You cannot!” her maid exclaimed. She sighed and looked at Esme, her face sad. “I do not know how long I can stay here with him here.” “Do not do anything rash.” Too late for that. She would see him one more time, then she would leave her home for the first and last time in her life.

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Chapter Three

Calen paced his thinking room, ignoring the books and ledgers spread out on the table. As much as he hid his feelings from everyone else, he could not deny he was angry. And frustrated. Where the hell was she? The first night, he had lain awake for hours, waiting for her to return to him. She had not—not that night…or the next…or the next. Was she in the arms of another man now that she had dispatched her virginity? His fingers fisted as he thought of the possibility. Was she one of the serving women who often passed the night with his men? Last evening, he had wandered to the hall to be sure, but she had not been amongst the moaning women. None had her red-blonde hair. In fact, none shared the same length. Alaric had called him to join in, but he had shaken his head and retired to his chamber and his bed. He was thankful for the softness of it, but did not fully appreciate it. “So find a different maiden to bed,” he muttered to himself as he returned to the table. It was not as if he had a commitment to the woman with which he now obsessed. He did not know her name. He had not had months to form an attachment with her. He had only a few strands of hair. You will know immediately when you find your love, his mother had once said. He missed her. She had been wise and gifted with an ability which had been hidden from the world. She knew things. She saw the future. Calen had learned at a young age to always believe her. He could not recall a time when she had been wrong in her predictions. When she had been near death, she had brought him to her bedside and told him things she had seen for his life— things he needed to know. She had described the plague that would take the land a year after her death. She had reminded him of the things she had taught him…the burning…the cleaning. She had told him of the perils awaiting him in France and of the ambush that would take many of his companions because they would not listen to him. She had told him of his love. You will know her immediately. She is marked for you. Your companion and lover. Look for that which is hidden. Of all the things she had foretold, the last made the least sense. And the most perfect sense. His woman was hidden somewhere behind a concealed door. And he had known her

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immediately. The soldier in him had been quieted from asking questions he should have instinctively asked and the man had been released to find soothing in her arms. His cock stirred and he smiled. Aye…and in her body. Sitting in a heavy chair that had arrived with his bed. This table, the chair and many other pieces of furniture had been sent by King Edward as gifts for his new home. Other furniture was being fashioned by a local carpenter and his son—long tables and benches for the hall, beds for his men… Calen had not commissioned much work. There were too many other matters to which to attend. Everyone was needed for the hunt—including the carpenter. He had set the villeins who had not run away after Bryant’s death to reaping whatever wheat they could find. Additionally, he had rewarded them. He had split families, giving sons their own plots of land and homes for their families. He hoped this benevolence would inspire loyalty. They all needed each other right now and none of them could afford one more runaway servant. He needed to document what had been done and update their records. This room contained the financial ledgers, yearly records of the village population and the family’s historical records. He had already checked the estate’s financial ledgers. Bryant’s coffers matched the ledgers exactly. Marcus had carefully made entries for his pay which he had continued to deduct after his Lord’s death. He had never deviated from the amount he had always been paid. Calen was impressed by the man’s honesty and had retained the man in his former position. Pushing the woman from his thoughts he set about documenting the villeins in the possession of the Warg estate.

**** Calen was on the edge of sleep, his eyes closed, his consciousness drifting toward dreams when a strange sound startled him awake. He sat up. Silence greeted him, but he knew…she was there. “Where are you?” he demanded. “Here,” she said quietly.

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His head jerked around to find her standing at the end of the bed. He reached out a hand. “Come to bed.” She hesitated and regret momentarily shook him. She did think him a barbarian. “Please,” he added. Rather than climb into the bed beside him, she sat near his feet, her hands in her lap. Nervously, she fiddled with what he supposed was a ribbon on her clothing. He could not tell for sure. It was too dark. Like the last night she had visited, he wished he had left the oil lamp burning beside his bed, lit a fire in the hearth or at very least brought a torch to burn in the iron wall sconce. Leaning forward he seized her around the waist and hauled her up to rest against his chest. She had obviously known what would happen if she came here tonight. He could feel that she wore only her linen shift. His hands settled around her, and the heat from her skin seemed to burn him through the thin fabric. How easily he could lift it and bury himself within her. But he would not. He sensed she needed time…and God help him, he needed to know more about her than the feel of her skin sliding against his. He wanted to know her. He had never wanted that of another woman. All the others had been a pleasure to the flesh, but no more. What had happened to him? It was not that there was fault with his cock. It stood as erect and hard as a sword ready to pierce her. She fit against him perfectly. Her hand curled onto his chest and she tucked her head beneath his chin. He sighed at the closeness this fostered, as if she needed his companionship as much as he needed hers. Companionship? From a woman? Alaric had always been his companion. Alas, his friend was lacking in some of the ways Calen most enjoyed, but that had always been his belief—men were his comrades and women were meant to spread their legs and give him comfort after a long day…or during one…or before he started one. He should be happy this woman only came in the night to be with him and not interfere with his day. He wanted her for more than that. “I could not stay away,” she told him. “You managed long enough,” he grumbled. “Where have you been?”

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She hesitated. Her fingers played through his chest hair. “I have been in my home.” She propped her chin on his chest. “By myself. I have not forgotten your request.” Request? It had been more of an order, but if she wanted to think she had a choice, that was fine. As long as she complied. He wished again to see her face. Her hair spread across him. Red-blonde. He immediately buried his fingers in it. By heaven, how he had missed her. “What colour are your eyes, little bird?” he asked. “I do not think anyone has ever asked me that.” “Others are not cursed to this darkness, I would wager. What colour?” “Blue.” She flicked her tongue over his nipple and he shuddered. “I had wondered...” she chuckled. “It feels as good to you as it does to me.” “Aye,” he answered, cupping the back of her head as she experimented again, lightly nipping. She sighed happily and settled back against him again. “I have thought about you while we were parted. I wondered if you would want me to return. I wondered what else you would show me.” Her finger traced the muscles in his torso and he had to steel himself to keep from leaping on her. He wanted her so badly, he thought he might lose control of his actions and ravage her like a beast. You have already been beastly enough, he reminded himself. “I never wanted you to leave.” Her leg moved over his and his cock immediately responded. Her thigh brushed it as she shifted. She moved again, then brushed…again. Touching him without ‘touching’ him. “You are very naughty,” he told her, capturing her hand and wrapping her small fingers around his throbbing shaft. She froze, then slowly…ever so slowly, she stretched her thumb upward to smooth over the head of his cock. Her palm moved along his length. He groaned as she squeezed him then slid her hand upward. “Very naughty.” “My father always used to say so,” she answered. “Now he does not?” “He is dead.” Calen turned and hugged her to him, silently expressing his sympathy. His lips pressed into her soft hair, and her feminine scent filled him. He wanted to know everything about her, but he did not know how long he could stave off his need.

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Reaching down, he covered her hand with his and showed her how to best move it up and down to give him pleasure. Each slide of her soft hand stoked his desire higher. He breathed deeply to keep from snapping. He wanted her to be comfortable with his body, because he intended to keep her in his bed for as long as possible. Night after night. “What do you do when you are hiding in your home?” he asked to change his focus from her touch and the fire building in his balls. A fine sweat formed on his chest as he struggled to keep his arms relaxed. “I write in my journals and draw. I am a record keeper, you might say.” “Like the monks in the abbeys?” “I suppose. I have never met one, so I do not know.” Calen smiled. “What do you draw?” “Flowers…herbs…animals…people. I have drawn you.” “Me?” “Aye. Why would I not etch such a beautiful man.” “I am not beautiful,” he growled while warmth built in him. She had affection in her to match his tenderness. He wanted to hold her forever and protect her from the hardships of life…and give her inks and paints to draw him—and anything else—to her heart’s delight. Losing his battle with himself, Calen wrapped his arms tightly around her and pushed her to the mattress. He rose over her. He leaned forward so his face was a hand’s span from hers and he could look into her eyes rather than have the shining depths completely lost in shadows. “I want you in my bed every night.” Her eyes closed, and she bit her lip. Slowly, she nodded. “I will be here.” Calen relaxed, loving this woman and feeling comfort in her presence. She understood. She belonged with him. Raising up on his knees, he straddled her legs and reached for the shift that hid her from his sight but not his touch. Despite his eagerness, he pulled the cloth slowly up her thighs. His breath caught as her light curls were revealed and he settled the bunched fabric on her belly. Before she could stop him, he moved to lay between her legs, pushing them to rest on his shoulders. His thumbs parted her plump lips to reveal the treasures within. She smelled of arousal and the lye soap she must have used recently. His tongue lapped over her dewy folds. And she tasted of all woman.

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“Calen,” she called, her hand settling against the top of his head…not pushing him away. Holding him there. “Calen,” she breathed. “What do you to me? Oh Calen…” Relentlessly, he lapped at her, tasting the sweet honey that would no doubt drive him wild for days to come. She jolted as he nipped at the tiny bud at the front of her flesh. He soothed it with his tongue, then gathered more of her essence. He could feast on her forever and never stop.

Katherine squeezed her eyes shut and clenched a hand in the blankets as Calen sucked at her pussy. Over and over, his tongue dragged over her and stabbed inside her passage. She writhed beneath him overwhelmed by the sensations and the illicit nature of his caresses. She had never heard of such a thing…but she had never heard of many things. But Calen obviously had. She moaned as he inserted a finger into her passage while he sucked at her nubbin. Sweet heaven the things he did… “Calen!” she screamed as spasms rushed through her like lightning sizzling across the night sky. Her hips shot off the bed, causing another spasm as his lips fit tighter to her. He added another finger, thrusting them inside her while he turned his head and bit the inside of her thigh. “So sweet,” he murmured. “I love the taste of you.” If possible, more honey flooded his fingers. He crawled up her body, until his cock could take the place of his hand. “So sweet,” he repeated against her lips. Katherine groaned at the tangy taste on his tongue. He pushed up her shift while he kissed her, his rod poised at her pussy. He released her mouth momentarily to pull the fabric over her head and toss it to the floor, then his tongue was once again thrusting against hers. A hand slipped beneath her buttocks while the other cupped her breast. Remembering their last time, she lifted her knees around him. She was a mass of sensation. She felt everything at once, like a flame consuming her body. She would miss him so when she fled the castle. “My cock stays hard all day for thoughts of you,” he muttered. The head of his shaft parted her folds as he slowly pressed forward. Katherine’s newly tried passage protested his entrance. He felt so large…larger than she remembered. Her pussy seemed to tingle. She

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needed all of him. She wanted to feel him slamming against her again. Last time had hurt for just a moment, but the rest…oh, it had felt so good. She whispered as much to Calen and he swore under his breath. He did not move. “Tell me you want my cock.” “I want you.” He shook his head, his teeth gleaming even in the dark. “Say ‘Calen, I want your cock’.” “Calen…I want you.” “Cock.” Fire burned up her neck and into her cheeks. “Calen…” she whispered. He kissed her. “I love your sweet mouth, little one.” Slowly, he pushed forward and all words were forgotten as he began the steady push pull into her. Relief so sweet filled her as the ridges in his shaft ran along her needy tissues, yet the tension in her middle continued to build as if she had run up and down a flight of stairs hundreds of time. But it was exhilaration filling fatigue. Suddenly, Calen surged to his knees. He lifted her legs, spreading them and holding them in the crooks his elbows. “I want to see all of you,” he said. “Lift up on your arms. Look at how perfectly my cock slides into your tight pussy.” Her arms wobbled as she pushed up on them. It seemed unbelievable to watch him move his long shaft in and out of her. The sheen of her dampness coated him and she reached out, touching him as he drove forward again. A quiver tore through her, rippling her belly and lifting her from the bed as she stiffened in his arms. His manhood drove deep and hit the back of her passage. She screamed at the jolts that pummelled through her as he stabbed against her womb. Her back arched and only her hands touched the mattress as lights flew before her eyes. She was flying. He had killed her with pleasure. He must have. The bed hit her back and Calen blanketed her. Frantically, kissing her neck and scoring his teeth along her shoulder as his hips continued to drive. The sound of their colliding flesh filled the room, passionate music accompanied by their cries. A moment later, Calen went stiff, the heat of his seed spurting into her. “Calen,” she whispered as she hugged him to her. “Calen.” Tears pricked her eyes and she struggled to hold them back. She never wanted to leave him. But she had to. She had to leave her home forever. Calen was intelligent. Every report she received from Esme confirmed it. It was only a matter of time before he found one of the

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doors to the passages that crisscrossed through the fortress. It would not take him long to find her room…and burn everything in it, possibly including her.

**** For the second morning in as many times with his midnight lover, Calen woke alone in his bed. Rage filled him. How could he have fallen asleep so deeply that she had slipped away? Again! Was she an illusion that disappeared with the first rays of morning? She had stayed with him much of the night, her soft skin pressed to his side and he had loved her a second time, taking her from behind as she had clutched the end of his bed and one of his hands had been buried in her hair. She seemed to like that, her pussy clutching his cock tighter each time he gently tugged her plentiful mane. They had been sated and exhausted. By all that was holy…she had promised to stay with him! Faithless woman. Swinging his feet out of bed, he sat on the edge of the bed and fumed. His brow furrowed. What was this? Laid across his clothing was a curled piece of parchment, one edge more tattered than the others as if it had been torn. Picking it up, Calen stared at the two inked drawings on the page. One showed a man in command, obviously directing people. The other was of his face… I have drawn you… By God’s beard… His mother’s voice echoed in his head. You will know your love… And he did. He just had to…tie her down. He grinned. He knew the turn of his lips was a bit evil, but he did not care. The next time his little bird visited his bed, he would tie her to it. Calen’s resolution, however, did not improve his mood and as soon as he dressed, he stormed toward the great hall like a bear on a rampage. This game was nonsense. He wanted it to be over. “Earning your name this morning?” Alaric commented as he yanked off a hunk of the bread from his hand with his teeth. Calen glared at him.

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“You are in a foul temperament this morning. I will send James to the village to find you a village girl to warm your bed.” He eyed Calen. “Perhaps two.” “I do not need a woman. I need my woman.” Alaric blinked at him. “Say again?” “My woman. The one who comes to me in the night and disappears before morn.” Sitting heavily on one of the new benches, Alaric stared at him. “You have gone mad and nobody noticed.” “I am not mad, you fool.” “What is her name?” Calen looked at him silently then took a drink of Alaric’s mead. “You do not know her name! And you have taken her…well…obviously more than once!” Alaric exclaimed. Calen shoved him. “Shut up.” Taking the place beside his friend, Calen told the tale of the woman who haunted his nights. “She is in the castle somewhere,” Alaric concluded. “We have searched every room.” Alaric made a disgusted sound and knocked Calen aside the head. “If there is a secret door do you not think there might be a secret room.” He shrugged. “No matter, we will find it before you really do go mad. How goes it with the records?” “Dreadfully dull. Perhaps I should rejoin the war…” Alaric shook his head. “You will never find your woman that way.” He tapped his fingers on his chin. “You do not know her name—” “Shut up.” “But you have a few strands of her hair and a picture she drew,” he continued as if Calen had not spoken. “Not a lot to go by. Oh and you have her virginity.” Calen shot to his feet. “You are no friend of mine.” Alaric laughed. “How many times have you disowned me as friend? Three?” “Five.” He stood and put his arm around Calen’s shoulders and Calen considered running him through. Who was the Lord here? He was and Alaric needed to remember that. “Come along, Lord Black Mood,” Alaric laughed. “I would like to see that picture.”

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**** He should be swinging a sword or laying with his woman, not staring at a pile of mouldering books, Calen decided an hour later, as he sat with the record books once again. Alaric had pointed out that the picture was angled as if drawn from above and Calen wondered at that as he restlessly paced the room. Did his lover sit upon the castle’s wall and record images? It hardly seemed likely she would or that he had failed to notice her. So where had she perched and spied on him? Perhaps there was a secret room as Alaric supposed. Calen intended to find it—this eve if possible. He would not again go days without the feel of his woman. As he turned back to the castle’s records, he heartily wished the pages contained descriptions of the villeins, their families and the servants in Warg castle. Today, he had turned from the financial ledgers to the family records and he was far less impressed by their quality. Many of Bryant’s entries were incomplete. Calen had puzzled over them then asked himself why he cared. It was not his family. Perhaps it was Alaric’s love of history rubbing off on him. Rubbing his chin, he studied the book again. Marcus had explained that Bryant had personally kept these records. It might explain the absence of much information. The man had not recorded facts about several of his children—not their births and obviously not their deaths. All girls. Calen’s jaw tightened when he viewed Bryant’s obvious omission. It was as if the man did not consider his daughters as worthy of mention. Something inside of Calen insisted that they be added to the family record. Recording their births and deaths would close the door on the past of the Warg castle and open the door to his era. He supposed he could ask Marcus for the information, but the man was on the hunt with all the others. And Calen needed something to occupy his mind or he would go mad with his thoughts of the woman who had disappeared from his chamber. Through a scouring of the household records, he had found all of the daughters’ names—Mary, Anna, Katherine, Elizabeth, Joanna—and comparing expense entries was able to come up with approximate dates for their births. Each time a member of the family had died, Marcus had marked the financial ledger with the money paid for their removal. Slowly Calen added dates for each member. Bryant, his wife Rebecca, his sons, Michael, Joseph and Peter, and his daughters Mary, Anna, Elizabeth and Joanna.

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Calen stood staring at the books. Where was Katherine…? He stood and paced away from the table. He rubbed his head. Perhaps she had died before the rest of them. It would not be unusual for that to happen. Bryant had had another son die years before the rest of them. Perhaps his daughter too… There was barely a mention of her in any of the books. What if she lived? He closed his eyes. He had no fear that Edward would give her the lands. The king would rather they be run by…well, a man. The lands were well and fairly Calen’s. But if she lived? If she lived, he would see to it that she was cared for. Again the question came…but what if she lives? If she lived there was no one else who would better know secret paths through the castle. Look for the one who is hidden… It could not be as easy as that, could it?

**** “Lady Katherine, you must reconsider,” Esme begged. “You cannot survive outside the castle. Even if you did not have—” Esme broke off and Katherine knew her maid did not want to mention the mark that streaked across her right cheek. She regarded the serving woman, daring her to go on. She was tired of hearing how she could not possibly live if she left the confines of the fortress. Perhaps it was Calen’s influence and the exhilaration of being a woman that gave her courage, but she no longer believed she would perish the moment she left Warg. Though she had been taught to hide her entire life, the reasons no longer rang true. She had often seen the old woman from the village who also had strange markings on her face. A triangle-shape right in the middle of her forehead. Katherine had wondered how the woman dared to show herself. Many gave her wide berth, but she had not been dragged to a pyre. “You do not know how to survive,” Esme finally said. “Your whole life you have been cared for. Everything has been given to you.” Katherine’s jaw set. The maid’s words made her sound spoiled, and she was far from it. She would have worked in the fields had she been allowed. “I will learn,” she grated. Esme’s eyes went wide and her lips pressed together, then she headed for the door from the chamber. “I will see you tomorrow?” she asked hesitantly.

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Katherine nodded. Much as she wanted to leave today, she could not. There was too much to plan. She wanted to take her journals with her, but she could not and what use would they be to her? Rising she went to the book where she had worked that morning. She would remove another page and give it to Calen before she departed. Heat suffused her cheeks at the subject. The two of them as he had knelt, filling her sheath and she had watched. The erotic image made her want him all the more. So did the play in the courtyard this afternoon. Calen had set apart a field to one side where he and his men trained. The clang of their weapons reached her as they valiantly tried to kill each other. They had removed their tunics and moved around the yard with such speed she was sure they would all be impaled by stray sword points, but none were injured. Calen looked the strongest of the lot. Katherine sighed as she leaned on the window frame and watched the sun gleam off the sweat coating his back. He knocked away all the other blades with ease. She sighed. It was good that it was still warm and she could leave the heavy wooden shutter off the opening. She would miss this display if she was closed in. But tomorrow it would not matter. Tonight was her last night in Warg castle—first she would lay with Calen one last time and say goodbye.

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Chapter Four

“Katherine,” Calen said as he came awake almost the instant she entered his chamber. He did not move from the bed, only turned his head towards her. She paused, meeting his eyes in the darkness. Her arms crossed over her middle while she desperately tried to swallow around the stone in her throat. “That is your name,” he continued quietly. “Is it not?” Even across the room, she felt it. The anger that edged his calm tone. He was not calm at all. He was ready to flay her. She nodded then realised he might not see her. “Aye.” Her voice sounded as if she had eaten sand, and her mouth was as dry. Her heart beat as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wings. Oh to truly be a bird and be able to fly away. She had intended one more romp, the feel of his skin on hers. Now, panic filled her. Did he know of her mark? Would he revile her? It was fear of his revulsion which had driven her to her decision to leave the castle before he discovered the truth. “Why do you hide? Why did you not come forward and ask the king for assistance?” She shrugged. Did he not know? “How did you discover?” she asked. Surely Esme had not told of her existence. Had she pushed her maid too far? Angered her enough to betray? “Marcus keeps quite remarkable journals. Your father did not. When I compared them and filled in the dates…yours was the only one lacking a date of death. Could it be possible that a daughter survived the plague? I asked myself…who else would know of secret ways through the castle? An off-spring of the former lord? Then I questioned Marcus. He is a remarkably bad liar, but I did not press the matter. I left it for you to answer.” She bowed her head. “Please do not harm him. He wished only to protect me.” Calen growled deep in his throat and she took a step backward, suddenly afraid of his anger. He jerked upright swinging from the bed and stalking her. She backed away until her back hit the wall. She dared not open the secret door though it was only a few feet to her left. He would catch her before she made it half a step. His arms caged her, falling on either side to prevent any escape. “You are mine, Katherine. You. Will. Not. Leave.”

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For a moment she thought he meant the castle and the escape she had planned. Belatedly she realised he meant the room. Her breathing came so rapidly her breasts brushed his chest with each frantic intake of air. “What do you intend?” she asked. “Did your father ever whip you?” A steely hand shackled her hand and he dragged her away from the wall. She stumbled as he pulled her towards the bed. “No,” she gasped. “Did it amuse you to play games with me? To make me mad with frustration each time you ran from me?” “My lord, please…” she begged. He grabbed a length of linen from the bed and her eyes widened. He had planned for her to arrive and for himself to— “No,” she cried, struggling as he forced her arms around the wide poster of his massive bed. Quickly, he tied her hands together, trapping her against it. He swung her hair over her shoulder, baring her back. “What did you intend today, little one? You have come fully clothed. Did my loving not make you happy yester’eve? You came to taunt me with what I could not have?” She closed her eyes, pressing her cheek to the smooth wood of the poster. She had intended to say goodbye. To slowly remove her clothes for him… To show him her love in the only way she knew how. She wanted to be with him daily. To talk with him and touch his arm as they spoke. To eat a meal with him and share a cup. To gaze on him in the daylight while she was close to him and not high above in a tower. To have him look on her and to see love in his eyes, not repulsion. “Clothes are not an obstacle, beloved.” She felt the cold steel at her neck before he pulled it away and sliced through layers of her garments, laying her back bare. Her sleeves were cut away until the scraps hung around her waist. The dagger fell to the floor, and with a mighty yank and a hiss of fabric, so did the rest of her clothes. God help her, her pussy grew damp from his proprietary actions. He cared enough to want her, to show her how denial made him mad with frustration, to stake a claim. She bit her lip and hoped he would not hurt her.

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His lips on her neck was her first clue. They travelled down her spine as she shivered in the chilly room. Funny how she had never noticed the chill in the past, but always before, he had been holding her and giving her his heat. He knelt behind her laving one buttock then the other while his hand reached around to cover her pussy. A finger slipped between the folds to find her heated passage. He easily slid through the slick moisture. “I will keep you my prisoner. My slave to all the whims of my desire,” he whispered against the small of her back. “No,” she whispered. He could not have her here in daylight. He would see. He would hate her. “Oh…aye,” he breathed. “I want you beneath me both day and night.” Two fingers thrust repeatedly into her sheath. “I want my seed buried in you until you are heavy with my son. And then another…and another. I want to take you in every way it is possible for a man to take a woman and listen to your sweet impassioned cries every night before I sleep.” Already her cries were starting to fill the room as his fingers drove her towards release. His thumb brushed the nub at the front of her sex, rubbing it as she shuddered. “You will be mine and you will never again run.” “Calen,” she screamed as her climax over took her and she shook against the hard wood. Her knees gave out and she hung there supported only by his strong arm. The picture he painted settled in her, bittersweet want of what could be but never would. He wanted her as his mate, perhaps his wife. The woman who would always be at his side. His plan would change when morning came… Sliding her arms around the post, he lifted her to stand on the bed and climbed up behind her. She realised if she stretched up just a bit, she could free herself, but before she could try, he bent her forward. His feet kicked her feet apart until her behind was in the air, an offering to the irate lord. She would offer him anything if he would give her freedom. Eventually. She had no desire to leave his chamber until he thoroughly claimed her. No matter what happened tomorrow, her body would always be his. Calen’s fingers dug into her hips and he slid solidly into her pussy. There was no hesitation, no slow entry, he simply slammed forward. “Mine,” he growled. “Mine,” he repeated with each powerful stroke.

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She braced her arms against the wood as he thrust into her, and she wanted him so badly. She could not deny the juice that dripped to her thighs as he worked in and out. He might act like a primitive beast but she wanted every second of it. Just as she thought she might collapse from pleasure, Calen pulled free. He leapt from the bed and grabbed his dagger. A moment later, he sliced through the linen holding her hands. Katherine collapsed with relief but that was apparently, what he had wanted. Before she could stop him, he had her hands tied above her head and attached to the headboard. She could not stop anything he might do. Excitement flooded her, drowning out all other thoughts or fears. “What now, my lord?” she asked, her voice sultry with desire. “I want you to take my cock…in your mouth.” In her mouth? Was that done? She was convinced that Calen would never hurt her— physically. She rolled to her side, as best she could with her hands bound, and opened her mouth. “Little bird, you are the perfect lover,” he told her as he leaned over her and brought his rod to her mouth. The head of it, stretched her lips wide, and she flicked her tongue over it, catching the taste of herself and the salty droplet that formed on the slit. She hummed her approval as Calen groaned and pushed forward. Imitating her pussy, she worked up down his shaft, bringing half of him into her mouth before sliding backwards. The noises he made urged her on, telling her she was doing this task to his extreme satisfaction. His sounds made her hot and her breasts grew tight. She wanted him to squeeze them and tease the nipples as he had before. He would, later, she decided, and pressed her tongue to the underside of his erection. Calen shuddered, his grunt resonating throughout the room. “Enough or I will lose myself in your mouth, rather than your pussy,” he growled. She smiled licking her lips as he pulled away. Both would have been nice. She turned so she lay on her back, her legs parted and bent. “You are a wanton one,” he laughed. She shook her head, slowly. “I am your slave.” “How I will love having you in my bed every night,” he said. He moved between her thighs and leaned forward to capture a breast in his mouth. He suckled at it ravenously,

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pulling and licking until she was yanking at her restraints to get free. Want coiled in her middle, tightening with each tug of his mouth. “Take me,” she begged. “Please take me.” He ignored her pleas, working her to a physical frenzy as she twisted beneath him, lifting her hips in mindless need. Over and over he brought her to the edge only to back off and refuse her relief. “Please Calen,” she pleaded. “Please…I need your cock.” She said the last word so quietly even she barely heard it. He paused and stared down at her. “And why should I reward such a naughty slave.” His cock prodded her opening. “Please…” “Why?” “I need…” That had not worked before. “I will…” She closed her eyes. “I will show you the secret door.” Calen’s cock surged home, filling her and she knew perfection. “Aye…” she moaned, pressing her feet into the mattress and meeting him stroke for stroke. “Aye, Calen. Aye…I am yours.”

**** He had not believed her and who could blame him. Katherine lay in the dark beside him, her hands still bound above her head. Calen apparently thought she would escape as soon as he drifted off to sleep. Intelligent man, but she had known that. His hand rested on her belly as he lay facing her, his deep breathing telling her he had drifted to sleep. She would have liked a blanket pulled over herself, but she did not wake him to ask. Instead, she stealthily worked the knots on her restraints. She could not be here come morning. She could not see his face when he spied the ugly mark on her face. She could not get the knots undone but one loop was loose enough that she worked a hand free. Minutes later her other was free as well. Carefully, she moved his arm off her and slipped off the bed, tears in her eyes. She could not even kiss him goodbye. Not bothering with her destroyed clothes, she dashed towards the secret door and slid the hidden release.

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“Katherine!” Calen bellowed. There was no mistaking the sound as he thundered from the bed on her heels. Slipping through the door, she turned and slammed it just before he could reach her. Sobbing, she leaned her head against the wall, listening to his bellows and remembering the distraught look on his face as he had realised he was too late to stop her.

**** Calen slouched in his chair in the great hall, mead in one hand, a cloak of foul humour surrounding him. Around him, his men and servants uneasily awaited his retirement to his chamber so they could begin their evening activities. He had seen their sideways glances and whispers. Still, he delayed. Katherine was not coming back. He had known it the second he had heard her heartwrenching sobs through the wall. He had been unable to get to her. His fingers were raw from trying to find the release that would open the wall. His chest hurt from the pain filling him. He had torn apart the castle trying to find her, but he knew he could not. A man had been sent to retrieve Marcus from the hunt on which he had left that the previous day after Calen had questioned him. His wife Esme was nowhere to be found. Tomorrow, he would order labourers to break through the wall so he could get to the passage. Instinctively, he knew he would enter it no other way. Katherine had promised to show him the door—and she had. She just had not let him inside. Why did she keep running? Alaric sat beside him as he took another gulp of mead. Perhaps if he got drunk, he would forget that Katherine would never willingly warm his bed again. “Calen, your scowls are scaring the men,” Alaric commented, surveying the room. “Not tonight, Alaric. Leave me in my misery.” “I have news…news you might like to hear.” “What is it?” Calen growled. Could it possibly be another plague. He would stand in its path and pray for death. He stared into his ale. He did not want death. He wanted Katherine. “I spied your lady love,” his friend said. “Where?” he asked anxiously. “Tell me!”

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“Recall that I observed that the drawing was made from above? She resides in the tower above the practice field.” He pressed his hand firmly on Calen’s shoulder to keep him from rising. “Listen,” he ordered. “I went there. There is no door to her room. The chamber below. The chamber above. Aye. But not hers.” “How…? The passage,” Calen sighed. He would likely have as much luck finding it as the secret door in his chamber.

**** Fear tumbled around in Katherine’s belly with such force she thought she might be sick. Dressed in travelling clothes, a heavy cloak and leather boots rather than slippers, she slipped open the door in the hallway between the great hall and the pantry. Seeing no one, she crept out. Normally, the men in the hall were occupied with sleep or sex by now. No one would notice her as she snuck into the pantry. Despite her terror of the outside world, she had to leave. Last night had proved that. She could not trust Calen not to hold her until daylight. And then he would shove her from him as fast as he could. She sniffled, forcing away the tears that had hounded her all day while she had waited for night to fall. She had had plenty of time to plan and to mourn her loss. She would journey far from here. Learn a skill…forget her former life and the man she would have liked to have belonged to. She would never forget Calen. She was such a fool. She should never have ventured into his chamber that first time. And she should never have returned. If she stayed, she knew she would go back and he would bind her again, then tie her in knots she would never escape. Silently, she padded into the pantry. She needed sustenance for her journey wherever it might be. Even in the near dark, she knew the shelves well. Quickly, she stuffed bread, cheese and some dried meat into the satchel she carried, then turned to leave. “What do we have here?” a coarse voice chuckled. “A little thief. Simeon, look.” Her eyes went wide as she saw the large body filling the doorway. A second equally large man stood beside him, a malicious sneer on his face.

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The man yanked off her hood, revealing her face. He leered at her, a bit of spittle at the corner of his mouth. “She a beauty, Thomas,” his friend commented. “Too bad she has the devil’s mark on her skin.” “No mark will stop me. Then we will see she burns. For bewitching us.” Thomas cackled. “After.” Terror flooded through her. After? There was no doubt as to what these men intended. She had little hope of stopping them. She was not strong enough the wrench free of their steely grip. Her father’s fear had come to fruition and she had not even left the castle. “What should we do with you, thief?” Simeon demanded. “Let me go!” she demanded. “In good time.” He leaned forward, and she cringed at his foul breath. “But first, I intend to let go inside you. I bet your cunt is hot for a man like me.” “No, let me go.” Her demands turned to screams as they pulled her hood back over her head then dragged her, kicking at them and struggling to free her arms, into the great hall and towards the doors that lead outside. Her fight was to no avail. They each held an arm and her screams drew no help. “Stop!” Katherine’s knees nearly buckled as Calen’s voice thundered through the hall. No. Not like this. He could not see her like this. Not after she had fought so hard to keep her deformity from his sight. “What have you there?” he demanded. “Shite,” Simeon swore under his breath. Reluctantly, he and his companion pulled her back towards Calen and forced her to kneel. A hand squeezed the back of her neck, holding her there. Please, Calen do not hate me. Do not let me see the horror in your eyes. Turn away before I see it. “A thief,” Thomas reported. “Stealing from the pantry. We were tossing him out.” “Him?” Calen growled. His booted feet came into view. “Those screams belonged to no man. Perhaps we should look again.” “Yes, my lord,” the man replied meekly, his courage fleeing in the face of his liege. Viciously, he yanked back her hood, pulling her hair in the process. Immediately, he grabbed her locks and dragged her head backward.

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Tears filled Katherine’s eyes as she was forced to look up at Calen. Her curls fell away from her face, and she knew he could see her blemish as the bright firelight played over the torch-lit room. Now he would shun her. He would send her from his presence…let these men have her…burn her. If he recognised her at all. “Please, my lord,” she whispered. She met his eyes and waited to see him revile her. He stared at her, his fists clenched. His lips parted and his chest rose and fell as if he struggled to breathe. There was no horror in his face. No revulsion in his eyes. “Release her,” he ordered, and the man immediately complied. She fell forward as the yanking stopped. Only her hands flying out in front of her kept her face from slamming into Calen’s boots. “Katherine,” he gasped. “My beloved.” He pulled her to her feet and she stared at him. Sweet heaven…that was relief in his eyes. Her thighs trembled. She was dreaming. Strong arms were not catching her, were not lifting her. They could not possibly be. She looked at Calen’s face to find him gazing at her with such great love she thought she might expire from the joy filling her chest. He glanced over at the man who was oft his companion, a man who beamed with her with nearly the same happiness she felt. “Deal with them,” Calen told him. “Gladly—” Without waiting for his friend to finish, Calen carried her from the hall. “I thought I might perish when you left me. Never leave me again. I love you, little bird.” “I was afraid…” “I will never hurt you. You mean everything to me.” The words he whispered settled in her heart pushing out her fear. This was not a game to him. Though he saw her in the light, he still wanted her. “Calen…” His chamber’s door slammed behind them as he kicked it shut then set her on her feet. A servant had set a blazing fire in the hearth. There was no hiding in the shadows. She lifted her hands and gathered her tresses behind her, sweeping them away from her face. She wanted no mistake now. Her heart would break if he had not seen her mark and later shunned her.

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He dragged his thumb over her bottom lip, his eyes shining with his desire for her. “So beautiful,” he said. His lips took hers hungrily as he crushed her to his body, his thigh pressing between hers. “Katherine when I think of what could have happened to you…with those men—or what could have happened if you had actually succeeded in fleeing the castle… It is almost too much. I could not bear it. I would kill anyone who touched you. I would kill anyone who hurt you.” His hands banded on her upper arms. “Never hide from me again. Never leave me.” “I will not.” He closed his eyes, and she saw him fighting with himself. His body shook with his struggle, then he lifted a hand to plough through his ebony hair. His eyes were a torrent of emotion. Pain, disbelief, hope. “My own little bird, I have filled your secret spaces. Now, I need you to show me where you hide.” She understood immediately. He still feared she would run from him at the first chance. She cupped his cheek. “Calen, I was so afraid. But you have given me nothing to fear but the loneliness I knew I would feel if we were parted. I am sorry I did not trust you. Please believe that I will never leave you.” She bit her lip. Knowing words alone were not enough, she took his hand then led him to the hidden door and showed him the latch. Calen opened it, then closed the door, then retried it, learning the mechanism. She waited patiently for him while he lit a lamp then let him hold her tightly as she led the way through the warren that took them to her chamber. Inside, he glanced around the spacious chamber, and she waited as he took in her meagre possessions. His gaze settled momentarily on the picture of them, before it turned back to her. Silently, he set the light on the table near her bed. Pulling her into his arms, he gently laid her on the pillows covering her bed and in full light, he covered her with his body. He seemed in no hurry to disrobe her. Sex was not important, she realised. No, it was important. It just was not the most important part of their life. Calen was content to hold her and study her face. Sex would come later. “But my mark…” she said. He shrugged and tenderly kissed her. She pushed a hand to his chest. “How can you want me?” she asked in wonder. “They say I am marked by the devil.”

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He smiled roguishly. “Some say I am the devil. I have felt you. You are my angel.” He splayed his hand on the side of her face. His forefinger stretched over the streak. “A perfect fit,” he said. “You were marked for me, and all along, you have just been here waiting for me to find you. Because you belong to me, my hidden treasure.” He stroked her cheek. “This does not lessen your beauty. You are exquisite. Every part of you. But…I understand why you kept running.” “Never again. I love you Calen.” He grinned, unfastening the brooch that held closed her cloak. He spread it open and reached for her tunic. “There is nowhere you can hide that I will not find you. Not even in the dark.”

AUTHOR NOTE: The black plague is said to have entered England through Weymouth in 1348. It was called “The Great Plague” or “The Great Pestilence” at the time, and killed 3050% of the country’s population. Though it subsided there by 1350, reoccurrences show that it never really left England for several hundred years thereafter with the last major outbreak ending in 1666. The plague said to have killed Katherine Wolf’s family in my story took place during that initial period and, most assuredly, never struck her family line again.

About the Author

When it comes to books and movies, Brynn Paulin has one rule: there must be a happy ending. After that one requirement, anything else goes. And it just might in any of her books. Brynn lives in Michigan with her husband and two children, who love her despite her occasional threats to smite them. They humour her and let her think she's a goddess...as long as she provides homemade chocolate chip cookies on a regular basis. Brynn is president of her local chapter of Romance Writers of America and also hosts a weekly writing critique group. She’s conducted workshops at several writers’ conferences around the country as she enjoys mentoring and meeting new people. According to Brynn, her writing success can be attributed to 70's music, her local road construction crews, a trusty notebook, and of course, her husband (and willing research subject), AKA Mr. Inspiration.

Email: [email protected] Brynn loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

Also by Brynn Paulin Redemption: Fallen Redemption: Incubus Tribute for the Goddess Circle of Three: Tempting Tamera Circle of Three: Phantoms’ Pleasure Legend: A Legend Arises Legend: A Legend Accomplished

SHORTEST NIGHT Lisabet Sarai

Dedication To Bathsheba

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Chapter One

“No, no! Stroke him! Caress him! You must show the audience that you are completely besotted with the creature.” Master Will was in high choler, that was certain. Poor Ben! The quaver in his youthful voice lent credence to his womanly role. “I am most sorry, sir. But in truth, the mask smells something horrible. I can scarcely bear to touch the hairy thing.” Ben rose, dumping the other actor from his lap and wringing his hands prettily. Hugh admired the strong, graceful limbs half-revealed by the gauzy robe of the fairy queen the boy was impersonating. “Please, Master. Could you not change the script to have me admiring him from a distance? The stench makes it hard for me to breathe, let alone speak the lines.” “Ben, this is the theatre. We must suffer for our art. We must give our all for the audience. Or have you changed your mind about wanting to be one of the Company?” “No, of course not, sir. You know that is my fondest dream.” “Then follow my direction, sit down, and give us the lines again.” With a sigh, Ben re-seated himself on the stage with his back against the column that simulated some ancient tree in the heart of the forest. Trying not to grimace, he cradled Harold Warwick’s masked head between his thighs. Hugh imagined his own head there, in lieu, burrowing down into Ben’s crotch. He smiled to himself at the image. He, for one, didn’t intend to suffer at Will’s beck and call. “Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed. While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, And stick musk roses in thy sleek smooth head, And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.” Ben’s voice was high and clear, his cheeks still blushingly smooth. He’d scarce turned eighteen, according to Company gossip, when he abandoned his father’s Herefordshire farm to try the boards in London. Some spoke of a girl big with child, left behind, but Hugh didn’t believe it. He was willing to swear that Ben was an innocent, untouched by either sex. He

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should know, having corrupted and enjoyed a virtual army of virgins in his ten years on the stage. Speaking of which, his cue was coming. He straightened his laurel wreath and came out from behind the column where he’d been lounging. John Marks, playing Puck, approached from the opposite side. “Welcome, Robin. See’st thou this sweet sight? Her dotage now I do begin to pity…” Hugh ventured closer to the form collapsed in simulated sleep at the foot of the column. He stroked Ben’s brow lovingly. The boy’s skin was deliciously soft. “Now, my Titania, wake you, my sweet queen.” Ben’s eyes flew open at Hugh’s touch. They were an astonishing shade of green, like the jade beads on the robe recently presented to Her Majesty by the prince of Persia, and were fringed by thick lashes the same auburn hue as the boy’s hair. Ben’s eyes were true windows into his soul, limpid, peaceful, empty of guile. “My Oberon!” Ben lisped, the female intonation perfect. “What visions I have seen! Methought I was enamoured of an ass.” Hugh fought the urge to kiss the boy’s ripe lips. Time enough for that later. The rest of the scene proceeded well enough that even Will was pleased. They’d be ready, just barely, for the first performance on the morrow. Despite his lack of experience, Ben had some talent, at least for the woman’s part. What other talents he possessed, Hugh would hopefully discover soon.

**** Hugh banged his tankard on the plank table. “A toast! To the newest Lord Chamberlain’s man, Ben Hastings! Long may he tread the boards!” The dozen or so members of the Company present cheered and drank deep. Ben just blushed. He knew the opening had gone well. He’d mastered his revulsion and done a credible job as the benighted Titania. He remembered the thrill of the applause, the shouts and the whistles, as he curtseyed, hand in hand with Oberon. He could still feel Hugh’s fingers entwined with his own; the vivid recollection made him a bit breathless and queasy. He wasn’t used to this much excitement.

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“Speech, speech!” Hugh called. “Give us more of your dulcet tones! Wench! Another round of ale, and be quick about it.” The slender blonde serving girl pushed a few wayward curls back under her cap and headed for the hogsheads. Ben stood a bit unsteady on his feet. He’d lost track of how long they’d been here, how much ale he’d consumed. He folded one hand over the other, as if he was back in grammar school, and tried to decide what to say. Hugh caught his eye. Unlike Ben, the dashing leading man seemed none the worse for drink. His dark eyes sparkled. Black curls tumbled over his forehead, a dramatic contrast to his pale Irish complexion. In the sweltering tavern, he’d opened his doublet almost to the waist. Ben noticed matching jet ringlets on his chest, matted with sweat. The actor was smiling encouragement, but the puckered scar at the left corner of his mouth gave all Hugh’s smiles a slight sardonic cast. Still, Ben read kindness in Hugh’s face, and something else, an eagerness that Ben didn’t fully understand. “I thank you for your congratulations, gentlemen, and also for your forbearance in overlooking my many mistakes over the last weeks. I hope that I can continue to do the Company proud.” The barmaid returned with a loaded tray. Someone stuck a full pot into his hand. “Drink up, boy! Build your strength for tomorrow’s performance.” Ben took a sip of the viscous, bitter liquid. He swayed back and forth, seeking his balance as he tried to continue. “I especially want to thank—hic—Master Hugh, who has given so much of his time to showing me the ropes…” “Nonsense, boy. I’ve enjoyed it.” Hugh stood beside him, an arm around Ben’s shoulder. Ben leaned against him, grateful for the enhanced stability. “I’m looking forward to working with you more closely.” Ben lurched forward, spilling some of his ale on the earthen floor. “Umm—I—you…” Hugh pried Ben’s fingers from the tankard and set it on the table. “I think that you’ve had enough for tonight, Ben.” He signalled to the tavern maid. “Girl! Have you a room where my friend can lie down?” Ben was conscious enough to note the odd expression on the wench’s face. Sympathy for him, he thought, but a steely resentment aimed at the man supporting him. Can’t you see, he wanted to protest, that he’s my truest friend here?

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Lips pressed together into a thin line, she gestured impatiently to Hugh. “Upstairs. No one’s using the front room tonight. It’s four pence, in advance.” Hugh dropped a few coins into her palm. She turned and led the way through a dingy corridor to the narrow stairway. “Turn right at the landing. I don’t suppose that you’ll be wanting a fire, with the night so warm.” “No, we’ll be fine, child.” Hugh beamed at her. Ben could see that he was trying to win her over with charm. “But do send up two gills of your best sack, will you?” “Very well, sir. I’ll be up in a moment.” Ben heard Harold Warwick’s gruff voice, and then the roar of laughter coming from the taproom. For a moment, he wished that he were back with the remainder of the company. Hugh held him tight around the waist, but somehow he didn’t feel stable or safe. A hand slipped down the back of his hose, a callused palm brushing over his bare buttocks. He stumbled on the uneven treads. “There now, Ben. Just relax. Lean on me. I’ll get you upstairs, where we can be all nice and cosy and private.” The hand stroked his naked flesh, sending prickles of electricity up his spine, shocking but oddly pleasant. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll take good care of you.” The climb seemed endless. Ben lapsed into a dreamy sort of half-consciousness. As they reached the top, though, he suddenly felt the eyes of the serving girl upon them, watching the hand’s progress under his clothes. He realised that his cock was getting harder by the second, from the hand or perhaps from her eyes. He wasn’t sure which. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, though, Ben could scarcely walk—quite aside from his state of intoxication.

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Chapter Two

Jenny was sorely tempted to walk into the upstairs room without any warning. It was only the recollection of her father’s last strapping that made her knock. “Your wine, sir.” The older man—Hugh Templeton, she recalled from her last trip to the theatre—opened the door. His points were unlaced and his feet were bare. His broad smile was calculated to disarm her, but it had the opposite effect, deepening her distrust of this handsome, facile man. Peering past him, she saw that he had removed all the cushions from the benches and stools, and scattered them on top of the floor rushes. The younger man lay upon the cushions, in an even more advanced state of undress. He appeared to be wearing nothing more than a shirt which barely covered his privates. Jenny tried not to stare. “Do you need anything else?” She deliberately dropped the honorific. “No, we’ll be fine. My friend just needs to rest. Don’t disturb us.” Rest? Not precious likely, Jenny thought. She’d heard rumours about the dashing and charismatic actor. Now she was desperately curious to learn the truth about that gossip. She made her way down the stairs, heavy footed, then tiptoed silently back up. The room had a lock, but the key had disappeared long ago. Crouching down on her haunches, she applied one eye to the keyhole. Templeton was on his knees next to the supine figure of the younger man—Ben, that’s what they had called him. It took a moment for Jenny to realise that Templeton was working away at Ben’s erect cock, which reared straight up towards the ceiling from a curly red-gold tangle at Ben’s groin. Fascinated, she watched Hugh stroke the rigid flesh from the cherrylike tip to the firm root, which he could barely encompass with his hand. She had seen male organs before, of course, but only in furtive glimpses. She’d never had this kind of luxury to observe all the remarkable details. The way that the veins wound around the swollen rod like vines around a great tree trunk; the stark contrast between the ruddy bulb and the pale shaft; the glistening moisture that collected in the delicate slit at the apex. Saliva pooled in Jenny’s mouth as she followed the motions of Templeton’s fingers, smoothing the liquid over the spongy cap. She felt a desperate desire to taste the precious

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fluid milked from the beautiful, unconscious man on the floor. As if a party to her secret thoughts, Templeton bent, covered the rampant organ with his mouth, and started to suck. A bright flash of heat bloomed between Jenny’s thighs. She wanted that graceful, straining dick for herself. She was a virgin still, at least officially, but she was a curious, observant and somewhat rebellious young woman. She understood the rudiments of desire. She had experimented on her own body and knew how to coax paroxysms of pleasure from the juicy folds between her thighs. Her fingers crept under her skirts as she watched Templeton loose his own dick and stroke it in time with his suckling. All at once, Ben shook himself and sat halfway up. “In God’s name, what are you doing?” Templeton merely sucked harder. Ben groaned. “Hugh, no! Wait! Please…” “Am I hurting you, Ben?” “Oh God, no, not at all. It’s just…” “What, then?” “Well, I never—ah—I mean back home, two men…” “You’re in London now, Ben. The greatest city in the world. You don’t need to be bound by old-fashioned country prejudices.” “Are you saying that here in London, men…?” “Here in London there are no rules. We are free to seek our dreams and our pleasures.” Templeton rose to his feet and helped Ben to follow suit. “Let me show you. Put your hands on my shoulders for support. Now relax and enjoy yourself.” Templeton knelt at Ben’s feet and reapplied his mouth to Ben’s delightfully bobbing dick. Ben gasped. Now Jenny couldn’t see in detail what the older man was doing; his tousled black head blocked her view. However, she could pretty well guess, based on Ben’s vocalisations and expressions. Ben’s eyes were screwed shut, his mouth set in a grimace of pleasure. He clutched Templeton’s shoulders, white-knuckled, all the while thrusting his pelvis into Templeton’s face. The older man gripped Ben’s hips, pulling him deeper. Ben groaned and bucked, clearly close to spending. Tossed on the tides of desire, the young man was irresistible. His handsome face, normally almost too pretty, turned raw and vulnerable when racked with lust. As he rammed his dick down his partner’s throat, the force sculpted his boyish limbs into more manly shapes. His thighs were columns of corded muscle, his arms were rippling iron bands.

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Jenny worked her hands inside her cunny, hopelessly frustrated because she couldn’t see more. She’d never seen a man spend. She held her breath as the tension rose, praying that her desire would be granted. All at once, Ben yelled, loud enough, Jenny was certain, to be heard downstairs. Templeton released his hold on the younger man just in time for Jenny to see milky gobs of Ben’s spend flying through the air. Some of it landed on Templeton’s black-furred chest, where it hung suspended like grey pearls. A few drops gathered on the actor’s lips, which were curled into a satisfied smile. He pulled Ben into a sloppy kiss, smearing the droplets across Ben’s full lips. At the sight, Jenny finally came, one fist in her mouth to stifle her screams, the other pressed against her throbbing clitoris. She was crumpled on the threshold when she came to herself, a sticky hand still between her thighs. Her father’s harsh voice rose from below, hollering her name along with every curse and slur that he could invent. If she didn’t get downstairs soon, there would truly be hell to pay. Hastily she rose and adjusted her clothing as best she could. But she couldn’t resist taking one last peek through the keyhole. The two men were in profile, Ben leaning over with his hands on the table, Templeton standing behind him. In the candlelight, it was difficult to determine the details. To Jenny, though, it looked as though Templeton was holding Ben’s buttocks open, and applying his tongue to the hidden entrance between them. She came again, a sharp spasm like lightning arcing through her, without even touching herself.

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Chapter Three

Ben woke near dawn on the floor of the tavern. The quiet was astonishing. He heard no cart wheels clattering across the cobbles, no calling hawkers. He might have been back on the farm. The only sound was a train of soft, regular snores coming from the naked man stretched out beside him. Hugh. Ben winced as memories of the night came rushing back. The actor sprawled grandly on the cushions, his powerful limbs relaxed in sleep. Hugh’s cock cradled soft against his thigh. Ben had an almost overpowering urge to stroke it, but he didn’t dare. Didn’t really want to. Didn’t know what he wanted, after all. He admired Hugh. He respected Hugh. He was grateful for all the help the older man had provided, all the tips on interpreting the script and reading the audience, all the insider tricks for getting the best of Master Will. But this—this physical connection between them— Ben didn’t know what to think. This couldn’t be normal, couldn’t be right. Yet when Hugh touched him, he had to admit, the pleasure was beyond anything he’d ever imagined, let alone experienced. Ben’s head was surprising clear, considering all the ale he had consumed. He remembered all the details. His first spend, scattering his seed obscenely in Hugh’s face. His second, as Hugh circled his anus with an agile tongue and penetrated it with long, probing fingers. Hugh had wanted more, had wanted to bugger him. Unbelievably, Ben had wanted that too. But spittle was not enough to ease in Hugh’s huge organ, and they had to stop, to wait, Hugh said, until they could secure some goose fat, and then he’d truly take Ben to the gates of heaven. Heaven. Dear God, Ben prayed, forgive me if I have offended Thee. I am a lost lamb, wandering in the wilderness. Show me the way that I may choose what is right and good in Thy sight. A short prayer, but somehow it made Ben feel more confident. He rose and dressed then slipped downstairs to the tavern’s main room, leaving Hugh asleep.

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At first, the room appeared to be empty. Then Ben spied movement by the hearth. The serving wench was stirring up the fire under a kettle of something that smelled like soup. The aroma made his stomach twist, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since last sunset. He watched the girl for a few minutes before making his presence known. She moved with a quiet efficiency that appealed to him, building the coals into a glowing pile, coaxing the flame with the bellows, laying two loaves by the hearth to warm. She was built as slightly as a child, with modest breasts and slender hips, but Ben thought she must be close to his age. Her features were regular; her expression suggested stubbornness. Her hair was her crowning glory, a profusion of blonde curls that tumbled halfway down her back. Even as he noticed, though, she pulled a cap out of her apron pocket and stuffed her hair into it with an impatience that made him smile. “Good morrow, Miss,” he said finally. She looked up, annoyed, guilty to have been caught unawares though her activities seemed completely innocent. When she recognised him, however, a warm smile replaced her irritation. “Ah, Master Player. Good morrow. Did you sleep well?” Ben heard the hint of laughter in her voice. Was it only because of his drunken exit the previous evening, or did she know more? “Well enough, thank you. I ask your pardon for my excessive intoxication last night. I did not behave like a gentleman.” Ben was surprised to hear himself speak so fair. It must be the influence of Master Will’s verse. “This is a drinking house. We’re quite accustomed to intoxication in all its forms.” “Even so…” She waved him into silence, placing a steaming bowl and a hunk of bread on the trestle in front of him. Then she sat opposite, staring at him until he lowered his gaze in embarrassment. “Tell me,” she said finally. “Tell me what it’s like to be on the stage.” “Well, I have only been a player for a few weeks.” He dipped his spoon into the bowl to cover his confusion. “I’ve only played women’s parts, so far. Because I’m young and mostly unbearded. Someday, though, I’ll play a general. Or a king.” “Or even, perhaps, a god. You are handsome enough.” Something in her voice made him look up from his breakfast. The intensity of her gaze was unnerving. It was hot, like the sun beating down on a field in high summer. Under that

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gaze, his cock began to swell and harden. That reminded him of Hugh, which only made him harder still. He blushed, hopelessly, not knowing how to handle this brazen, unladylike person. She reached across the table to put her hand on his. “I want you, Ben. As my first lover.” He snatched his hand away as if burned. “What?” She sat back and brushed a wayward curl from her eyes. Her bodice was half open; he could see the way her breasts rose and fell with her breath. “I want you. I think I love you. I know that I desire you. Will you have me? I’m a far better choice for you than that old lecher Templeton.” Ben’s stomach lurched. Only with a supreme effort did he avoid vomiting all that he had eaten. “I don’t know what you are saying,” he choked out, standing and backing away from her. “What nonsense…?” “Just because I’m a virgin doesn’t mean that I’m naïve. I saw you. The two of you. Last night.” “No…!” “Don’t worry, I’ll not tell anyone. But you should forget him, Ben, forget him and choose me. Help me to escape from my dog of a father, and I’ll help make you the greatest actor of our time.” “No—I—um, I have to be going, Miss. I have a performance this afternoon.” He tried to make it to the door, but somehow, she managed to block his way. She grabbed his two hands in hers and locked her eyes on his. “Please. Think about it. My name is Jenny.” “I’ve got to go…” Ben was close to total panic. Jenny stood on tiptoe and lightly kissed his lips. “Go, then. But you’ll see me again, before long.” She stepped out of his path. He raced out into the street as if pursued by the devil.

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Chapter Four

Hugh sat brooding in the upper gallery, shaded by the thatched roof. Below, the players milled around, ant-like, in the central courtyard. They chatted or stretched their muscles, taking a break from rehearsal. There was a performance at three, but Master Will had penned some new stanzas, and he insisted the company attempt a full run through of the modified script before the gates opened to the groundlings. The man was a bloody slave driver, and that was the truth. That wasn’t what bothered Hugh, though. Aside from lines delivered on stage, Hugh hadn’t spoken to Ben for two days. The boy was obviously avoiding him. As soon as a performance was over, the young man disappeared. Hugh had interrogated the other players, trying to discover where Ben lodged. All of them claimed to have no idea, though Harold Warwick’s grin made Hugh wonder whether they knew more than they would say. Hugh ached for the boy’s sweet flesh. The night in the tavern had been no more than an appetiser. Hugh hungered for the main course. Ben was so perfect, so pristine, so delightfully astonished by the pleasures that Hugh knew how to inflict on him. Hugh had wakened Ben’s lust, but clearly there was some fear, also. Wooing was required, persuasion, passion and perhaps a touch of desperation, hinting to the boy of dire consequences if he did not grant Hugh the favours that the older man sought. Meanwhile, Hugh had been hard for two days. The situation was worst when they were on stage together. It was fortunate that the loose folds of Oberon’s costume mostly hid his tumescence. It didn’t matter how many times Hugh used his hand to relieve himself. The sight of Ben—indeed, the mere thought of those innocent eyes and that lithe, smooth body-had him swollen again in seconds. He had to do something. If he couldn’t talk to Ben, perhaps he could write. The boy had some schooling and admired the eloquence of Will’s verse. Perhaps Hugh could sway him with some eloquence of his own. He took out a scrap of parchment he’d spirited away from Will’s office above the stables, along with ink and quill. Closing his eyes, he searched for the words that would win over the skittish boy and bring him back to Hugh’s bed.

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**** Master Will was striding around the courtyard, calling the players back to rehearse. Hugh reread his message one more time, then folded it into a tight packet and tied it with a bit of string. Now, how could he get the missive into his paramour’s hands? A sudden rustle behind him made Hugh jump. He twisted on the bench, peering into the gloom of the passage that ran around the gallery and offered access to the rows of seats. “Excuse me, sir. The Master bade me fetch you back to the stage.” The speaker was a slight, young man with a fair complexion and straw-coloured hair tied back in a long queue. Hugh had never seen him before. “Oh? Are you a member of the Company?” The youth bowed gracefully. “As of yesterday, sir. The Master hired me for general errands and as understudy to Titania. I have a great desire to be on the stage.” Hugh’s eyes narrowed. “Can you read, boy?” “Barely. But I have a famous memory. I already know Titania’s lines. And Master Ben told me he’d work with me to help me improve my reading, though I fear that will be a long, hard effort.” “Look here—what’s your name, lad?” “Jon, sir. Jonathan Marsh at your service.” The boy bowed again with an exaggerated flourish. He seemed quite stage-struck.” “I have a commission for you, Jon. Take this message to Master Ben, will you? Mind that you give it to him privately, when there’s no one else about. Can you do that?” “Of course, sir.” Hugh slipped a penny into the young man’s palm. “Then bring me back his reply, you understand? He may write, or he may simply answer verbally.” The lad tucked the parchment packet into his sleeve. “I’ll do that. Though it might not be until after the performance.” Hugh’s swollen privates throbbed painfully. “I can wait. If I have to.” As the errand boy scuttled away, Hugh started down the stairs to the ground level. It was going to be a long afternoon.

****

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Jenny didn’t open the note until she was safely hidden in a corner of the Globe’s stables. The sun slanted in through the gaps in the planked walls, giving her plenty of light. She crouched down, leaning back against the rough wood, and took a deep breath. The air smelled of new hay and manure, with a hint of seaweed and sewage wafting up from the Thames. Jenny closed her eyes and blessed her sainted mother, who had taught her the basics of reading before dying of the pox when Jenny was eight. She was completely alone, but her heart still slammed against her ribs as she unfolded the parchment and smoothed it down across her thigh. Hugh had a fair hand, bold and even. His words were fair, too, but to Jenny they seemed laced with poison. My dearest Ben, I should perhaps not disturb or importune you, but I find that I cannot stay silent. I must tell you how deeply your indifference and neglect wound me. After the glorious delights that we shared, how can you be so cruel? I cannot bear the thought that you might find my devoted attentions odious. I long for you night and day. I ache to give you everything, all the love in my heart, all the pleasure that I can coax from your beautiful body. I have never felt such passion for a youth before. I beg you, do not reject me. Remember how you trembled when I touched you. Recall your moans as I explored your most secret places. Only give me leave, and I will take you even higher, to pinnacles of ecstasy that few ever experience. Then you will understand that our love is right, and truly, a gift from God. Please, I implore you. Tonight is the solstice, the shortest night, sacred to the old deities. The Queen will not hunt tonight, but will ply her barge on the river. So meet me under the trees in her preserve at Marleybone Park, in the clearing they call Diana’s Glade, and I will give everything you can imagine, and much more. Simply follow the left hand path from the main gate, and it will lead you to the enchanted place where we can consummate our love. I will await you at midnight. If you harden your heart, and refuse to meet, I swear I do not know what I shall do. I am not responsible for my actions. I do know that it will be impossible for me to continue suffering the agony of sharing the stage with you, and so one of us will have to quit the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. That would cut almost as deeply as your rejection. I eagerly wait your answer. For pity or love, please succour me. Passionately and completely yours, Hugh

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Jenny sniffed in contempt. ’Never felt such passion for a youth before’! What poppycock! Yet Ben might well believe it, might be seduced by the flowery rhetoric and raw emotion of the message. Then there was the veiled threat near the end. Hugh was a primary player. His roles had helped to make William Shakespeare famous throughout the city. There was no way that Hugh was going to leave the company. No, it would be Ben who would have to relinquish his dream. It was fortunate that she was here to protect him. When Ben had fled the tavern that morning, Jenny hadn’t known what to do. She hadn’t realised how much she wanted Ben or how much she cared about him until she saw his horror and confusion. Her declaration of desire had startled her as much as it had him. Once she had spoken, though, she was quite certain that he should be hers. The only question was how to nudge the fates in that direction. Ironically, it was her father who gave her the idea. He’d stormed into the kitchen just as Ben flew out the door, calling her a lazy slut and demanding his beer and bread. Silent, not wanting to invite a beating, she’d hastened to serve him, but he still cuffed her on the ear. “Worthless chit! If only I’d had a son instead of a useless slattern like you! I’d be rich and comfortable now with a boy to help me. With you, all I’ve got is this blasted hole, where I have to do all the work myself.” Jenny served and cooked, cleaned and kept the larder, but, in some sense, her father was right. If she were a man, she’d have freedoms that she could only imagine now. She could build the business from a ramshackle, neighbourhood tavern to something more genteel. Or better still, she could run away and make her fortune elsewhere, by her own wits and on her own terms. Alas, she wasn’t a man. But, she realised, she could pretend to be one, at least for long enough to foil Templeton’s twisted plans and maybe win Ben’s heart. She borrowed some clothes from her childhood friend Tom, son of the grocer across the square. “Why do you want to dress up like a boy, then?” “I want to go to the Globe, to see Shakespeare’s new play.” Jenny had found that telling a partial truth worked better than an outright lie. “I’ll be safer in men’s clothes.”

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Tom gazed at her in adoration. She knew that he’d marry her in a thrice, should she give him some sign that she was willing. “I’ll go with you, Jen. I can protect you.” “Nay, you know your father won’t put up with your shirking in the middle of the day. Mine doesn’t care much as long as I’m around for the evening customers. Just lend me your second-best shirt and hose. I’ll bring them back clean, I promise.” “I don’t mind if they smell of you,” Tom grinned. “In fact, I’ll never wash them again.” Jenny gave him a playful slap. “Just don’t tell anyone, all right?” “Of course not.” Tom slipped his arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick squeeze. “Be careful, Jenny. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” Jenny smiled gratefully. “You know me. I can take care of myself.” The interview with the playwright had shaken her confidence slightly; he was so brusque that she was certain he’d refuse her request to join the company. However, he’d offered her a job, at a shilling a week, commenting that they could always use a lad with a fresh face. He gave no indication that he recognised her sex. Jenny could hardly contain her glee. Now she had a legitimate excuse to be close to Ben, to watch him and to thwart the suave predator who was stalking him. What should she do, though, about this letter? If she failed to deliver it, Templeton would become suspicious. Yet, she didn’t doubt that if Ben read it, he’d be moved to consent to the older man’s plea. Jenny’s mind painted a vivid picture of the two men, naked, entwined on the greensward in the royal wood. Her stomach twisted into knots even as her cunny dampened. She didn’t really care if Ben took his pleasure from another man. She just didn’t want selfish, heartless Hugh taking advantage of Ben’s innocence and goodness. She sat in the straw, legs crossed, thinking hard. A horse whinnied. In the distance, she heard the barker, announcing the opening of the theatre gates in a quarter hour. She didn’t have much time. Her eyes lighted on a sturdy ladder fixed to the opposite wall. Up to Master Will’s study, she recalled, where he wrote when he didn’t want to take the time to go back to his rooms in Southwark. She listened hard. There was the murmur of the crowd, waiting outside the theatre, and the stamp of hooves in the straw, but no voices or footsteps. Springing up, she climbed the ladder like a monkey, grateful for the freedom of her male attire. The room upstairs was dark, but she didn’t dare open the shutters. Rummaging around on the desk, she found what she sought—a pen knife, ink, a sharpened quill. She laid the

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parchment on the table and scraped at it with the side of the knife. Gradually, the words the clearing they call Diana’s Glade disappeared, also the word left in the following sentence. She blew on the note, scattering the crumbs of parchment that she had removed. Then she dipped the quill in the ink and, ever so slowly, drew the point along the parchment, trying to emulate Hugh’s bold strokes. New words filled the erased areas— the rise they call Apollo’s Knoll and right. Her mother had taken her to Marleybone Park once, and even now, she remembered the little hill that looked back towards the smoke and bustle of London. There was no blotter. She waved the note in the air, trying to dry the ink, aware of the seconds ticking, bringing her ever closer to the opening scene. She needed to find Ben before the play began. Voices! In the stalls below, Jack the ostler, encouraging the mount of some gentleman who’d ridden from the country to see the play. And then, the voice she dreaded most, Will Shakespeare, scolding the poor lad. “You dolt, be careful! That horse is worth far more than your sorry hide. If Lord Essex learns that you’ve lamed him, you’ll be lucky to survive…” “He’s not lame, sir, just a pebble lodged in his hoof. I’ll get it out.” “You’d better, and be quick about it. There’s another party of fine folk on their way.” Now, heavy footsteps, just below. “I’ve got to go up and fetch my script. I scribbled some notes on the back while I was watching the rehearsal…” No! Jenny scanned the simple room, frantically looking for somewhere to hide. Nothing but the table, a chair and some open shelves. No cupboards, no cabinets, no drapery that she could slip behind. If she were discovered, she’d be whipped, or worse. And she might never see Ben again. Desperate, she refolded the parchment and stuck it into her sleeve. She threw open the shutters. The room was high enough that she could see the river, over the neighbouring roofs. Below the window there was a pile of hay, fodder for the guests’ horses. Jenny didn’t stop to think. She swung one leg over the sill, then the other. Then she jumped.

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Chapter Five

Ben waited in the tiring room for his entrance cue. He glanced around nervously, worried that Hugh would find him, though Oberon’s train was supposed to arrive from the opposite side of the stage. The past two days had been hell. Ben had hardly slept. He’d abandoned his rooms near the theatre and moved to an inn north of the river, where he shared a room with two drunkards who snored. Their inharmonious chorus kept him awake until long past midnight. Then when he did finally slide into sleep, he was haunted by dreams of monstrous flesh and lascivious pleasure. He couldn’t escape the images—Hugh’s hairy chest, Hugh’s rampant dick, Hugh’s smile, welcoming but twisted into something evil by the puckered scar. Occasionally, there’d be another image, another face, the intense young woman who had confronted him in the tavern. Jenny, she had called herself. He saw her riding a white mare, naked, her golden hair streaming out behind her. She carried a lance like one of King Arthur’s knights and called out taunting challenges to Hugh Templeton. Ben’s head ached as though it would split open. Yet his acting had been better than ever. The applause went on and on. He’d learned the trick; when he was on stage, he forgot about Hugh and Jenny. He became Titania, Queen of the Fairies, imperious, petulant, romantic, and exquisitely feminine. He didn’t mind Hugh touching him, because it wasn’t Hugh, it was Oberon, her husband and sire. Despite it all, he loved being a player. If only he knew how to handle the complexities of the theatrical life off stage. “Psst! Master Ben!” Ben whirled around, seeking the source of the voice. The curtains shielding the alcove parted, and a small hand beckoned him inside. He slipped into the dim recess. Inside, there was a young man he’d never seen before, short, slight and apparently fairhaired. “Yes, what is it?” Ben asked, his voice sharp with anxiety. “I’m due on stage at any moment.”

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“I have a letter for you.” The lad produced a folded packet that he pressed into Ben’s hand. “From Master Hugh.” Ben swallowed hard. Dread rose in his chest. He had known something like this was coming. “He bade me wait for your answer,” whispered the youth. “I’ll stay here until your scene is finished.” Ben stepped back out into the light. He opened the parchment and read the message, twice. The anguish in Hugh’s tone seared his soul. How could Ben ignore the entreaties of this man who had given him so much? Not only the pleasure—that hardly mattered—but friendship and support. Hugh had believed in him, tutored him, defended him against Master Will’s ire. How could he doubt Hugh’s sincerity? Only a man truly wracked by love could have penned such an eloquent epistle. Then there was the desperation at the end, the suggestion that Hugh might abandon the boards, might even take his own life. What a terrible thought! Hugh was a genius, a truly great actor. Ben couldn’t bear the thought that he might be responsible for breaking the man’s heart and ending his career. After all, it was just one night. He’d give Hugh what he craved then they would see what lay in the future. Ben heard Puck and Titania’s handmaiden, bantering on stage. He flicked back the curtain, startling the young messenger. “Tell Master Hugh that the answer is yes. I will do as he bids.” He glided on stage and into the world of the fairies. Hugh approached from across the stage. He looked more handsome than ever, in his snow-white tunic and emerald wreath. He looked at Ben, stern and sorrowful. His eyes glowed with a feverish anxiety. “Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.” Titania’s voice answered, high and sweet. “What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence. I have forsworn his bed and his company.” Ben made a gesture of dismissal as demanded by the script. Even so, his eyes sought Hugh’s and broadcast a message of gentle surrender. Hugh held himself tall, defending himself from Titania’s accusations of infidelity. Only Ben noticed his secret half-smile.

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Then Oberon swept angrily away, his robes swirling around him, and Ben noticed something else, something that made his ears burn red under his wig, and his heart skip beats—the bulk of Hugh’s hugely erect penis.

**** Jenny hastened away. She didn’t want Ben to see her in the full light of day, though he’d seemed as convinced as anyone else by her disguise. She made her way through the corridor at the back of the first level galleries, trying not to disturb the audience. These were the most expensive seats in the house, protected from the sun and the rain but close enough that the audience could hear every jest and appreciate every nuance of the master’s verse. She meant to return to the tavern, to allay her father’s inevitable suspicions and prepare for the evening’s adventures. Her progress was interrupted by a woman’s voice, a voice clearly accustomed to command. “Young man! Yes, you. Come here.” The woman was richly attired in green satin, scattered with jet beads. Her bodice was cut low enough to allow anyone to appreciate her full breasts and the emerald pendant lodged between them. An elaborate coiffure of black ringlets, decorated with multi-coloured birds, rose from her brow. Her eyes were grey. They shone with intelligence and mirth. “Yes, madame?” Jenny was impatient to be gone, but she couldn’t afford to ignore someone so obviously wealthy and powerful. “I’d like a bag of oranges. Would you get me some?” The woman gestured to the pit, where a vendor was circulating with fruit and nuts. “Here, here’s some money.” Her skin was impossibly soft as she pried open Jenny’s fist and inserted a gold crown. “You may keep the change.” The oranges were a penny. Jenny’s head spun, realising that she was left with the equivalent of nearly five weeks salary at the theatre, and more than her father would ever give her in a year. She handed the bag to the noblewoman, dumbfounded by her good fortune. The lady took a bite of one of the fruit. The juice dribbled down her chin and onto her bosom, in a most unladylike manner. She laughed gaily. “Oh, dear! Could you get my

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handkerchief from my satchel?” Jenny retrieved the delicate wisp of linen and lace and handed it to the lady. “No, you do it. My hands are all sticky.” Her eyes twinkled as Jenny blotted the juice from the woman’s face and chest, trying to be dignified. “Thank you, young man. But I don’t believe that was completely effective. She leaned close to Jenny ear and whispered. “Why don’t you lick it off?” Jenny started and blushed. Who was this woman? “Oh, um—I couldn’t, madame…” “Not even if I wanted you too?” The lady was teasing her, or rather, was teasing the young man that Jenny was impersonating. Jenny had no idea how to react. The older woman burst out laughing. She cupped Jenny’s chin and gazed into the girl’s eyes. “Poor lad! I’m sorry! I’m just making mischief. Let’s begin again.” She sat back on the bench, allowing Jenny to appreciate her ripe beauty and her luxurious garb. “I am Madame Cecile Léfevrier. I own the Théatre Merveille in Paris, which I inherited from my late husband. And you, my comely young man, are…?” “Jonathan Marsh,” Jenny replied. “At your service. I’m—well, you see—I just joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.” “At my service! Well, I like the sound of that. Are you an actor, Jonathan Marsh?” “Yes. Well, no. Not yet. Right now, I’m an understudy…” The lies rolled easily off Jenny’s tongue. The success of her charade was just a bit intoxicating. “A handsome lad like you should have a fine future in the theatre.” Jenny blushed convincingly. “Thank you, ma’am.” “In fact, I’d like to discuss your career with you. Would you have dinner with me in my rooms this evening?” Her eyes shifted to the codpiece Jenny had borrowed from Tom. Jenny’s cheeks burned and her sex grew damp as she understood what this woman really wanted. Her mind whirled. She needed a plan. She didn’t want to obviously disappoint Madame Léfevrier. Of course, the lady would be disappointed indeed if she discovered that the lithe and lusty youth she took Jenny for was actually a fiction. Then inspiration struck. Jenny laid her sun-browned hand on Cecile’s white one and leaned close to the woman’s ample bosom. She tried to make her voice deeper, husky and conspiratorial.

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“Madame, I cannot dine with you. I have other duties that I cannot avoid. But if you wish, I will meet you privately tonight, at midnight, at a place that I will tell you…” “Oh, how delightful! A midnight assignation!” Madam Léfevrier squeezed Jenny’s thigh, then inched her hand up towards the mound at Jenny’s crotch. “Oh, yes. I’ll meet you. Just tell me where.”

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Chapter Six

Hugh lay on his back on one of the slabs of stone that were scattered around the clearing, gazing at the moon. Somewhere to the south, a church chimed midnight, yet it was bright as day. The air was fresh, full of the promise of summer, roses and newly-mown grass and fertile earth baked by the sun. His dick was a rod of solid iron. His heart pounded in anticipation of the night’s wonders. In the bag by his side was a flask of brandy and a leather bladder full of goose fat. All he lacked was the object of his lust. His obsession. Tonight he would exorcise himself by finally possessing Ben. After tonight, he would be free, though perhaps he’d still play with the young actor, sharing all the perverse and delightful knowledge he’d acquired in his long career as a seducer. He’d never wanted someone as much as he wanted Ben. Hugh supposed that it was because Ben was so amazingly simple and vulnerable. He was not stupid, not at all. He was just perfect in his innocence, open, malleable. Hugh would leave his mark on Ben, brand him forever. In the future, any man opening Ben, entering him, would remind the poor boy of his mentor Hugh. To the end of his days, Ben would remember Hugh, and long for him. No one else would ever be enough. Where in the devil was the boy, anyway? Had he had second thoughts? The notion pierced Hugh’s heart and made his loins ache. But no, Hugh remembered the look that Ben gave him, across the stage. Total surrender. And the other boy, too, the one who carried his message, had assured Hugh of Ben’s affirmative answer. Perhaps the youth had lost his way in the wood? It seemed unlikely. The path was clearly marked, and the blazing moonlight made following it as easy as walking along Cheapside—easier, since you didn’t have to dodge the offal. There was a rustle in the bushes. At last! Hugh sat up and loosed his cock from his breeches. The rigid flesh swayed back and forth, a one-eyed snake aiming to hypnotise its prey. “Merde!” Hugh rose, alarmed. It was a woman’s voice, not Ben’s sweet feminine tones but a real woman. She stumbled into the clearing, her high-heeled slippers clearly

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inappropriate for the terrain. Hugh shrank back into the shadows of a huge oak, watching the intruder. She circled the glade, stepping over the slabs that littered the grassy floor. “Jon?” she called softly. “Jonathan? Are you here, my dear?” The summer breeze sighed through the branches. Otherwise, all was silent. “Jonathan, mon cher. Don’t tease me! I’ve come all this way, and I’m tired and mussed, and I do want you so much. Come out now!” She did look a bit dishevelled, but the effect was attractive. Jet curls that had worked their way free strayed fetchingly over her bare shoulders. Her black satin overskirt was torn in one place, revealing a shapely ankle and calf that made Hugh’s mouth water. Her ample breasts were heaving from exertion. Indeed, they threatened to escape her fashionably extreme décolletage. “You are such a little devil,” she went on, her French accent adding to her appeal. “I know you are in the bushes somewhere, hiding, watching me. You are punishing me for my little games this afternoon. Well, I am quite happy to have you watch. Let me show you what you are missing, mon petit chou.” She began to disrobe. Hugh started to cry out, to warn her. Then he held his tongue. As if she knew where he was concealed, she turned to face the ancient oak. Reaching behind her, she unlaced her bodice and pulled it off her shoulders. Her skin gleamed like marble under the moon. A pendant like a robin’s egg lay nestled between her breasts, sending off green sparks when it caught the light. Now she was working at her skirts, untying and unfastening, struggling to free herself from the many layers of cloth that encumbered her limbs. Finally, she shimmied out of her shift, kicking it across the glade with the pointed toe of her slipper. “There. Are you happy now? Do you like what you see, little man?” She stood, arms extended slightly, and rotated so that he could appreciate every perspective. She was magnificent, from her swelling breasts to the pale columns of her thighs to the ripe bulb of her ample bottom. A dense black thicket of glossy curls obscured her sex, but Hugh thought he caught a whiff of her musk on the midsummer breeze. “Please, Jon, that’s enough. Please come out, come out and take me. I need you, need you inside me. Don’t play anymore, s’il vous plait…”

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Hugh stepped into the clearing, his cock bobbing in the moonlight. “Madame. I fear that I am not the man you expect. Still, if you’ll allow me…” He swept her into his arms and buried his face against her neck, breathing deep of her earthy scent. She moaned, grinding her body against his. Her pubic fur brushed over his cock and he stabbed forward, seeking entrance. “Lay me down in the grass, stranger,” she murmured. “Open me. Take me.” It wasn’t the surrender that Hugh had imagined, but it was sweet all the same. He sank his dick into her drenched folds. She gripped him and pulled him deeper, wrapping her legs around his hips. They rocked and bucked together. He’d try to retreat, to thrust, but she would only hold him more tightly, squeezing his flesh, sending ripples of pleasure travelling up his cock. He was on top, but she was in control, hot and wild, more artful and experienced than any of the many women Hugh had known. As she exploded in climax, her flesh vibrating around his, Hugh wondered for the first time whether he wasn’t missing something in his endless pursuit of virgins. Then her inner muscles clenched down on his overstimulated cock, obliterating all thought. Cum boiled up his shaft and flooded her cavern. Pleasure as intense as pain roared through his limbs. Brilliance that dimmed the moon shone behind his closed eyelids. Ten minutes later, he was still shaking. The lady rolled him off onto the grass. Leaning on one elbow, she scrutinised his face. “I know you,” she said finally. “You’re one of the actors, from Shakespeare’s company.” “Hugh Templeton,” he said wearily. “At your service.” “And very fine service it was,” she laughed. “So, did Jonathan send you, that scamp?” “Jonathan?” “That short, handsome young fellow that just joined the troupe. The one with the face so soft it’s almost girlish. He promised to meet me here.” “You don’t mean Ben? The lad who plays Titania?” “No, no! Jon is shorter and slighter than Titania. Very intelligent and well-spoken, too, though he seemed a bit shy. At least, until he proposed to meet me here. All at once he turned quite bold.” Hugh suddenly remembered the young messenger that he’d sent to Ben. Who was he? What was going on?

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He tried to sit up, but the lady pressed him back to earth. “Now, don’t be in such a hurry. The night is young.” She leaned over and kissed him, her tongue brazen and exciting. “I’m Cecile, by the way. Cecile Léfevrier.” She straddled him and rubbed her damp bush over his limp member. To his amazement and dismay, his cock began to stir and harden. She bent to take him in her mouth, accelerating the process of engorgement. Hugh moaned. After his apocalyptic spending, the sensations were unbearably acute. “Actually, I’m also in the theatre business,” she commented as she sheathed his resurgent cock in her tight, wet channel. She rode him hard, every downward thrust burying him deeper. Hugh groaned in pleasure and despair. “Perhaps, we should talk about your career.” She ground her pubis against him and convulsed in another shuddering climax. “Later…”

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Chapter Seven

Ben was early. He had caught a ride with a farmer heading north, not long after sunset. Following Hugh’s instructions, he found his way to the top of Apollo’s Knoll just as the moon rose above the horizon like some huge, golden egg. He lay back in the new grass, watching the pale planet climb and pondering what the night would bring. He was curious to experience the delights that Hugh promised to reveal. At the same time, he was frightened, wary of the pain that Hugh’s penetration might produce, though mostly what he recalled from their encounter in the tavern was extreme pleasure. The fear appeared to stir his lust; his cock stood as hard as it ever had in his eighteen years of life. Or, perhaps, it was the shame that aroused him. He recalled the vile names his childhood friends would bestow on any man they suspected of sodomy. Hugh, though, had assured him that people in London were more sophisticated and open-minded. Certainly, no one could insinuate that Hugh himself was anything other than completely masculine. Ben sighed. These whirling thoughts exhausted him. If only Hugh would come, and put an end to them, drowning all his doubts in sensual delights. Judging by the moon, it must be near midnight. Hugh’s eloquent, pain-wracked epistle suggested that he would not be late. His sharp ears picked up a sound on the ascending path. Hugh! Sudden panic gripped him. He wanted to run, to hide himself away from the arch, knowing gaze of his would-be ravisher. He couldn’t bear to see himself the way Hugh saw him, as a tender morsel of flesh waiting to be consumed. But why should he think so ill of Hugh? Hugh loved him, he had sworn it, and vowed to prove his love with the worship of his body. This was just nervousness… Ben had promised. He wouldn’t fail so stalwart a friend, though it cost him dearly. He stood his ground, waiting for the older man to emerge from the brush. When a masculine figure finally appeared, Ben’s confusion reached a crisis. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It must be a trick of the moonlight, for the man facing him across the grassy space seemed to be much shorter than Hugh, and fair rather than dark. “Hugh?”

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“Nay, Master Templeton has had second thoughts.” The voice was young, high and clear, and somehow familiar. “He has seen the error in his ways—preying on innocent, susceptible virgins, enjoying their unsullied flesh, robbing them of their dignity and then leaving them, corrupted and broken.” “But Hugh wouldn’t…” “Are you so sure? You should perhaps talk to some of the other lads who have played the ladies in Master Will’s tales. But then, they do not tend to stay long with the Company, after Hugh Templeton is finished with them.” Ben recalled the twist in Hugh’s smile, the urgency of the older man’s desire, the way that Ben had pleaded for respite when the man tried to force his dick into Ben’s bum. Could it be true? “Who are you, then? Did Hugh send you in his stead?” The youth gave a low, throaty laugh. “You mean to bugger you? Well, that’s a thought. But no, I’m your true friend, someone who’ll love you and support you and stand beside you while you reach for your heart’s desire.” “My friend? But I don’t know you.” “Do you not? Let me help refresh your memory.” The young man began unlacing his points. His hose slipped over his hips and down to the ground. Ben peered into the night, trying despite himself to see the lad’s privates, to see if he was as hard as Ben was, with all this talk of corruption and buggering. However, the boy’s groin was shadowed by his overhanging shirt. Meanwhile, the figure across from him pulled the shirt over his head, tossing it away. Finally, the intruder reached behind his neck and untied his hair. Long golden ringlets spilled over the figure’s pale, bare shoulders and tumbled between gently swelling breasts. Ben felt dizzy as his senses realigned. An instant before, he had been talking to a confident young fellow with a sharp tongue. Now, all at once, he was facing a girl in her late teens—a naked girl with a self-satisfied smile on her pretty face. He remembered his dreams. “Jenny!” Before he knew what was happening, she stood before him, looking up into his eyes. “I told you we’d meet again, Ben. It’s fate.” She brushed her body against his. Her rigid nipples tickled his chest through his linen shirt. His already-swollen cock jumped, grazing her belly. She slipped her small, cool hand inside his garment and grasped him firmly. He groaned.

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“Let me show you what this is meant for, and then you can decide whether you’d rather have Templeton, or me.” “But how came you here? Hugh wrote that he’d meet me…” All at once Ben understood. “You were the messenger boy!” Jenny nodded. “Though if you’d rather believe it a spell, I’ll not gainsay you. For truly, I think that you and I can make some magic together.” She pulled his mouth down to hers. Her lips were velvety petals pressed against his, wonderfully soft but cloaking a firmness Ben craved. Her tongue played around his mouth, teasing. He relaxed and let the kiss develop into a hot, wet union that left him breathless. She tasted of ale and almonds. Her complex scent rose into his nostrils, musk and rosewater, lye, sweat and the slightest hint of manure. As they kissed, she continued to stroke and squeeze his poor swollen penis, building the pleasure and the pressure until he worried that he’d spend all over her hand. “Wait!” he gasped, breaking the kiss. “Let me undress.” “A fine idea, Master Ben. Shall I help you?” “No, no, I can manage.” He unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off his shoulders, then started unlacing his points. His rigid cock made it difficult to get off his hose. This cheeky young woman left him embarrassed and flustered but, at least, as randy as Hugh had made him. The maid lay down in the lush grass, her head propped up on one elbow, and watched him disrobe. The pose gave her an elegance and a grace that Ben hadn’t previously noticed. His eyes followed the luscious curve of her hip, gleaming in the moonlight. Her breasts seemed fuller in this position, creamy hemispheres of succulent flesh crowned by ruddy tips. Her blonde locks trailed over her shoulders. He could just make out a matching tangle of gold at the juncture of her thighs. His cock swelled further, though he would not have believed it possible, pointing straight up at the drifting moon. Jenny patted the ground beside her. “Come here, sweet boy.” Ben did not wait for a second invitation. He stretched out alongside her and gathered her into his arms. She sighed and burrowed into his embrace, mashing her soft breasts against his smooth chest. Ben was astonished at how comfortable her body felt, how right. The fit was perfect, complementary

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humps and hollows. His swollen organ settled neatly into the groove between her thighs. Her stiff pubic curls tickled the taut skin. “Ah, Jenny,” he murmured, fastening his mouth on hers once more. This time he was bolder, more confident. Jenny squirmed against him, clearly enjoying his attentions. Her writhing pressed his cock into his belly. He felt the slickness of his own leaking fluid, painting his abdomen. Then there was shocking new wetness, as Jenny parted her legs, grabbed his cock and rubbed it back and forth inside the folds of her sex. Electric pleasure shot up Ben’s spine. He clenched his teeth, struggling not to let go. Jenny sensed his impending crisis and released him. She rolled onto her back, knees up and thighs wide open then pulled Ben on top of her. His cock bobbed just outside her slick gateway. Blindly, Ben jerked his pelvis. He stabbed at her, trying vainly to gain entry. He succeeded only in slamming his sensitive cockhead against the insides of her thighs. Jenny gave a little laugh. “Slow down, love.” She grasped his penis and slid it back and forth in her wet cleft, covering it with her juices. Then she positioned the bulb at the opening of her sex. “Now push,” she murmured. “But gently, steadily. Don’t be in a rush. We have all night.” Her slick flesh clung to the tip of his rod. He bore down and felt himself slip inside her, just a small way. The heat, the tightness, already had him close to climax. He stopped and took a deep breath, then pressed again, entering another fraction of an inch. Then he seemed to encounter an obstacle. He pushed harder. Jenny whimpered. “Am I hurting you? Should I stop?” “No, never mind. Just thrust now, quick, bury your cock in me so fast that I won’t feel the pain.” Light dawned. She acted forward and worldly, but Jenny was virgin still. “I can’t…” “Do it! Take me!” He heard desperation in her voice. “I told you that I wanted you for my first lover.” Something welled up inside Ben’s chest, some huge emotion that he couldn’t quite name. She wanted him, wanted to give him her precious maidenhead. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. But then, how could he refuse her? Jenny squeezed her thighs together, with his cock half-lodged inside her.. He nearly exploded. “Please…” she whispered.

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Joy and lust rose together in him. He jerked his hips, slamming his cock into her. He felt the barrier break then he was inside her completely, enveloped in her silky, soaking flesh. She cried out, in pain or in ecstasy, Ben couldn’t tell which. When she clenched her muscles around him, he could hold on no longer. His balls tightened. The seed rose in his stalk. With a roar, he burst inside her, flooding her depths with burning spend. Shafts of light seemed to pierce his body, leaving trails of brilliant pleasure in their wake. Stars swirled behind his eyelids. When he finally came back to the world, he found that Jenny was holding him tight. A smile graced her lips, but her eyes were damp. He kissed the trails that tears had left on her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help it. Couldn’t control myself.” “No matter. Next time you’ll be slower.” Next time? Ben felt as though he’d expelled a lifetime’s worth of spend. “I didn’t know, Jenny. You seemed so—experienced.” “I have some experience,” she said with a little grin. “And I’m happy to share it with you. In fact, let me teach you something new.” She lay back on the grass and spread her thighs. “Come down here and look at me.” Ben knelt between her legs. Her scent was stronger than ever. He felt his limp cock twitch with interest. Jenny reached down and spread her pussy lips wide. “Come closer now.” Ben leaned forward. All at once he noticed the streaks of blood on her thighs. Guilt stabbed at him, guilt laced with excitement. His cock grew half-hard. “At the very front of my slit, there’s a special spot. A little knot of flesh, about the size and shape of a hazelnut. Do you see it?” Ben brought his face down close to her splayed tissues. Her folds were pink and glistening. Droplets of moisture, hers and his, beaded on her blonde curls. The scent was intense and intoxicating. Saliva gathered in his mouth. He saw the little button she was referring to. “Ah, yes.” “Touch it, lightly, with one finger.” Ben obeyed. It was surprisingly rigid. Even more surprising was the long moan that his touch evoked from Jenny. “Mmm… That’s exactly right. That spot is the centre of pleasure for me. Probably for most women.” Ben brushed his fingertip back and forth over the ruddy nub. Jenny writhed

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in response. He grasped it with thumb and forefinger and twisted slightly. Jenny’s hips arched off the grass, and fresh liquid gathered on her folds. “Oh, lovely! So, if you play with me for a while, touching me like that, you’ll see that I’ll spend, too.” “Really?” Ben hadn’t known that women could spend. “I’ll try…” He began to stroke Jenny’s sex, sliding his fingers along the slippery inner lips and then drawing them across the odd pleasure nub that she’d shown him. The effects were immediate and gratifying. Jenny moaned and cursed. Her body squirmed and shook. Her pelvis jerked upward as she tried to increase the friction. He tried different types of motion, tapping or rubbing or spiralling around the magic button, and observed the results. Ben was a bright young man. Before long, Jenny was thrashing about, crying and yelling so loud that Ben was grateful they were alone in the wood. She looked so delicious, so wanton and free. His dick was hard again, despite his previous doubts. He wasn’t concerned with that, though. All he wanted was to make her spend. He rubbed hard at the button with one hand. He sank four fingers of the other into the wet depths of her pussy. All at once, Jenny wailed and her body went rigid. Her flesh convulsed around his hand. Her pleasure nub seemed to vibrate as he kept stroking, more lightly than before. Warm liquid flowed from her depths, bathing his fingers. Her trembling continued for long minutes. Suddenly she relaxed and lay as if senseless. Ben gazed at her lovely form, sprawled lewdly on the greensward. His cock throbbed. As if in a dream, he straddled her. His cock slid smoothly into her welcoming pussy. As he entered her, her eyes flew open. A blissful smile painted her lips. “Hello, lover.” She pulled him into a long, slow kiss as they began to rock together.

**** Jenny woke to the sound of birdsong. The sky was paling with the first traces of dawn. The moon had set. Her body was entwined with Ben’s, their skin strewn with drops of dew. She was sticky and sore and completely satisfied. Her intuitions had proved correct. Ben was a wonderful, sensual, sensitive lover—once he was given a bit of instruction. He’d even tried a few things that she hadn’t considered, like kissing her pussy. A bolt of heat shot through her at the memory.

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Yes, her Ben was fine indeed, if a bit innocent. She’d guide and protect him, just as she had promised, give him the help he needed to succeed in the cut-throat world of the theatre. Their future was bright. She gazed at Ben, lying in repose next to her. In sleep, he looked even younger. She could definitely see the feminine aspect that so perfectly suited him to the women’s parts. No matter. She could compensate by acting the man, when necessary. As if he felt the weight of her eyes, her lover stirred. Joy lit his face. Without a word, he encircled her with his arms and kissed her deeply. They didn’t speak for a long time. “Do you think we should be getting back?” Ben said finally. “Won’t your father miss you?” “I don’t care about him. He has no power over me now. Especially, if we marry.” An expression of worry flitted across Ben’s countenance, followed by determination. “Of course we’ll marry. I took your maidenhead…” Jenny swatted at him playfully. “Silly! That was my idea, after all! You’re not obliged to marry me. But it would make everything far more convenient.” Ben looked serious. Jenny had a momentary glimpse of the man he’d become, when he outgrew the female roles. “I want to marry you. Will you be my wife, Jenny?” “With pleasure.” She glanced down at Ben’s cock and saw that it was half-swollen. “Speaking of pleasure…” She took possession, stroking him until he had reached full tumescence. “Ah, Jenny! Haven’t you had enough pleasure for one night?” “It was the shortest night of the year, my love. And in any case, it’s not over yet.” She rose and traipsed naked across the hilltop, feeling like some creature of the forest. She found the cloth sack she’d brought with her and rummaged inside. Ben watched, obviously uncertain of what to expect. “Here we are.” She held up something long and cylindrical. Ben looked puzzled. Then he blushed as he recognised the object as a fat, gnarled parsnip. Her sex clenched in anticipation. Power coursed through her. “We were discussing, earlier in the evening, the topic of buggery…” She suspected that Ben was feeling the ghost of Hugh’s touch around his rear hole. His face showed excitement and dread. “But…what about the goose fat?”

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Jenny squatted down and thrust the vegetable into her cunny. The sensations were astonishing. It was as warm as Ben’s cock, but much rougher against her sensitised inner flesh. The sparks of pleasure it woke were edged with pain. That only made the act more exciting—that and the knowledge that Ben was watching, scandalised. She rocked back and forth on the parsnip, rolling it around in her depths. With the other hand, she manipulated that magical node of flesh that she had revealed to Ben. Pleasure built swiftly. Before long, she was teetering on the edge of release, her eyes closed, her breath ragged. Savagely, she rammed the vegetable into her cunt. A swift, fierce climax whirled through her. Her knees wobbled as she tried to stand. She pulled out the parsnip and held it up for Ben to see. It was soaked and glistening with her natural lubrication. “Just one of the many advantages,” she said, “of choosing me.”

About the Author I became addicted to words at an early age. I began reading when I was four. I wrote my first story at five years old and my first poem at seven. Since then, I've written plays, tutorials, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and of course, erotica. I'm the author of four erotic novels and two short story collections. I also edited the ground breaking anthology SACRED EXCHANGE, which explores the spiritual aspects of BDSM relationships, and the massive collection CREAM: THE BEST OF THE EROTIC READERS AND WRITERS ASSOCIATION. My short stories have appeared in more than two dozen print collections edited by erotica luminaries such as M. Christian, Maxim Jakubowski, Mitzi Szereto, Rachel Kramer Bussel, and Alison Tyler. In my socalled spare time, I also review books and films for the Erotica Readers and Writers Association (www.erotica-readers.com) and Erotica Revealed (www.eroticarevealed.com), and feature as a Celebrity Author at Custom Erotica Source (www.customeroticasource.com). My lifelong interests in sex and the written word became serenditipitously entwined nine years ago when I read my first Black Lace book by Portia da Costa. Her work inspired me to take my fantasies out of the closet (and the private email files) and expose them to the world. The rest, as they say, is history (although granted, no more than a minor footnote!) I've always loved traveling; my husband seduced me in a Burmese restaurant by telling me tales of his foreign adventures. Since then I have visited every continent except Australia, although I still have a long travel wish list. Currently I live with him and our two exceptional felines in Southeast Asia, where I pursue an alternative career that is completely unrelated to my creative writing. Email: [email protected] Lisabet loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

Also by Lisabet Sarai Raw Silk Incognito Rendezvous Bound Brits: Getaway Girl Brit Party: Monsoon Fever

GEORGIE AND THE DRAGON Cindy Spencer Pape

Dedication To all the readers out there who see my dragon logo and ask, “When are you going to write another dragon story?” Here it is.

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Chapter One

“We’re going to have to sell the sword.” Three identical gasps filled the room. Georgiana Burns looked into the shocked eyes of her younger brother and sisters and shrugged. “I’m sorry. But Papa’s replacement will be here in a week, so we have to vacate the vicarage. We’ve nowhere else to go, and grandfather’s sword is the only thing we have of sufficient value to sustain us.” Mama’s few pieces of jewellery wouldn’t fetch nearly enough, and could be put to better use when the time came to find husbands for her sisters. But the sword—now that would lease them a cottage, clothe and feed all four of them, and see to Richard’s education. “But that sword belonged to St. George himself,” Willa protested, looking up through the lenses of her spectacles. “It slew the dragon. We can’t sell it. It’s our heritage.” Georgie leaned across the table to squeeze her youngest sister’s shoulder. “We must, dearest. There’s no other way.” The sword had been her grandfather’s prized possession, and she did hate to sell it. Not that she believed her family was genuinely descended from the St. George, or that the sword in question was his, but it was very, very old, and the gems in the cross on the pommel were real. “Actually, I think there is.” They all swivelled to look at Hetty. Her usually dreamy blue eyes were clouded and she gnawed on her full lower lip. “Squire Partridge did mention…” “No!” He’d mentioned it to Georgie, too, and it was one of the reasons she wanted to get out of the village as quickly as possible. She had no intention of selling her sister to the fat, fifty-something squire. And she didn’t trust him not to take what he couldn’t obtain through honourable means. Hetty sighed. “Well, then you could find a husband. It seems to me that that would solve everyone’s problems.” “Certainly, dear. I’ll run right out and do that.” Georgie shook her head. While pretty, blonde Hetty was already fighting off suitors, Georgie had never had that problem. With

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flame-red hair and a too plump figure, she wasn’t the sort men fought duels over. Even at only two and twenty, she already knew she was permanently on the shelf. “I know another way.” Twelve-year-old Richard slowed his inhalation of the stew to speak up. “I heard the squire and the Lord Mayor talking today…” “Richard, what have I told you about eavesdropping?” Georgie looked down her nose and tapped her fingers on the table. “But Georgie, this is important,” he argued. “There’s going to be a big meeting tomorrow at the church. Lord Weir may even be there. They’re going to have some sort of competition among the maidens of the village for Midsummer, and the winner gets a fortune.” “What?” The others all spoke at once, laying down their spoons and staring at Richard. He named an amount and they stared even harder. It wasn’t an enormous fortune, but it would see the four of them through a year, perhaps two. “It’s true,” he insisted, his ruddy cheeks flushed more than usual and his green eyes gleaming with excitement. “And I heard Squire Partridge say that Georgie would be perfect.” “But Squire Partridge hates Georgie,” Willa, ever logical, pointed out. “Surely he was speaking of Hetty. You must have just heard ‘Miss Burns’, and misunderstood.” “I’m sure nothing will come of it,” Georgie said firmly. She gestured to the others to resume their meal. “But I shall attend this meeting. If nothing else, perhaps one of the gentlemen can tell me how to go about selling the St. George sword.”

**** “Unbelievable!” Early the next morning, Georgie sat in the back row of the parish church and gasped for breath. Certainly, she’d known that beliefs here on the Welsh coast were more primitive than those in Devonshire, where she’d lived as a child. But it had never occurred to her… “You are absolutely certain that this archaic tradition must continue?” The voice was deep, cultured, and annoyed. Georgie had never seen the earl of Weir before, but there was no mistaking the man. He sat on the dais with the mayor and the squire, and though he lounged indolently in his chair, he easily dominated the scene. His tall, fit body alone set him

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apart from even the best-nourished villagers, as did his exquisite tailoring. She tried not to stare at his handsome, sharp features, or his raven-black hair and stunning silver-grey eyes, which were presently narrowed. She truly did. “The security of the village depends on it,” Squire Partridge insisted. The lord mayor nodded gravely, as did the village elders arrayed behind him. “The sacrifice has kept this village safe for over five hundred years. It must continue.” “This sacrifice is ridiculous,” Lord Weir argued. Georgie nodded in astonished agreement as the man continued. “I find it absurd that in this modern year of 1814, you still insist on not only believing in dragons, but in sacrificing one of your own daughters to the imaginary appetites of the creature.” And that was the crux of the matter. The people of Draigmor shared a hallucination. Every last one of them appeared to believe in a dragon. Furthermore, they planned to sacrifice some hapless maiden to said dragon, in order to ensure another thirty years of the dragon’s protection. If it wasn’t so farcical, it would be terrifying. “We’ve raised a good bit for the bride-price,” the lord mayor announced. “If you match the amount, my lord, as has been the tradition, the family of the girl will receive a healthy sum.” The sum was staggering, and Georgie’s jaw dropped—it even exceeded what Richard had overheard. A family could live frugally on the amount for several years. Then she caught herself. As if any family would take payment for one of its daughters. Lord Weir, at least, was a voice of reason, though no one seemed to be heeding him. “Bride-price,” he sneered. “Wergild, more like. How many more innocent girls will you cast out before you ignorant villagers realise, there is no dragon? I’m sure the poor women have fallen victim to the sea and the elements, or to wild animals.” “Aye, there is a dragon,” old Mr. Dewey said from a front pew. Georgie had to crane her neck to see him. “Saw him myself I did. When I was just ten years old.” The townsfolk all nodded and murmured their agreement. Georgie had no doubt Mr. Dewey had told the story a hundred times over in the pub. It was likely embellished a bit with each telling, as well.

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Lord Weir made an impatient gesture with one long-fingered hand. “A lad’s imaginings and canny bits of misdirection.” Georgie had to suppress a shudder as she wondered what that strong, smooth hand would feel like caressing her skin. The church grew suddenly warmer and she pressed her knees together beneath her skirt to hide her body’s totally inappropriate reaction. His lordship shook his head. “I see you’re not to be swayed. I’ll match the bride-price, as has been the tradition. But I insist on the right to approve the choice of girl.” The lord mayor tipped his chin in acquiescence. “Very well, my lord.” Then he turned his hard, dark eyes on the citizens crowded into the pews. “Does anyone have a daughter they wish to offer?” There was a general murmur among the crowd, but no hands were raised. “Very well. A ward, or employee then, who would be willing?” Again, there was no response. “The law of the village states that if no volunteer comes forth, a general lottery is to be held—” The mayor broke off as someone interrupted. “I think one of the Burns girls should go,” offered a familiar voice. Thank you Mrs. Jones, Georgie thought bitterly as she saw her supposed housekeeper’s pinched face look coldly around the room. “They’ve nowhere to go, and no money. Nothing but a burden on the village, otherwise.” “These would be the daughters of the late vicar?” his lordship inquired. Georgie stood, refusing to be talked about as if she wasn’t there. “Yes, my lord.” “Good day, Miss Burns.” A smile flitted momentarily across his lips. “And what say you?” “While it is true that we find ourselves in somewhat desperate straits, I can assure you—all of you—” she glared at Mrs. Jones, “that neither of my sisters is presently for sale.” Lord Weir’s intense grey eyes flashed with what might have been humour. “Very well, then. Does anyone have any other suggestions?” There were more murmurs and head shaking until the mayor cleared his throat and spoke from the pulpit. “In that case, I shall require that every maiden above the age of sixteen be present in the village square tomorrow for the lottery. If anyone is not present, she will be

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chosen by default. Miss Burns, that includes yourself and Miss Henrietta. Now if there is no further discussion…” Georgie gulped. A lottery? At fifteen, Willa would be safe, but both Georgie and seventeen-year-old Hetty would be subject to it. “Aye, like there are any maidens left in the village,” one old woman near Georgie chortled. “Every girl in town knew the sacrifice was coming, and jumped the fire with her beau last Beltane. Going to be a bevy of infants come February.” That bit of information dramatically changed the probable outcome of tomorrow’s lottery. Georgie and Hetty hadn’t known. Could they be the only virgins left in Draigmor? Even if they weren’t, she didn’t trust anyone in this town not to manipulate the outcome so she or Hetty was chosen. She couldn’t lose Hetty, and if she herself was taken, there’d be no one to care for the children. Lord Weir had a sister, or so she’d heard through village gossip. Surely he’d understand that her siblings needed her. Although… “Wait.” She barely heard herself call out. An idea began to form in her mind, but it was so improbable, she could hardly bring herself to articulate it. “Miss Burns?” Lord Weir raised one dark eyebrow. “You’re really going to allow this—this—travesty?” He seemed like such a rational man. He shrugged, those broad shoulders rippling beneath his superfine coat. “It is part of the village charter—an agreement one of my ancestors signed centuries ago. If the villagers insist, then all I can do is offer my assistance to the family of the girl.” Unbelievable. Georgie’s plan was a tenuous one at best, but it was the only road she could see out of a bad situation. So much of it would depend on his lordship. She sensed, somehow, that he was a man of honour. That honour might well be her family’s only chance. She swallowed hard and looked up at his lordship, gazing straight into his remarkable eyes. “I will volunteer to be the sacrifice—under certain conditions.” The room went utterly silent. Georgie could practically hear the dust motes falling onto the oaken floor. Spine ramrod straight to keep herself from collapsing, she continued, “My lord, I would like you to personally take guardianship of my three younger siblings, treating them as if they were kin. That includes arranging a university education for Richard and London

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seasons for the girls. If you will agree to this, then I will agree to be your sacrifice. The wergild, as you so accurately called it, can be used to assure their futures.” “I’d be willing…” Squire Partridge interjected. “No.” Georgie glared the squire, then turned her gaze back to Lord Weir. “Another condition, my lord. You must promise that they will never be forced to wed against their wishes. And I want the entire agreement in writing.” She swore she saw a smile twitch at the corners of the earl’s lips. “I believe that can be arranged before tomorrow.” Georgie swallowed again to force back the terror. It wouldn’t do to show fear, not in front of the villagers. “One final condition, and this one is for the lot of you. If I come down from the cliff safe and sound, you will take it as proof that there is no dragon, and you will stop this sacrifice nonsense, once and for all.” “Excellent,” Lord Weir agreed, over the din of muttering townsfolk. “I heartily concur. Should you return safely, I will take you, along with my new wards, to my sister’s home in London. Does that meet with your approval?” It was more than she had ever hoped or dreamed. She bit her lip and nodded. Lord Weir turned to the mayor and squire. “Gentlemen. If she does return unharmed, will you agree to amend the charter?” “But the token…” the squire sputtered. “We will,” the mayor acceded, with a nasty look at the squire. “Very well.” Lord Weir cast a stern glance around the room. “Miss Burns, I suggest we retire to quieter quarters to complete the arrangements. The rest of you may go on about your business.”

**** The woman drove one hell of a bargain, Caddoc Greystone, Lord Weir mused, looking down at the parchment awaiting his signature. Not that he blamed her. It took a great deal of courage to risk herself as she was for the sake of her younger siblings. Even though she didn’t believe in the dragon, she had to be afraid she would never return.

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“Your sister will accept them?” She looked up at him with wide eyes the shade of newly-mown grass. One toe tapped nervously on the carpet of the vicarage parlour. She had sent her sisters to clean the church after the town meeting, and her little brother was being entertained outside by Caddoc’s coachman. They were bright, well-mannered children, and Caddoc could more than understand her concern. He scrawled his signature and handed the document to the mayor to witness. “Morwenna adores children, and company of all ages. She will view sponsoring your sisters as practise forays—her own daughter is only six. And I will see to Richard’s education personally.” “Thank you.” Her voice was soft as she looked down at her hands. They were reddened and strong from hard work, and Caddoc couldn’t understand why he found them so much more attractive than the smooth, lily-white extremities of the women of the ton. But everything about Georgiana Burns pleased him. From her flame-red curls to the sprinkle of freckles on her upturned nose, to her plump, feminine curves, she was a bundle of sensual surprises. He crossed his legs to hide the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers. Just looking at Georgiana in her prim little muslin gown and lace fichu made him hard as a flagpole. Imagining the lush white breasts hidden under the lace made his cock throb painfully. And he’d agreed to take her under his protection? He’d clearly taken leave of his senses, assuming he’d had any to begin with. “I’d like you to take the children this afternoon,” she told him, breaking the awkward silence. “We’ll come up with something to tell them. Perhaps that you knew our father and are taking them to your sister at his request. But I don’t want them to hear of this farce that is about to happen. Tell them I am to follow in a few days, after some piece of business has been handled. If I do not…come back from the hillside…you can simply invent an accident.” “Is this another condition?” he asked, perhaps just to see the slight flush of irritation colour her complexion which had gone chalk-white. “Should it be added to the agreement?” Georgiana shook her head. “Simply a request, my lord. A favour, if you will.” “Of course. My aunt is in residence at Weir Castle,” he announced. “’Tis only a few hours’ ride from here. The children can go that far tonight, wait there until you join them.”

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He had a small estate here near the town, but the main seat of the earldom was farther up into the Welsh mountains. “That will do nicely, my lord. I thank you.” Her shoulders softened slightly in relief, and she turned those vivid green eyes on the mayor. “And now, my lord mayor, perhaps you can enlighten me as to the proceedings for this…arrangement? One wishes to know what to expect.” “Of course,” the older man huffed. “At sunset on Midsummer, the sacri—uummm— chosen one is taken up to the standing stone on the cliffs above the bay. Usually she is allowed a blanket to sit upon, a torch or two, and perhaps a small wineskin to ease her nerves while she awaits her fate.” Caddoc would bet anything that the wine was usually drugged. He saw something that looked like realisation flash through Georgiana’s eyes as well. Clever girl. “Very well.” Georgie—he’d heard her sister call her that and it suited—smiled bravely. “Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to see about packing. My lord, if you could arrange to have your carriage come for the children around tea-time?” **** Georgie couldn’t decide if she wanted to kiss Lord Weir or strangle him. She closed her eyes as she imagined what his kiss would feel like. Would his mouth be sweet or spicy? Would his lips be firm or soft, gentle or ravishing? She’d never truly experienced a man’s kiss, but she knew that his would be wonderful. She slumped into the chair in her tiny bedroom and inhaled a deep breath. Her heart was racing and there was a strange, nagging ache low in her belly. She knew her nipples were peaked beneath her stays and that, if she touched herself beneath her skirts, she would be wet. She was such a wanton. As a vicar’s daughter she had always tried to be good, but she had touched herself in the darkness of her room at night. She knew that she could pleasure herself with her fingers. But even so, the heaviness in her breasts and womb had never been this strong before. And it had all started with one look into the earl of Weir’s silver-grey eyes.

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She didn’t even know his full name. But her body wanted him in the most sinful of ways. Maybe it was a good thing she was being fed to a dragon—or at least left alone overnight on a rocky escarpment. God was punishing her for her venial nature. “You need to take the sword with you.” Georgie leapt out of her chair at the sound of her brother’s voice. “Richard!” “You need to take the sword,” he repeated. His eyes were wide, his chin set in a determined pose she recognised as a legacy from their father. “It’s from St. George himself. It’s enchanted to kill dragons.” “What on earth are you talking about?” She tried to laugh. “You should be packing, my boy, not skulking about.” He shook his dark auburn head. “I heard you. I know what you’re doing. You need to take the dragon sword.” Georgie slumped back into her chair. Of course he’d overheard. Richard’s skill at eavesdropping was unsurpassed. She cast him a pleading glance. “Please. Don’t tell the girls.” “I won’t.” Even at twelve, he was very much the man of the family. He seemed to have an intrinsic need to protect his sisters that was as endearing as it was tragic. “But only if you agree to take the sword.” “They said I could have a blanket,” she reminded him. “And a torch or two, and some wine. They might not allow me to bring a sword.” “Wrap it in the blanket,” he said with a grimace that said girls can be so silly. “Along with a torch and some water. You can say it’s two torches.” Georgie wrapped her arms around his slender shoulders and hugged him tightly. “Whatever would I do without you, Richard?” She kissed the top of his rumpled hair. “I’ll do exactly that. Now be off with you to pack your things.” Several hours later, she stood on the steps of the vicarage and waved good-bye. Lord Weir was at her side, his presence strong and comforting. “Buck up, you’ll see them in a few short days,” Lord Weir whispered. He squeezed her hand where it rested on his forearm. “I have faith that you’ll come back down that hillside, if only to spite the villagers.”

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Georgie smiled wanly. “I know. There are no such things as dragons, my lord. But I’ve never been away from the children before. Our mother died when Richard was born—I’ve practically raised them ever since.” “I promise, they’ll be well tended,” he vowed. “My letter to my aunt was quite explicit in that regard. And having never had children of her own, she loves to spoil other people’s.” “Thank you, my lord. You’ve done more than I had any right to expect.” One side of his lips twitched into a grin. “And our acquaintance, my dear, is just beginning.”

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Chapter Two

The flat, grassy circle surrounding the single granite monolith was perhaps as big as the vicarage kitchen, while beyond that low trees and scrubby brush were filled with normal night creatures and shadows. Georgie fought to catch her breath as she watched the parade of villagers walk away, leaving her alone on the hillside next to the standing stone. Lord Weir was the last to go, his final words soft and encouraging. Her eyes followed him until, at last, his tall dark shadow moved out of sight. Now she waited on the hillside—alone and practically naked in the softly glowing moonlight. She pressed her back up against the standing stone, listening to the sounds of the men making their way back down the hill to the village. As soon as the footsteps were no longer audible, she carefully unrolled the quilt onto the ground and sat in the centre with her legs crossed beneath her, and the St. George sword laid across her lap. She scanned the sky. The three-quarter moon hung low in the sky, glowing silver-white against the diamond-studded velvet blackness. The air was cool, but not cold. If she’d had a real gown on, instead of the flimsy piece of white gauze they’d insisted she wear, she’d have been quite warm. She thought about wrapping the quilt around her shoulders, but she’d save that for later. Right now the cool breeze was keeping her awake and alert. With her thumb, she traced the hilt of her ancestor’s sword. The sturdy steel pommel was etched with silver and gold St. George crosses and studded with precious gems, cut in the old-fashioned round cabochon style. She wondered if she should try to sleep, or if she should be on the alert. It was very possible that some sort of human interference was planned, so she sipped from Richard’s waterskin and waited. At some point, she must have dozed despite her best intentions. The moon was beginning to set when her eyes flew open and her hand tightened around the pommel. She couldn’t say what noise had woken her, but she stood, carefully scanning the shrubbery that ringed the small clearing. All she could see were darker spots within the shadows. She heard nothing but the flicker of the torch, which was almost out. Still watching the horizon, she

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carefully lit the second torch and speared it into the soil. Then she stood with her back flat against the obelisk and waited. Something about the silence teased at her awareness. It felt unnatural. Then she realised what it was. Total silence. There were no crickets chirping nor small animals rustling in the undergrowth. She lifted the sword in both hands and tested the balance, grateful that her father had once taught her how to fence—purely for exercise of course. Reverend Horatio Burns would never have believed one of his daughters might one day need to use a sword in self-defence. The flapping noise began as little more than a flutter, but grew in intensity until she wanted to let go of the sword and cover her ears. She didn’t, though. She inhaled deeply, bent her knees for balance, and hefted the sword with both hands, keeping the stone at her back.

**** Caddoc stretched his wings and soared into the night sky. It had been too long since he’d allowed himself the luxury, and the cool off-shore breeze caressed his scaly hide as he rose into the air. It was a short flight from the hills on his estate down the coast towards Draigmor and the standing stone, so he took just a moment to fly out over the waves and glide on an updraft. Georgie would be terrified when she saw him. There was no help for that. He’d scoop Miss Georgiana up, carry her off to Weir Castle, and then set about dealing with the repercussions. The villagers could never know that the dragon they feared and the lord they respected were one and the same. Changing the way things were done could result in the populace turning on the dragon. And that could be deadly, for the Greystone family, or for the townsfolk, if Caddoc was forced to defend himself from pitchforks and pikes. He saw the torchlight flickering in the distance as he closed in on the standing stone, then his keen eyes made out the shape of Georgie as well. She stood bravely before the monolith, clutching something in her hand—a spent torch or stout stick, perhaps. The trick would be taking her without causing pain. He hated to think of marring that tender skin. Perhaps he should perch on the craggy hilltop above her and wait for her to fall asleep.

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No. Now that she’d seen him, she wouldn’t rest. And she had seen him. Her posture had stiffened and she now grasped her makeshift weapon almost as though she knew how to wield it. “Put down the club,” he said as he drew nearer. His deep voice boomed in the darkness, even though he’d intended to whisper. “Come no closer,” she called bravely. She lifted the weapon. Moonlight glinted on polished steel. Oh, hell, where had she gotten a sword? He needed to get that away from her before she hurt herself. Since even Toledo or Damascus steel wouldn’t pierce his scales, he had no concern for his own safety. As cautiously as he could, he flew in closer. “I am not going to hurt you,” he boomed. “Please put down the sword.” He was close enough now that with his better-than-human vision, he could see the determined set of her chin and the fierce courage in her gaze. “I said stop,” she repeated. “If you mean no harm, then why are you here?” He tried to soften his voice as much as possible. “May I land?” The words still boomed and echoed off the rocky hills behind her. “Over there.” She pointed to the farthest part of the clearing. With a sigh, Caddoc settled on his haunches on the very edge of the grass. “Acceptable?” Georgie nodded but continued to hold the sword in front of her. “Now what do you want?” “I want to get this business over with.” He rather wished that hadn’t come out as a snarl. He’d never had a need to control his vocal chords as a dragon before. “Well, forgive me if I’m in no hurry to be eaten,” she retorted. “As not one of the ‘sacrifices’ has ever been seen again, I am forced to assume the worst.” “Ha! Why would I want to eat you when there is a hillside full of sheep and cattle?” Well, not eat her in the sense she meant at least. She was breathing heavily, and her luscious breasts pushed against the flimsy fabric of her gown. He could see her nipples taut and beaded underneath. Oh, yes, he wanted to feast on Miss Georgie, just not in a lethal manner. She tilted her head. “Then what do you want?”

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You. He’d never experienced an erection in his dragon shape before, and it was a decidedly uncomfortable sensation. His heavy penis had pushed free of its protective sheath and now hung below his belly in the tall grass. “I do not feed on humans,” he reiterated. “But I do need to take you away from here. If I promise you’ll be safe, will you put down the sword and come with me?” Her laugh was rusty but filled with bravado. Even while he wished she’d concede, he was forced to admire her feisty spirit. He became even further aroused when she lifted the sword and pointed it at him. “I am not going with you, dragon. How am I supposed to trust the word of a creature who does not, cannot exist?” “Of course I exist,” he argued. “Otherwise how could we be having this conversation?” “I am clearly dreaming,” she replied. “Or else I’ve simply lost my faculties, which is a distinct possibility.” “Put the sword down before you hurt yourself, Georgie.” He reached one scaly paw to snatch the weapon. “Back!” She thrust with no little skill, cutting deeply into his wrist. Caddoc roared as pain sliced up his arm—or foreleg, as it were. “Ow!” He looked down to see dark streams of blood spurting from the wound. His paw hung useless, half severed from his arm. Oh, fuck, she’d hit an artery. His vision began to dim around the edges. “Why did you do that?” “I said, stay back.” Her voice quivered now, with fear or regret, he couldn’t tell. Caddoc slumped to his belly. He was going to have to change; it was the only way he could heal. He just hoped she didn’t slice off his head when he shifted to human. “Please,” he murmured. “Step back, and for God’s sake, put the sword down.” Then with the last of his consciousness, he shifted.

**** Georgie dropped the sword and stared at the dragon that seemed to have fallen unconscious into the grass at her feet. Was this a trick? No. Even in the dim light she could see the dark wet pool that formed far too quickly around him.

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How had he known her name? She pondered that as she watched his back move up and down. He still breathed. She shouldn’t be glad of that, but she was. Frightening or not, he was a magnificent creature, all silver and black in the moonlight, the torch reflecting brightly off his metallic scales. He hadn’t attacked her, not really. If only she could have trusted him. As she watched, she saw his shape begin to shimmer and even glow against the darkness of the sky. Then, almost before she realised it was happening, the large form began to change. When the shimmering stopped, there was no injured dragon lying in the grass before her. There was only a man—seemingly whole, and utterly naked. “Lord Weir!” Georgie recognised the stunningly handsome face, even when it lay flat against the earth. “At…your…service.” He rasped out the words as his eyelids fluttered open. He turned his head to view the hand she’d cut and flexed the fingers slowly. Blood glistened on them from the puddle they’d lain in, but the cut was completely gone. “Thank God.” He pushed with his arms, levering his torso up off the ground. Georgie’s breath caught. She’d never seen an adult man’s naked chest before. It was ridged and sculpted and sprinkled with short black hair. She fisted her hands at her sides to resist the urge to touch. When he pushed up farther and she got a glimpse of him below the waist, she averted her gaze. Oh, my. His manhood jutted out proudly from a nest of dark curls between his legs. Georgie felt wetness gather between her own. What would that feel like in her hands? Or even in her… “Is that water?” His voice was still breathy as if fatigued. “May I have a drink please?” “Help yourself.” She kept her face turned away, but was excruciatingly conscious of the sound of him picking up the waterskin and drinking from it. “Thank you.” His voice sounded steadier, stronger, as if he was regaining lost energy by the moment. “May I borrow your blanket?” “Of—of course,” she stammered. She faced out over the ocean, keeping her back to the naked man. “What… I mean, how…” His hand settled on her bare shoulder, and she shivered at the warm tingle that suffused her skin. “Breathe, Georgie. We need to talk, but I’d prefer not to do it here. Can you trust me enough to take you somewhere a little warmer for this conversation?”

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“I…umm…of course.” It sounded so reasonable when he phrased it that way. She bent down and picked up the blood covered St. George sword. The earl flinched. He’d wrapped the quilt about his waist and held it closed with one hand. “You’re not thinking of using that again, are you?” Georgie shook her head. “No. But it’s Richard’s inheritance. I can’t just leave it here.” She thought he almost smiled. “Fine. Now I have to change back in order to fly us out of here. I’ll need to carry you in my arms—err—paws, but I promise to be mindful of the talons, if you promise to wrap the sword up in the blanket. Do we have an agreement?” “Yes, my lord.” She tried very hard not to stare at that naked masculine chest. “Now, one last thing. Did you see a large pearl fall away when I changed back? I had it tucked beneath a scale…” He scanned the grass around his feet intently. “A pearl?” She poked at the grass with her bare toes, finding a smooth, pale orb, as big as a small plum, then picked it up. “You mean this?” “Ah, yes. The token. Wouldn’t do to forget that.” He took it from her hand and laid it against the granite standing stone. “Ready?” “You’re leaving the token?” She licked her lips. “Does that mean you won’t be bringing me back?” He sighed, entreating her with those hooded eyes that shone silver in the night. “I can’t, Georgie. The villagers—they still believe in the magic of their pact with the dragon. If the dragon failed to appear, they’d lose hope, lose their way. But I promise you, none of the girls have ever been hurt. You’ll join your sisters and brother in London, just like I promised.” Georgie nodded slowly. She believed him. She’d trusted him with her family, now she only had to trust him with herself—a much easier prospect. “Good.” He ran one long finger lightly along the line of her cheek. “Now close your eyes for a moment.” She did. At least—she meant to. Somehow she couldn’t resist a peek when she heard the blanket land in a heap beside her feet. She slitted her lids open just enough to glimpse his tall, toned body, standing proud in the torchlight. Then he shimmered again, and the dragon stood in his place, showing no signs of the injury she’d dealt him. “Your hand,” she said. “It’s healed.”

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“The change,” he rumbled in the deep, powerful voice that had frightened her just minutes earlier. “It heals me. I was losing consciousness from the bleeding. Otherwise I’d not have let you see it.” “I’m sorry,” she said. At his gesture, she rolled the sword back into the blanket and tied it. “I was frightened…” “Understandably so,” he said. “Now come here, and do not make any sudden moves. I would not hurt you with my talons, either.” Clutching the bundle to her chest, she stepped over to stand between his paws. She lifted one finger and touched the skin, finding it warm and smooth, leathery instead of metallic as it looked. The claw that tipped it was longer than her entire hand, and wickedly sharp. “Easy now.” One scaly arm wrapped around her shoulder and the other slid under her knees. He lifted her effortlessly, carefully cradling her close to his massive chest. “All right?” “Fine.” She snuggled against the warmth of his chest, ignoring the slight roughness against her skin. She clasped the sword against her with one hand while her other arm twined around his, holding on. She heard his powerful wings, then felt the ground fall away beneath them. It was an effort to keep her eyes open, but she didn’t wish to miss a thing. She was flying! She had to look. Surely she’d never have this experience again. He kept low, his enormous silver wings flapping just above the treetops. They moved north along the coastline, then inland. A few windows glowed like tiny golden stars below, and the stream they crossed was a ribbon of reflected silver moonlight. The wooded areas were a deeper shade of black than the velvety pastures, dotted with the paler forms of sheep. She recognised Greystone house as they passed over it, then they moved farther up into the hills. A tiny hut stood in a small clearing, the soft glow of a banked fire shining through the one tiny window. The dragon settled onto the grass outside the hut, much to the dismay of a handful of sheep who bawled loudly and fled the clearing at top speed. “We’re here,” he told her, setting her gently on her feet. “Go inside, and I’ll join you shortly. I have clothing around the side.”

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Still clutching the wrapped sword, Georgie pushed open the door. The hut was warm inside, and clean, with a small bed, a tiny table, and two chairs. A kettle hung over the fire, and a few crocks and mugs sat on a rickety shelf beneath the window. Georgie leaned the sword against the wall and moved swiftly to the fire. A poker rested next to the hearth, along with a stack of wood, so she poked the coals into life and added a log. She hadn’t quite realised how cold she was until the fire’s warmth began to seep out into the room. She’d just checked the kettle, pleased to find it full and warm, when she heard the door. She turned to find Lord Weir entering the room, ducking his head to clear one of the low ceiling beams. He was barefoot and wore a pair of buckskin trousers and a loose linen shirt. Even in his familiar human form she fancied she could see the strength and power of the dragon lurking underneath. His eyes widened as he looked at her, and he crossed the room in two rapid strides. “Are you hurt? Did I cut you somewhere?” “No, not at all.” She followed his gaze down to the gown she wore and realised it was splattered with still-wet blood. All his. Georgie felt her gorge rise and her head began to swim. She hated the sight of blood. Lord Weir caught her shoulders and guided her into a chair. His big hands ran up and down her equally bloody arms. He was probably checking for injury, but his examination was making her light-headed for a whole different reason. “’Tis all yours, my lord. I am unscathed.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m sorry for being missish, I just hadn’t realised there was quite so much…” “As long as none of it is yours,” he growled. He pulled over the other chair and sat facing her, knees to knees. He chafed both of her small hands between his larger ones. “I washed at the well behind the hut, but I didn’t stop to think… Shall I bring in a bucketful and heat it for you? I’d only planned to keep you here until morning, and I didn’t think to bring you any clothes. I was just going to bustle you into the carriage in the morning and whisk you off to Weir Castle.” “Planning to smuggle me out, my lord?” His olive skin flushed a slightly darker shade. “I had thought to. Obviously I wasn’t prepared for every eventuality.”

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“No. Clearly not. One could almost believe you’ve never done this before.” “I haven’t.” He still held her hands in his, though the chafing had softened to a light caress. Georgie felt his touch all the way to her core. “I’m only three and thirty, you know. The last maiden actually became my governess after my father brought her home. And I believe the one before that was my grandmother.” “But—that would have been Mr. Dewey’s cousin, who was lame.” Each of the stories she’d heard during yesterday’s village fair had become indelibly etched into her brain. “She did have a limp,” he agreed with a shrug. “But apparently the doctors in London were able to minimise her discomfort. She lived to be seventy and gave my grandfather six children.” “Six? And are they all…like you?” “No. Only the holder of the title inherits the dragon magic.” He twisted a ring on his finger that bore the symbol of a dragon, etched into a large ruby. “Although my sister’s temper is more fiery than my breath.” She laughed, but made the mistake of looking down at her clothes again and her chuckle turned into a moan. “Well then.” Lord Weir stood just as the kettle whistled. “I think some water and something to wear are in order.” He stripped out of his linen shirt and laid it on the table, then strode out of the hut. Georgie watched his back as he walked away. She couldn’t help herself. What would it be like to touch him there, to feel the play of those muscles beneath her fingers? She was still staring at the door when he returned, carrying a large wooden bucket full of water. He set it in front of the fire, then added the contents of the kettle. Steam curled around his face as he tested the temperature and turned to Georgie. “A bit cool, but it should suffice. When you’ve finished, put on my shirt and get under the covers.” “Thank you,” Georgie said simply. She waited until he’d left the hut again before peeling off the soiled gown, then tore off a piece of the ruffle from the back of the hem. Since most of the blood was on the front, it made an acceptable washrag. Heaven! Washing her face first, she sighed at the relief of ridding herself of the grime and blood she’d accumulated. She worked her way down quickly, before the water grew

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cold, ending with her filthy feet. She still didn’t understand why the sacrifice had to be barefoot. As soon as she was clean, she pulled Lord Weir’s shirt over her head. It came nearly to her knees, and she had to roll the sleeves up several times to free her hands. The linen was warm and soft, and smelled of him. She drew in a deep breath, and once again felt that tingling in her breasts and loins. What was it about this man that made her respond like such a wanton? She hauled the bucket of bloody, dirty water to the door and stepped outside. His lordship stood beside the entrance, his bare back leaning against the wooden window frame, rather than the rough wattle wall. “What’s wrong?” he asked. His gaze raked her from head to toe, lingering on her bare legs and the deep neckline of his shirt. “Nothing, my lord.” She ducked her head rather than stare at his naked skin. His laugh sounded rusty. “Given that you’re wearing my clothing, I think you could call me Caddoc.” Caddoc. It had a nice sound, she decided. Strong and rugged, it suited him. “I thought to dump this away from the hut,” she told him, holding out the bucket. “Let me.” He took it from her, his fingers brushing against her hands. Georgie caught her breath. She still hadn’t grown used to his touch. Caddoc strode to the edge of the clearing and dumped the bucket into the weeds. Then he disappeared around the back of the hut, and she heard the sounds of a winch as he drew another bucket.

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Chapter Three

Caddoc groaned when he rounded the corner and found her standing there still, wearing nothing but his shirt. The light fabric clung to her curves and left most of her legs exposed. Like the rest of her, her legs were curvaceous and strong, making him long to see what they looked like thrown over his shoulders. Every instinct he possessed urged him to take advantage of tradition and make her his tonight. But despite the beast raging beneath his skin, he still had a gentleman’s honour. Carrying the bucket, he held open the door and motioned her inside. “You should go to bed. I’ll come for you at first light.” “Very well.” She turned to walk toward the bed in the corner and Caddoc couldn’t stop himself from watching the sway of her rounded buttocks as she moved. Then he forced himself to drop his gaze—which is when he noticed her foot was leaving blood on the floor. “You’re hurt.” He set down the bucket and reached out to touch her shoulder. “Your foot.” “I am?” She glanced down at her toes then lifted one foot to see the spot of blood on the floor beneath it. “Oh. That opened up again. It’s just a little cut.” For some reason, she didn’t react so badly to blood when it was her own. ’Twas only that of others that made her queasy. “Sit down and let me look at it.” She shrugged and slid into a chair. Caddoc poured water from the bucket into the kettle and returned it to its hook above the fire. Then he sat across from her and lifted her foot into his lap. He suppressed a groan as his shirt rode high up on her ivory thighs. “I don’t know why they wouldn’t let me wear slippers on the hillside.” “Probably so you wouldn’t run away.” Her feet were smooth and tiny, in proportion to her height. The firelight was dim, but his vision was excellent even in human form, so he surveyed the inch-long gash on the ball of her foot. It wasn’t deep, but she shouldn’t be walking on it as it was. He looked around for something to use as a bandage. “Where’s your gown?”

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“I used it to wipe up the mess, and then burned it,” she said sheepishly. “I couldn’t bear to see it with all that blood.” She lifted a hand and swiped a hank of hair out of her eyes. It had grown tangled, the flowers and ribbons mostly gone. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up half a dozen times and still covered her all the way to her fingertips. “Hmm. That leaves me with a problem, but I think I see a solution. Hold out your hands.” With no hesitation whatsoever, she did. Caddoc marvelled again at the trust she displayed. “It’s difficult not to trust you when you could have killed me and didn’t,” she said, answering the question he hadn’t articulated. He concentrated for a moment, then extended the claw from his right index finger. Very carefully, he cut the roll of fabric from the end of one sleeve, and then the other. She still didn’t flinch. He sliced the fabric into long sections. After he retracted the claw, she smiled. “That must have been handy a time or two.” “Not so often as you might think,” he replied. He pulled small flask of whiskey from the pocket of his trousers and dampened one of the swatches of linen. “This is going to sting.” She clenched her hands in her lap and nodded. “Go ahead.” While he cleaned the wound with the alcohol, she held her foot perfectly still. Finally, he padded the injury, wrapped her foot with another strip, and tied it off. “Thank you…Caddoc.” “You’re welcome.” Awkward silence reigned for a moment, then she raised her hands to her hair. “I rather wish you’d brought a hairbrush as well. I must look an utter fright.” “No.” Quite the opposite. His throat caught at the picture she made, mussed and flushed, clad only in his garment. Almost as if they’d just made love. He swelled behind the flap of his trousers. Without a conscious thought, he tugged her onto his lap and replaced her hands with his, finger-combing the luxurious mass. Her hair was thick, with just a hint of a wave, and the texture was like rough-spun silk. She relaxed into him as he worked out every tangle, carefully removing the flowers and bits of ribbon. She didn’t need the adornments.

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The scent of lemons wafted up to his nostrils and his cock tightened further. Who’d have known citrus could be an aphrodisiac? “So what does the dragon usually do with his sacrifice?” she asked in a lazy, teasing tone. “It doesn’t seem like much of a bargain, if you ask me. Unless you’re in need of a housekeeper or governess.” “Well I recently acquired three young wards,” he said. “Perhaps you could make yourself useful supervising them?” “You’re a very kind man, Caddoc. Thank you.” If she had any idea what he wanted to do to her right now, she’d be running, not thanking him. Her rounded arse rubbed up against his erection. Could she not feel it? His fingers snagged in a tangle and she caught her breath sharply, turning her head to look at him. Caddoc gazed into her deep green eyes and was lost. Her pulse beat rapidly beneath the creamy skin of her throat. Her breath was shallow and rapid. Her lips were plump and parted, and he simply couldn’t survive another minute without tasting them. He moved slowly, giving her plenty of time to turn away. She didn’t. She kept her eyes locked on his as he bent his head to hers. He meant to keep it light. Just a taste, just a promise of what could be between them if circumstances were different. But then their lips met, and the kiss took on a life of its own. Both of his hands were still tangled in her hair. He loosened one to hold her in place, wrapping around her waist to cup one strong, shapely thigh through the thin barrier of his shirt. The other he held at the nape of her neck, holding her still for his ravishment. And ravishment it was. Her lips parted as if instinctively beneath his, and he could not restrain himself from plunging inside to taste her sweetness. She didn’t slap him or try to pull away. Instead both of her hands came up to grip his bare shoulders, her short nails digging into his flesh. She was clearly untried, but it didn’t take her long to follow his lead, and soon her lips were moving with his, her tongue stroking his own. He wasn’t even sure if the low, hungry moan he heard came from her or from himself. He pressed her closer, until her hip was snug against his throbbing member and one ripe breast was pressed into his chest. He could feel her nipple, pebbled and taut, where it

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rubbed against his skin, and her legs moved restlessly, stroking him through his trousers and causing the shirt to ride up above her hips. Caddoc’s hand smoothed across bare skin, warm and softer than down. He slid the hand around to anchor her in place, then groaned loudly when his fingers encountered a nest of crisp, wet curls. “Oh!” On that breathy gasp, she threw her head back and squeezed her eyes shut. Caddoc’s own eyeballs nearly rolled up in his head. He could see the darker outline of her areola through the linen, and he had to taste. He cupped her mound while he lowered his mouth to capture that swollen peak, right through the fabric of his shirt. She cried out again, but didn’t pull away. Instead she arched her back, further lifting her breast to his mouth. Caddoc needed a hand to pull the shirt out of the way, but he needed both to keep her from falling. And with that thought came the observation that the flimsy wooden chair was creaking ominously beneath them. That would never do. She deserved her first time to be in a bed, at least. He shifted his hands slightly, lifted his mouth from her nipple, then stood, lifting her easily in his arms. Georgie’s eyes fluttered open as he crossed the tiny room to lay her on the mattress. Enough of the gentleman remained inside him to ask as he knelt beside her. “You know where this is going?” “I am a country girl, my lord. I know.” She reached up a hand to touch his flat brown nipple, then trailed it down his chest to the waist of his trousers. “I gave up on marriage several years ago. I would have this one night…if you want me.” He took her hand and slid it down to cradle his aching cock. “Then you should know that this means I do. I want you very much, Miss Georgiana Burns.” She licked her lips and inhaled deeply. “Then show me what to do, Caddoc.” Her fingers shaped and explored his erection as she spoke, making him even harder, until he feared he’d burst through the sturdy buckskin. “You do not seem to be in need of instruction.” He shuddered as she rubbed the tip of him. He knew there would be droplets of seed staining the inside of the placket. “Does that…please you?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “As much as my hand here pleases you.” He slid his fingers up her thigh to the damp red curls, then gently massaged her swollen lower lips. The scent of her arousal drifted up to his nose—warm, feminine, and fertile.

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Fertile? His brain registered the probabilities even while he coated his fingers in her thick juices. She splayed her legs and let her head fall back against the single pillow. His better-than-human sense of smell had saved him in the past. He’d never taken a woman who was at the right stage of her cycle to conceive. He continued to pet her while he waited for the familiar sense of self-preservation to outweigh his desire. It didn’t. In fact, the more he thought about the idea of filling Georgie’s body with his child, the more impatient he became to do so. Her choice, nagged his conscience in the back of his head. “If there are consequences,” he murmured huskily. “We will be wed.” “Don’t be silly.” Her voice was little more than a husky whisper. “Surely the risk is minimal from just this one time.” Not so minimal, but he didn’t have enough patience for long explanations. “Nonetheless. If there is a child, there will be a wedding.” He slid one finger into her slick, tight channel. “Fine. Just, please, don’t stop now.” She panted and lifted her hips, taking him deeper. “Oh my heavens, Caddoc.” She squeezed down almost painfully with her hand on his erection. “Easy, love.” Caddoc lifted her hand from his member and stood to free himself from the constraint of his buckskins. Her eyes flew open and she watched as he unbuttoned the trousers and lowered them to the floor. He kicked them aside and stood for her inspection. His cock stood at attention, arced slightly upward in its eagerness. Small drops of fluid beaded at the swollen purple tip. “Oh, my.” She licked her lips and reached out one finger to trace the thick vein that ran the length of him. “Is that going to…fit?” His laugh was a hoarse bark of sound. “Aye, Georgie. It will fit. Though if you keep that up, I might embarrass myself before we get that far.” She’d closed her hand around his shaft and started stroking. He disengaged her clever little hand and guided her to a seated position so he could pull his shirt off over her head. Then he stepped back, content for the moment just to look at

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her in all her naked glory, her flame-coloured hair framing her lovely face and apricot-tipped breasts. “Beautiful,” he murmured. He sat on the bed and leaned over to suck one pert nipple into his mouth. “You needn’t lie,” she replied even as her hands sunk into his hair to hold him in place. “I know what I look like.” He released her breast to look up at her face and smiled. “Do you? Do you know what I see when I look at you, Georgie?” He cupped her face in one hand and trailed the other through her hair. “Starting here. This hair is like a living flame, bright and enticing. You have lovely eyes. As green as emeralds and glowing with intelligence and a love for life.” He leaned down and kissed each eyebrow, then her nose. “Your nose is dainty and pert, with just the tiniest smattering of freckles. One of these days I intend to count them, and kiss each and every one. And then there are your lips. Full, soft, and so responsive. They’re the colour of a ripe apricot, did you know that? And they make me want to taste them, over and over again.” He suited his deeds to his words and took her mouth in a kiss that left both of them breathless. When he finally pulled away and caught his breath, they were both trembling. He trailed one finger down the line of her throat. “Your skin is smooth and the exact shade of fresh cream. Your curves are lush and feminine, making a man want to sink himself into them over and over. I know you believe yourself to be stout, but in reality you’re simply built like a goddess, soft and lush, and strong enough that I won’t need to worry about breaking you in half. And these…” He lifted her heavy breasts with both of his hands and rubbed her nipples with his thumbs. “A man could feast on these for days and never get enough. More apricots and cream. And so wonderfully responsive to my touch.” She gasped as he pinched both tips. Caddoc nodded his approval. “Do you touch them yourself, Georgie? At night, alone in your bed, do you pleasure yourself by caressing those pretty nipples with your own hands?” Her skin flushed a delicate coral hue, all the way from her forehead to her breasts, but she nodded, dropping her eyes from his. “Show me, Georgie.” He took her hands in his and placed them on her breasts. “Show me what you like, what makes you wet and hungry.”

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Biting her lip, she did. She cupped the weight of them from beneath and caught her nipples between her thumb and fingers. Caddoc’s penis jerked in response. Not yet, he told it. Soon. He leaned over to lick the tips as she rolled them in her hands. “Delicious.” Moving to kneel between her thighs, he continued, “You’ve a tidy waist, not too small, but neat and trim. And those hips…” He skimmed his palms downward. “Those hips were just made to cushion a man as he fucks you. Over and over again.” He kissed her navel, teasing it with his tongue while his hands slid underneath to cup her cheeks and tease the crack between. “And don’t even get me started on your delectable little ass, my sweet. One day I’ll take you there as well.” Another droplet leaked from him at that notion. Oh yes, one of these days he’d have that hole as well. And she’d enjoy every second. He lifted her calves to his shoulders and traced her cleft with his hand. “And this, my love. You’ve the prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen. You’re swollen and flushed with wanting me, and so wet. You smell of heaven and I have to taste.” He bent his head and licked a slow line from her clit, beaded and poking out from its hood, down to her wet, clutching entrance. Then he dipped his tongue just inside. “Caddoc,” she cried, her head tossing on the pillow as she continued to knead her own breasts. “Too. Much.” “No, my sweet. Not too much.” He slipped one finger back into her snug sheath and lowered his mouth again to tongue her swollen pearl. “Let yourself go, Georgie. I’ll be here to catch you if you fall.” He added a second finger, carefully stretching her to take his cock. He felt the barrier of her maidenhead and pulled back, determined that this first bit should be nought but pleasure. He flicked rhythmically with his tongue while he fucked her with his fingers. His other hand was under her bottom, holding her in place. He allowed one finger to press against her puckered anus, but not penetrate the tight ring. That would come soon enough. Her breathing now was a series of tiny whimpers. She was close. Her pussy had tightened down on his hand, gripping him like a fist. Her cream flowed freely, coating his chin as he licked her hardened nub. So beautiful, so responsive to his touch. He caught her clit between his lips and sucked at the same time as his fingers curled inward and found her sweet spot.

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Georgie cried out and shattered. Her cunt pulsed around his hand and her muscles gripped him so tightly he couldn’t have withdrawn his fingers without hurting her. He licked her gently as the spasms passed, then finally eased his hand out of her sheath. When she looked up at him, he deliberately let her watch him coat his shaft with her wetness. Then he wiped his face and kissed his way up her belly to her throat and finally her mouth. He covered her now, leaning up above her on his arms. “This will hurt,” he reminded her hoarsely, positioning his throbbing cock at her slick entrance. “I would spare you that if I could.” “I’m not afraid,” she told him. “I…ache inside. I feel so empty. Fill me, Caddoc. Make the emptiness go away.” “Georgie!” He flexed his hips and drove deep, breaking her maidenhead in one swift thrust. He felt her tense, heard her cry of pain, and wished he could have felt it himself instead. All he could do was hold himself still in her incredible tight heat and lower his head to take her mouth with his. Caddoc’s kiss swiftly made her forget the sharp stinging pain his entry had caused. While his cock filled her cunt—yes, she knew the words—it felt like more. It felt like he filled her everywhere, like his entire being was suffused inside her skin. Within moments, the pain was forgotten and the marvellous pleasure began to build again. She lifted her knees to draw him even deeper, felt the fat head of his member nudging against her womb. While his tongue stroked into her mouth, he moved his hips and allowed his manhood to stroke inside her core. Soon she was pulsing her hips to meet his and her arms had gone around him, holding him tight. “That’s it, love, just like that.” He set a steady rhythm of thrust and retreat that made the tension in her belly coil even tighter than before. His lips trailed a line down her chin to her ear, then down to the point where her shoulder met her throat. From there to her aching breast, where he caught one nipple between his lips and sucked. More pleasure than she’d ever dreamed washed through her body. She dug her nails into Caddoc’s back, just holding on for her life. Nothing mattered but this. No reality existed outside this hut, this bed. Her siblings were safe, and their futures assured. For the first time in her life, Georgie had the freedom to think of nothing but her own satisfaction.

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He switched to suckle her other breast, drawing deep and strongly while he pumped his thick cock deep into her channel. Her spine bowed and her legs wrapped around his, drawing him deeper yet. Every fibre of her being tightened into a coil of sensation, as if she would simply burst from the pleasure. “Georgie,” he moaned, his lips tracing a line back up to her throat. His weight pressed her into the mattress, covering her like a blanket even as he filled her, body and soul. He thrust deeper, harder, and his teeth clamped down on the tendon at the base of her neck, just hard enough for her to feel two soft pricks. She screamed his name as the world exploded in a firestorm of heat and light. Her body convulsed, as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her veins, rippled along her skin. She clutched Caddoc with her arms, legs, and cunt, holding him to her as he stiffened and shouted her name. The warm wet splash of his seed filled her, causing another round of spasms to shudder through her core. Tears trickled down her cheeks at the sheer beauty of the experience. Long moments later, Caddoc lifted himself up on his elbows and tenderly brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. When he saw the tears, he used the pads of his thumbs to wipe them away. “Does it hurt so badly? I’m sorry, my sweet.” “No.” She smiled up at him. “It did for just a bit, that’s all. It was…beautiful. Thank you, Caddoc.” “No. Thank you, my love.” This time his kiss was slow, sweet, and tender. Georgie fisted her hands in his silky dark hair and returned it. As they kissed, she felt his shaft stir inside her, hardening again. “Is it always like that? So…intense?” “No, sweet Georgie. ‘Tis almost never like that. Never before, in my experience at least. Perhaps destiny is trying to tell us something.” Her smile, she knew, was rueful, disbelieving. He was a lord of the realm and she was nothing but the orphaned daughter of a village parson. She had no illusions of a future with Caddoc, despite his honourable statement of intent. But the memories of this night—those she would have to treasure for the rest of her life. He flexed his buttocks, pushing deep into her channel again. She hummed at the initial pleasure, but then winced as he found a tender spot.

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“Forgive me, love.” As soon as she flinched, he withdrew and eased himself off of her. With a few steps he went over buy the fire and then returned with a damp cloth, sitting again beside her. “Let me help.” Georgie turned her face to the wall as he cleaned her, his touch gentle and deft. Though the lukewarm water soothed her abraded skin, this was somehow more intimate than his being inside her. To complete her embarrassment, when he finished, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss on her nest of red curls. “Better?” “Thank you.” What else did one say to the man who had just made her a woman? She merely watched as he used the rag to clean the blood—her blood—off his now flaccid penis. Even in repose it seemed impressive, though she had nothing to compare it to. It was a far cry from the tiny thing she’d seen when she’d changed Richard’s nappies. He returned to lie beside her on the bed, propped up on one elbow, and pulled the blanket up over them both. She gazed up into his strikingly handsome face, trying to imprint every line of it into her memory. “So tell me about the sword, my little warrior,” he said with a boyish grin. “I’ve never before seen a weapon that could pierce a dragon’s skin.” “It is said to be enchanted,” she told him. “My mother’s maiden name was St. George, and that weapon has been handed down for centuries in her family. I didn’t—couldn’t believe that the St. George was really my ancestor, but now I’m not so certain.” “Aye.” He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Aye, that would explain it then. So Miss Georgiana is named for her famous ancestor. How fitting.” “No.” She chuckled ruefully. “My father had a fascination with the kings of England. Each child was supposed to be a boy, and bear the name of a great king. My sisters are Henrietta and Wilhelmina. My brother is Richard. Mama lost little Charles in between.” “I see. Whereas my father was determined to stick with solid Welsh names. Very provincial for an earl. My sister Morwenna faced no little teasing during her London season.” Georgie’s answer was interrupted by a yawn. Horrified that he should think he was boring her, she clapped her hand over her mouth.

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“It’s all right.” His hum of laughter was as soft as a caress. He rolled to his back and drew her close against him, pillowing her head on his chest. “You’ve had an eventful day. Go to sleep, little one. Your adventure will only continue in the morning.” Caddoc couldn’t believe he’d bitten Georgie. He’d read about the phenomenon in an ancestor’s journal, but he’d never dreamed that he would indulge in such a primitive way of marking his mate. As she slept in his arms, he rubbed his thumb across the two tiny puncture marks, already healing at the base of her neck. He’d read that the dragon’s mating frenzy was powerful, but he hadn’t truly believed it would ever happen to him. He’d actually extended his fangs and bitten her without knowing what he was about. Now he knew why the family jewel collection included a large number of wide necklets. They would hide the scar of his mark on her skin. A special license would be arranged as soon as he reached London. No question about that, not now. According to that same ancestor, the mating frenzy almost always produced an heir immediately. He drifted off to sleep, thinking of her and envisioning their future together. She’d make an exceptional countess, with her concern for others and lively intelligence. Her eager sexuality pleased him even more. Marriage to her would never be boring.

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Chapter Four

He slept lightly, waking only an hour or two later, judging by the placement of the moon in the sky. Georgie’s warm hand had settled right on his cock, cupping it softly in her sleep. There was nothing soft about Caddoc, though. His body was fully aroused, and hunger pounded through his bloodstream. He shifted his hips, rubbing against her palm. “Caddoc?” His movement must have woken her. He turned his head to see Georgie staring up at him. “Sorry, my sweet. I didn’t mean to wake you.” “I don’t mind.” Her hand curled around his straining shaft. “You…want me again?” “It seems that way.” He groaned as she tightened her grip and stroked him. Georgie sat up beside him, studying him intently in the dim light of the fire and the moon. “What you did for me earlier—with your mouth. Does that work the other way? Can I…” Holy hell. Just imagining her sweet mouth sucking him made his shaft pulse and his ballocks go tight. “Yes, it works. But only if you’re certain you want to.” “I am.” She leaned over him, and her hair tickled his abdomen and hips. “But I’m not sure what to do.” “Use your hand on the lower part and take the tip inside your mouth.” Entranced by her willingness to please, he lifted his head to watch. “I see.” She lowered her face to his groin and ran a line of kisses from his navel down to the leaking tip of his penis. Her tongue darted out to lick away a droplet of fluid, making Caddoc moan and fall back against the pillows. “You taste salty, and a little bitter, but somehow…just right.” She licked all the way around the head, then cautiously sucked it inside the incredible wet heat of her mouth. “Georgie,” he moaned. He placed his hand over hers as she pumped his shaft, showing her how to pleasure him best. As he’d expected, she was an apt pupil, squeezing with just the

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right pressure and following his lead perfectly as to speed. Soon he was pumping his hips, fucking her mouth as her lips caressed the underside of his crown. “Suck, sweetling. Please suck me.” Immediately she responded with a gentle suction that gradually increased and matched the tempo of her hand. Caddoc’s entire body responded to the overwhelming pleasure of having Georgie suckle his cock. His spine bowed and his fingers clenched in the blanket. He meant to stop before he spewed down her throat. Surely that was too much to ask of his virginal mate, but his orgasm blasted through him with such speed and force he didn’t have time. All he could do was shout her name and fist one hand in her hair, holding her to him as he spurted jet after jet of hot semen into her lovely mouth. Long moments later, he fell limply back against the mattress, utterly spent. Georgie continued to surprise him. Rather than gag, or spit his seed out, she swallowed over and over, caressing him with her rippling throat muscles. When he was done, she eased her mouth off of him and daintily licked him clean. Finally, she straddled his hips and brushed a strand of hair off his face. Her wet pussy rested on his limp shaft, drenching him as she rubbed against it. “Are you all right?” Her forehead furrowed in concern. “Did I do something wrong?” His laugh was a hoarse rasp. “Not a thing. I merely fear I’ve died of pleasure.” He lifted his arms around her and brought her head down for a long, thorough kiss. The taste of his seed on her lips and tongue caused him to harden again—or perhaps it was the liquid glide of her parted lower lips sliding along his cock. “I want to feel you inside me again,” she told him when they broke the kiss to gasp for breath. “Does that make me a horrible wanton?” “It makes you a fucking dream come true,” he growled, claiming her mouth again. While his tongue sought out every hollow of her mouth, he shifted her hips up and positioned his renewed erection at the mouth of her channel. He guided her hips down, impaling himself once again in her heat. “Ride me, Georgie. Take your pleasure from me this time.” His hands were on her hips, guiding her movements until she found her rhythm. Using one elbow to prop himself up, he watched her heavy breasts bounce as she rode him. He

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caught one puckered nipple between his lips and sucked deeply, causing her to cry out and dig her fingers into the flesh of his shoulder, where she’d braced her hands for support. He couldn’t believe he was already close to coming again. Not when just moments ago he’d been sure she’d drained him dry. More benefits of the mating frenzy, he supposed in that corner of his mind still capable of thought. But physiology wasn’t responsible for everything he felt. Most of it was simply Georgie. He wanted her more than he’d ever known was possible. He was suffused with a need to claim her, to make her his in every conceivable way. “Caddoc!” She cried out his name and held herself still as she found her pleasure. The pulsing of her passage around him milked another climax from Caddoc as well. He shoved himself up into her as deeply as possible and released. Bright spots of lights swam in front of his vision as he flooded her again with his seed. She gripped him with her thighs and hands, clutched at him with her vaginal walls, and sobbed her relief. “We’re going to kill each other,” he murmured into her hair after she’d collapsed against his chest. “Hmmm. What a wonderful way to go. If the villagers knew this was what happened, the maidens would be lining up to be chosen for the sacrifice.” “But none of them would have tempted the dragon.” He shifted and sat, cradling her in his lap. “Only you. Any of the others would simply have been relocated to my estate in Scotland, and found work suitable to their upbringing.” “I still don’t understand why you allow this barbaric tradition to continue. Or how it began, for that matter. Couldn’t you just have left me on that hillside to be found safe in the morning?” “There is a long-standing pact between the village and the dragon. Many, many years ago, there was another dragon, ravaging the countryside. My ancestor defended the town. When asked what he wished for in exchange, he chose a young woman to be his bride.” “And? Surely that isn’t the end of it?” Her breath brushed his skin as she snuggled into his chest. “Of course not. Some thirty years later, the crops failed and the village was starving. They offered up another maiden, in return for food. The dragon, the son of the original, was

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attracted to the girl and accepted the bargain. He left a sack of gold in exchange, and the money kept the village fed for a year.” “And thus a tradition was born. But why maintain it?” He shrugged. “When my great-grandfather tried, the people were distraught. For the next several weeks, they blamed every ill on the dragon’s displeasure. There was talk of arming a party to seek out the beast and slay it. So he left a letter, stating that henceforth, the sacrifice must be on Midsummer. And thus the tradition continued.” Georgie nodded. “Hmmm. We shall have to come up with something. I am content with my fate, but perhaps the next girl won’t be.” “Well, I have faith that if there is a solution, you’ll be the one to find it. Now sleep, dearest. Before the beast rouses yet again.” He nipped her ear playfully. “I can’t seem to get enough of you.” “Nor I you.” Clever fingers traced a circle around one of his flat nipples. “I can sleep when our interlude is over. For tonight, I want to know what it means to be yours.” “You have to be sore.” The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, but already he wanted her again. His body, it seemed, had become insatiable. “There will be other nights, sweetling. I’ve no intention of giving you up.” “Don’t be silly, Caddoc. You’re an earl. You can’t marry a nobody like me. And as much as I lo—umm—like you, I can’t live as your mistress. That would set a terrible example for the girls.” Had she started to say she loved him? Caddoc’s heart leapt at the thought. Warmth swelled through his chest, burning away any doubt that he might have had. She was his and he was keeping her. “We will be wed. Just think what advantage that will give your sisters in the marriage mart, my dear. I’ve no intention of keeping my hands off of you, so you may as well resign yourself to being a countess.” He laid one hand low on her belly. “And if you aren’t already with child, you will be within the week.” “Surely not.” Her hand covered his. “Caddoc, you can’t want this.” “But I do. From the moment I met you, Georgie, I knew you were different from all the brainless bundles of fluff thrown at me in society. You’re a challenge, a force of nature. A woman meant to be a true partner to her mate—be he man or dragon. How many women do

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you think I could trust with my secret? Wouldn’t most women run screaming, rather than face the dragon with sword drawn? You’re one of a kind, my Georgie. I fell in love with you the day we met, and I intend to treasure you for the rest of my days.”

“You—you love me?” Georgie couldn’t believe her ears. Surely this was more fantastic than watching him change from man to dragon and back again. How could this magnificent man be in love with her? “With all my heart, Georgie.” He kissed her, a slow, thorough mating of their mouths. He cradled her against him like she was a priceless piece of porcelain. “I…” She tried to say she loved him too, but the words stuck in her throat. “I’m afraid, Caddoc. Afraid I’ll wake up in the morning and this will all have been a dream.” “Then sleep, sweetling. When morning comes, you can see for yourself that our love is real. And then our life together can begin.” “Very well.” She was exhausted, and perhaps in the light of day, she could make him see sense. “Will you be here when I wake?” “I promise.” He lifted her off his lap to lay her down beside him. She faced away, and he curled into her from behind with his strong arm wrapped snugly around her waist and his cock nestled between the cheeks of her arse. “Goodnight, Caddoc.” He kissed her shoulder. “Goodnight my love. Sweet dreams.” “They already are,” she whispered over a yawn. “Best dreams ever.”

**** The sun was just beginning to tint the sky a pale rose when she woke. He was gone, as she’d suspected he’d be. A stab of disappointment pierced Georgie’s heart. She’d wanted so badly to believe in him. His side of the bed was still warm and she flattened her palm on it, as if trying to absorb some last little trace of his essence. “Georgie!” The door banged open and Caddoc hurried inside, gloriously naked. A wide smile lit his face as he knelt beside her on the bed and caught her face between his hands. “Good morning, my sweet.”

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“I thought you’d gone.” Her voice cracked, giving away the fear she’d hoped to hide. “No. Just outside for a moment.” He leaned down to greet her with a kiss, one that had her melting back into the mattress and urging him down atop her. “I love you, Georgie,” he whispered as he slipped his thick cock inside her waiting sheath. “I intend to remind you of that every morning for the rest of our lives.” “I love you, Caddoc,” she replied, lifting her hips to meet his thrusts. She was sore, but as soon as he’d touched her, the pain had ceased to matter. She’d woken with her folds drenched and swollen with wanting him. All she could think about was the wonder of him loving her, fucking her. She dug her fingernails into his buttocks and whispered, “Harder. Please.” “Whatever you want, my love.” His tempo increased as he pounded into her core. His shaft had been too thick last night for her fingers to meet around it, and she gloried in every inch of his length and girth filling her cunt. “You, Caddoc. All I want is you.” “I am yours, Georgiana. Yours in every way a man can belong to a woman. And you are mine, now and forever.” “Yes.” The sensations had coiled in her womb again, readying to burst into the firestorm she’d experienced last night. She strained towards it, whimpering brokenly each time he thrust. Each stroke drove her higher until all at once, the dam broke, and her consciousness flew apart, sending her spinning into the heavens. She vaguely heard his hoarse cry as he poured his essence into her. That thought didn’t frighten her anymore; she welcomed his seed, cherished the idea of someday bearing his child. She held him tight until the tremors stopped rippling through her body. Caddoc leaned down and kissed her cheeks, kissing away the tears she hadn’t noticed crying. “Are you well, sweetling? Did I hurt you?” “Not at all.” She beamed up at him, smiling with all the love in her heart. “Good morning, my love.” “Good morning, Lady Weir.” He kissed the tip of her nose. Georgie laughed. “Not yet. But soon, I promise. I’ll be honoured to be your wife. First, though, I’ve figured out what to do about the village.”

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Epilogue

Caddoc watched in amazement as Georgie entered the village on his arm, just before noon. Wearing his housekeeper’s spare gown, she held her bright head high as she looked at the gawking crowd that swiftly gathered. “But…” The baker’s wife, a young matron not much older than Georgie, ran up and gave her a hug. “I’m so glad you’re safe! Thank the Lord!” “Thank the dragon,” Georgie said, returning her friend’s hug. “He and I had quite a talk last night. He has some new wishes he’d like me to convey regarding the sacrifice.” In short order, everyone was gathered in the village square. Georgie waited until they’d all grown quiet, then pulled a rolled-up piece of parchment out of her sleeve. “First,” she said. “I’m to hand over the token. He wants you to know that he keeps his bargains.” She handed the lord mayor the pearl, which Caddoc had retrieved from the standing stone just before daylight. “Secondly…” She unrolled the parchment and began to read. “The dragon finds he has outgrown his taste for maidens. He would prefer, if in the future, the offering could be two sheep and one cask of ale.” The parchment was handed to the mayor, who read the new list of demands and nodded his agreement at the words Georgie had written there. Then he turned the paper to the villagers, showing the large inky handprint that served as the dragon’s signature. The townsfolk erupted in a buzz of whispers and conversations. “But what happened?” yelled Mrs. Jones, Georgie’s sour erstwhile servant. “How’d ye get here when the hillside was covered in blood?” “Ah,” said his clever Georgie with a smile. “For that you can thank one of Lord Weir’s stray sheep. It had joined me on the hillside and the dragon took a liking to it instead of me. That’s what gave me the idea to suggest the new agreement.” Caddoc was unbearably proud of the scheme she’d concocted, seemingly in her sleep. He stepped up then and added. “The dragon brought her to my doorstep this morning at

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dawn, unharmed. As per our original agreement, I will take her to Weir Castle to join her family, and then to my sister in London.” He waited until the hubbub died down and continued. “I pledge that my family will continue to uphold its share of the new bargain. The sheep can come from Greystone stock. The keg of ale will be the village share. Is that acceptable?” Both the mayor and the squire bobbed their heads in eager acceptance. Cheers went up from the crowd as Caddoc took Georgie’s hand in his and lifted it to the sky.

**** That night, after witnessing a joyful reunion between Georgie and her siblings, he crept into her room at Weir Castle. She sat in bed, waiting for him, and his heart nearly burst at the smile she gave him as he closed the door behind him. “So what do you think of your new home?” he asked. Two strides took him to her side. His silk robe fell to the floor as he shrugged it off his shoulders and pulled back the covers, revealing her naked form. “It’s beautiful,” she told him with a sunny smile as she scooted to the side to make room for him in her bed. “I almost hate to leave for London tomorrow.” “I know.” He cupped one of her breasts and rubbed the nipple. He could already scent her arousal. “But London is where I can obtain a special license. And I don’t want to wait a minute more than I must to marry you.” He bent his head to suckle, while his hand trailed lower to part her moist folds. “Yes, Caddoc,” she moaned quietly, mindful that there were other rooms nearby. “Our wedding should be very, very soon.” He moved above her and slid his aching cock into her wet pussy, closing his eyes against the sensual homecoming. It felt like years rather than hours since he’d been clasped within her heat, and he knew he’d never tire of making love to his own little Saint Georgie. There were no more words as their passion took hold, only his shaft in her sheath, her tightness gripping him like a fist. He lost himself in the perfection of it until he exploded, his seed splashing into her with the force of his dragon’s fiery breath. She came around him, biting his shoulder to muffle her cries, then kissing the tiny hurt and whispering his name.

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“You’ve quite upheld the family tradition, my love,” he teased as he rolled his weight off of her smaller frame. “You’ve utterly vanquished the dragon.” “I hope not,” she whispered with a giggle. “I’d much rather re-enact the battle over and over again.” “So we shall.” He knew he had to leave by morning, before the household was awake, but for now he just wanted to hold her close. “You may vanquish me thusly every night of our lives.” “Oh, I intend to, dragon.” She stroked a teasing hand over his member. “Even if you’re the one with the sword.”

About the Author Cindy Spencer Pape has been, among other things, a banker, a teacher, and an elected politician, though she swears she got better. She does volunteer work in environmental education, when she can fit it in around writing. She lives in Michigan with her husband, two teenage sons, a dog, and a lizard, both of which are easier to clean up after than the three male humans. Email: [email protected] Cindy loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at www.total-e-bound.com.

Also by Cindy Spencer Pape Guardian Investigations: Heart of the Bear

BRAZEN BEHAVIOUR Saskia Walker

Dedication For Mark, my Real Life Hero

Acknowledgement My thanks go to the staff at the National Railway Museum in York for their assistance during research for this story.

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Chapter One

When Gregory Munroe arrived at Eleanor Argyle’s London home that sunny spring day, she was at her desk, writing an article about her travels in North Africa for a ladies’ journal. “You have a visitor, Miss Eleanor,” her butler announced. “Thank you, Charles.” She lifted the note he held out on a silver salver, wondering who it could be. All her friends and acquaintances knew she was preparing to depart for Scotland. She had much to do before the following day, and she had not anticipated any callers. The note was written in a bold, scrawling hand. With greetings from your Uncle James and Aunt Frieda, Mr Gregory Munroe requests an audience.

Gregory Munroe? The manager of her uncle’s Scottish estate was here, in London? Eleanor stared at the card, at first uncomprehending. “He must be in London on business,” she murmured under her breath. Looking back at Charles, she realised he was standing by waiting for her instructions. “Charles, would you please ask Mary to serve tea for two in the parlour, and tell Mr Munroe that I will be with him shortly.” Charles nodded and left. Eleanor sat back in her chair and fanned herself with the announcement card, her thoughts racing. Gregory Munroe. She recalled her previous meeting with him, seven years earlier. He’d been a dark, alluring stranger who had captured her imagination. To him, she was just the eighteen year-old niece of his employer on a visit to the estate in Scotland. She remembered him looking her up and down as he passed, a shadowed look in his eyes as he went about his business. She, however, had entertained an enduring and rather girlish fascination with him that lasted for several months afterward. She had imagined him taking

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the time to talk with her, so that she could admire his handsome good looks, his fine build and posture. She imagined more, intimacy and passion, even. That was a long time ago, however. She had seen and done much since then, travelling with her father. She was no longer the gauche young woman, who could scarcely drag her gaze away from him. In fact, she’d become rather amused by her own foolish attraction to him, as she reflected on it, over the years. Even so, her curiosity was running rampant. Would he be as she remembered? She stood up and went to the looking glass to check her hair before she made her way to the parlour, eyeing her reflection critically. The likelihood was that he would be nothing as she remembered. It would be a pleasant change to have tea with a guest, though, and to hear what business he was doing in London. As she walked down the hall to the parlour she could hear the sound of the kettle whistling from below stairs. Mary would be here with the tea shortly. She straightened her skirts. The door to the parlour was ajar, and she pushed it open and stepped inside. He was standing by the window and turned towards her as she entered the room. She was about to speak, but the words slipped away. Her breath caught, because even though she knew the tall, ruggedly handsome man who turned her way, she was startled. In the large manor house in Scotland he had been an impressive figure. Here, in her dainty parlour, his stature was only exaggerated. “Eleanor,” he said and broke into an apologetic smile. “Miss Argyle. My apologies. Your aunt and uncle speak of you by your Christian name, and, I confess, I do think of you that way.” She jolted into action and stepped over to him, reaching out her hands to meet his. “No, please, do call me Eleanor.” He looked at her with curiosity for a moment while he met her hands with his own then raised one slowly to his lips. His warm breath on her skin and the contact of his firm mouth on her hand sent a frisson of delight through her entire body. She took the moment to scrutinise him, trying to ignore the strange sensation that spread from the place where his mouth touched her skin. Not only was he as handsome as she remembered; he seemed so much more statuesque. As he straightened, his broad shoulders echoed the majesty of the Highlands, the

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land from where he hailed. She remembered him being tall, but his physical form was quite breathtaking. He more than filled her parlour with his presence. “Forgive me for my sudden arrival. I sense that I have startled you.” He was looking at her attentively, and she noticed that his features were both angular and strong. He had glossy, dark hair that fell, in apparent abandon, almost to his shoulders. His eyes were greygreen, and they studied her intently. “I cannot deny that I am surprised to see you here, but you are most welcome.” She gestured to the fireside chairs. “Please, take a seat.” She strolled to a chair opposite the one he had chosen. “My aunt speaks highly of you in her letters, Mr Munroe, and I have anticipated our meeting again one day.” “Please, call me Gregory.” His voice was deep and husky, his Scottish accent stirring her with its resonance, its promise of a wild and uncompromising nature. “If you call me Eleanor, I will. I dislike formal conventions.” He smiled and seemed about to respond, when Mary came into the room with the tea tray. They fell silent a moment while she set the contents out on the occasional table. “Your aunt and uncle look forward to your arrival in Scotland,” Munroe said when they were alone again. “And I look forward to spending time with them.” “It has lifted their spirits greatly. They were deeply saddened about the loss of your father, and I see them being hopeful once more, as they anticipate your visit.” She nodded. It was almost a year since her father’s death, and yet it was nigh on impossible for her to come to terms with the fact that he was gone. Jonathan Argyle had been so full of life and such an adventurous traveller. It seemed wrong to her that he should slip away before his fifty-fifth year. They’d been close, too. She was his only daughter, and her mother had passed away when Eleanor was an infant. Even now it hurt. Badly. She straightened her spine, slid her emotional armour into place, and mustered a smile. “Time is a good healer,” she said, reiterating what so many had said to her. “Are you in London on business?” She posed the question to distract him from further condolence. He frowned, and his expression took on a more cautious demeanour. “ I thought it might be apparent that I am here in order to escort you to Scotland.” He delivered the comment in an even, practical voice.

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Eleanor stared at him. It appeared that he had come under the misapprehension that she needed to be escorted, and that he was the man for the task. “Your aunt was particularly concerned about you travelling alone,” he continued. “I agreed that it was quite impossible, and we decided that I should take the time away from the estate to ensure your safe journey.” “Escort?” she said with a soft laugh, pouring the tea. “Mr Munroe, it is 1896. I am an independent woman, and I have travelled the world. I’m knowledgeable in ways you wouldn’t even imagine a woman could be.” She glanced his way. “If I should need the company of a man while I am travelling, I am perfectly capable of acquiring it for myself.” His eyes darkened to full grey as he considered her words, the look he gave her, unmistakably sensual in its appraisal. “Forgive me, Eleanor, but you travelled with your father. I hesitate to mention this, when you are on the verge of emerging from mourning his loss, but I must remind you that your father is no longer with you.” She met his gaze bravely. “Yes, but I certainly don’t need you or any other man to replace him.” Normally, she enjoyed sparring with people who thought her a dim-witted creature, people who did not realise how strong and independent she was. But Mr Munroe seemed to be firmly under the opinion that she was still a gauche, young woman “You will quickly learn, Mr Munroe, what I’m made of. When Father passed on, I decided the only suitable way to pay tribute to a pioneering traveller was to do exactly as he had done and travel the globe. As I watched my father’s coffin being lowered into the ground, I promised him I would carry on as before. Scotland is just the beginning.” She paused to emphasise her meaning. “My plans are made, and I do not need you or anyone to escort me.” He gave a tight smile. Accepting the cup of tea she offered, he deposited it on the table by his side. “Please, be reasonable. A lady such as you cannot travel the length of the British Isles alone. I will take care of you and deliver you unharmed.” Foolish fancy it was indeed, her previous attraction to him. He was nothing but an overbearing boor, the type of man she had seen her friends wed. She had vowed she would never do the same. Eleanor had a private income, she was educated, and she wanted to see more of the world. She frowned at him, letting him know of her displeasure at his attitude. “I am perfectly equipped to cope on my own.”

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Annoyance flickered in his eyes then. “Eleanor. Miss Argyle. Please, be reasonable.” She bristled. “I am being reasonable. It is you who are not. You cannot walk into my life and take charge of it without my agreement. Perhaps, you think I am still the inexperienced young women you met seven years ago.” His mouth moved into a sardonic smile. “I wager that young woman would have been more agreeable to my company.” A wicked gleam shone in his eyes. Heat flared into her face. Had he known about her attraction to him? Whatever he meant by that remark, it annoyed her irrevocably. She rose to her feet. “You have had a wasted trip, Mr Munroe.” He stood up and stared at her in the most intrusive way, making her breath uneven and her nerve falter. “Your aunt warned me you were a headstrong woman, but I had hoped that reason might have taken hold of you as your plans progressed.” She turned and began to walk away. By the time she got there, his hand was against the door, barring her exit. “I will call back tomorrow evening, by which time I hope you will see sense.” She nodded at his hand “Allow me to pass.” He narrowed his eyes. Oh, but he was a handsome man, and his proximity made her unsteady. The tension between them mounted. His gaze was unwavering. “I have to travel back to Scotland anyway. Why be unreasonable about this?” “Unreasonable?” She stared at him, amazed at his audacity, and even as she did, she found herself strangely torn at the thought of his company on the journey. He had intrigued her - when she was a mere eighteen-year old, but she certainly wasn’t going to let him think he had taken charge of her. She’d worked hard to prove to herself she could be as strong as she’d been when her father was alive, no man was going to come in here and undo that. “I appreciate your concern, but your assistance is not needed,” she said, lifting her chin and meeting his bold glance. He looked deep into her eyes, and she saw a light flickering there. Was he amused by her? Or annoyed? What was he thinking? Whatever it was, it made her feel even more ruffled. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and she didn’t wish to entertain it any longer. He lifted her hand in his, took it to his mouth, where he lingered as he rested a kiss upon it. A tremble went through her, and there was nothing she could do about it.

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“I will return tomorrow evening,” he said as he lifted his head, “when I hope we will discuss this more agreeably.” Eleanor lowered her eyelids, shielding her eyes from him. By that time, she would already be gone, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. She nodded strangely torn but stubbornly attached to her independence, and watched as he opened the door and took his leave. She would slip away before he came back. That would show him.

Gregory paced the streets of Kensington for well over an hour, before stepping into a tavern and imbibing a large quantity of port in order to quell his urge to go back and talk some sense into the woman. He’d been warned about her but still. She’d been wild at eighteen, but when he met with her today, he’d thought she’d grown into a more level-headed woman. She was beautiful, sophisticated, lush even, and he felt sure reason would prevail. Apparently not. She had a stubborn nature, one that would challenge any man.. Challenge in a way that fired his physical urges. With her brave blue eyes and ebony hair, she would attract attention wherever she went. And she hinted at carnal knowledge, he was sure of it. There was no way he could let her travel alone. He assured himself that there was no reason for him to feel concerned; she would soon be captive on the train, but it was the urge he felt to stifle her remonstrations with a kiss that confused him most of all. How would she have reacted had he silenced her proclamations of independence that way? He lifted his glass, took another swallow, smiling wryly to himself over it. She had caused his ardour to rise. He had wanted to silence her by grabbing her in his arms and making her complaints much sweeter in nature. She was an intelligent woman, however, and his guess was that would make her even more stubborn and resistant. He would have to find another way to cajole her. She’d had her own way too often in the past, that much was obvious. It looked as if he would have to harness it back and make her see reason. He could think of plenty of devious ways to ambush her plans, if necessary. He smiled to himself at the reassuring notion. He would tie her up and lock her in a private compartment for the entire journey, if necessary. His mind wandered, his loins heating at the prospect of having her so thoroughly

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compromised. The lewd thought, delightful as it was, distracted him unnecessarily from his duty, and he took a deep breath and focused once more on the current problem. But for some reason he could only picture her face, the defiance in her eyes. She was a real beauty with an immensely pleasing figure and the face of an angel—despite her hotheaded, stubborn nature. Desire ran thick and fast to his loins. A voice somewhere at the back of his mind pointed out that it was quite improper for him to think that way about the niece of his employer, let alone allow it to arouse him so. He pulled out his fob watch. It was near nine. He would return to her home on the morrow, talk some sense into her. He remembered her flashing eyes and reached again for the bottle. The damn woman would be nothing but trouble.

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Chapter Two

The following afternoon, Eleanor walked through Kings Cross station with her head held high. The porter cleared a path ahead of her, beckoning to her over the bulk of her trunk and a large overnight valise on his trolley. The station was filled with steam and noise. Travellers hurried in all directions, and railway staff and people selling wares crowded the platforms. As she followed the porter; however, she found her thoughts drifted back to the man she was avoiding. Munroe. Mr Gregory Munroe would learn all about her mettle soon enough. When he called at her home this evening, he would be told she was not available. By the time the truth dawned on him, she would be long gone. She smiled to herself, pleased at her cleverness. She had informed her aunt and uncle she would arrive at their home, Oaklands, in ten day’s time. She was leaving early in order to break her journey and visit an old friend who had married and lived in the midlands, Millicent. Luckily, she had not mentioned that in her last letter to Aunt Frieda, so Mr Munroe was oblivious. What would it have been like to travel with him, she wondered idly. He was an attractive man, and she had anticipated their meeting again in Scotland. How would it feel to have him here now, at her side, perhaps telling her some interesting story about the land he came from, the land her father and his lineage hailed from as well? “‘Ere, watch out,” a young lad in a cloth cap shouted as he stepped out of the way. She apologised and hurried on, chastising herself for letting her mind wander. “Ma’am,” the porter had paused at the designated carriage. The Great Central train was already gathering steam in preparation for departure, and a steward bobbed out of the door to assist her on board. Her compartment was compact but comfortable. It had oak panelled walls and was fitted with an oil lamp and an ivory button that would summon the steward for immediate attention. The bunk was already made up for the night. After dinner, she would retire. In the morning, she would alight just after dawn, when she would be met by Millicent’s carriage, which would take her to her friend’s home in Nuneaton.

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As the train pulled away from the station, she watched the city of London peeling away. She waited for sight of the countryside in the last gasps of the sunset. Then she unloaded her journal and a few other home comforts before she prepared to go to the dining carriage. She had yet to document her meeting with Mr Munroe she realised, holding her journal in her hand. She wasn’t sure what she would say about him, because she had mixed emotions about what had happened. Perhaps she would think about it over dinner to amuse herself. Lowering the lamplight, she picked up her reticule and reached for the door, steadying herself against the motion of the train as she did so. When she opened the door of her compartment, her heart leapt. Gregory Munroe stood there, right outside her door. She blinked, looked again. It really was him. He had his arms folded across his chest and his feet were planted wide as he managed the movement of the train, his gaze fixedly on her. One corner of his mouth lifted, and his eyes twinkled. Astonished, she stepped back into the compartment and shut the door, closing the insistent presence out. Her heart hammered in her chest. He was here, he was really here. Unable to help it, she smiled to herself then covered her lips with her fingers when she realised it. She shouldn’t be pleased! She should be annoyed that he had taken it upon himself to pursue her, but for some reason she couldn’t muster it. He had tracked her down. He was a clever man and had somehow gained the upper hand. How? That was the question. She couldn’t help being impressed. And he knew she had to leave her compartment eventually, if only to visit the water closet, so he had her cornered. She cleared her throat, tidied her hair and opened the door, composing her face as she did so. His position and expression had not altered. She looked him up and down with a glance of faux disapproval. From the tips of his polished knee-length boots to his glossy hair, he suggested a man on a mission. A man who would not be thwarted. A thrill ran through her. He was amused by her reaction to the situation, she could tell that. Oddly enough, she felt the same emotion bubbling up inside. Pleasure and amusement. “Mr Munroe,” she

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teased, throwing him an accusing glance, “I should call the steward and have you removed for bothering me.” He unfolded his arms, leaned against her doorframe in an easy pose, closing on her. “Now then, that wouldn’t be very friendly, would it, telling tales on a fellow passenger, someone who just happens to be travelling to the same destination as you.” He had no intention of budging. She narrowed her eyes, pursing her lips in order not to smile at him. It was hard not to, the way he was looming over her was positively delicious. “I suppose you think this is clever. I shan’t report you to the steward, but only because I don’t want any bad feeling between us when I arrive at Oaklands.” His brows lifted, and he inclined his head, still smiling. She braced herself, determined not to let him think he’d got the better of her. “If you would let me pass, I intend to take dinner now.” “Dinner sounds delightful. I have quite an appetite myself.” He stepped back with a flourish, one hand outstretched as he gave a gentle bow in her direction. Squaring her shoulders, she went to pass him by. When she reached for the door handle, he was already there, closing it for her. She moved along the narrow passage, and he followed. She tried to manage the walk as steadily as she could, even though she was kept constantly aware of his presence at her back, and was jolted from side to side by the movement of the train. The dining car was almost full, and the waiter was busy at the far end. She had walked half way along it when she spotted an empty table. Would they have to share it? Glancing back, she saw that Mr Munroe had taken a seat with another gentleman. Surprised, she mustered herself and walked on to the vacant table. Before she had time to think about it, she realised she had sat down facing his direction. Fiddlesticks. Still, it would be frustrating not to know what he was doing. At least she could see what he was up to from this angle. The waiter appeared and reeled off the dishes of the day. She nodded at his suggestions and watched as he served her sherry, wine, and a cordial, apparently oblivious

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to the jolting of the vehicle. When he left, she reached for the wine and stared out of the window at the dusky scenery, her thoughts racing. The first course arrived. She dipped her spoon into the watercress soup, taking a sip, wondering where her appetite had gone. All she wanted to do was feast her eyes on her uninvited escort. The handsome highlander, Mr Gregory Munroe. There was nobility in his looks. He was the fourth son of a Scottish lord, but —much like her own father, who had been the second son of a landowner—he wasn’t happy to live on a private income and do nothing with his life. Her aunt wrote long, descriptive letters about Gregory, and Eleanor had read them eagerly. He’d come into their lives when her uncle sought more time to devote to his botanical research. He put the word about for a manager, but Gregory Munroe wasn’t the sort of man they had expected to employ. Her aunt reported that they couldn’t be happier with how things had worked out. They missed him when he went away to visit his own family at Christmas time, and felt as if he was the son they had never had. Eleanor admired the fact that he’d carved out his own life. Her father had chosen the path of the traveller and written articles to supplement their income. Gregory had taken his own path, too. How had he found out she was leaving early, though? The question kept echoing through her mind. Her staff would not have told him. She also wondered how she could give him the slip, if he was going to keep her under watch? She glanced back as she pondered on it, and he smiled her way. She couldn’t help herself, she smiled then quickly dabbed at her mouth with her serviette. As she looked away, she noticed there was a young couple sitting at the table level with hers. The man chatted merrily as he tucked into his meal, but the woman was looking past him towards Mr Munroe. And why wouldn’t she? He was an attractive man. More attractive than the man the young lady was with. Gregory was speaking with the gentleman opposite him. She took the chance to admire him herself. He was certainly the most attractive man in the carriage. The main course arrived, the waiter loading her plate with port-broiled partridge, roast pork, apple dumplings, onion custard and a profusion of roast and steamed vegetables to accompany. She could barely face a morsel of the food because, each time she glanced his way, Munroe seemed to catch her eye. The interaction created a dense well of heat inside her, a heat that was heady and delicious, yet sent wild skitters of rare self-consciousness over her skin. Even when she did not look directly at him, she was conscious of his physical presence.

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Perhaps, if she kept him nearby, that could be the way to control the situation, she thought. Let him think he had won her over, but follow her own plan. She was just about to act on the urge, and beckon him over, when he caught her looking at him, and stood up. He walked over to her table, nonchalantly carrying his wine glass in his hand. “If I promise not to harangue you into being escorted, would you allow me the pleasure of your company during dinner?” His dark eyes were filled with humour. “Ah, so you are attempting a more subtle approach. Very admirable. However, you will not pull the wool over my eyes that easily, Mr Munroe.” “Gregory,” he insisted then sat down in the seat opposite her without waiting for further comment. Eleanor couldn’t keep the smile from her face. He had cleverly sidestepped her agreement, but she was hardly going to chase him off. She raised her gaze to meet his. Besides. It would be churlish to ask him to leave now, she thought as she watched his strong hand adjust his tie. The table was small, and she could feel his knees almost touching against hers, his frame large but resting easily in the seat. He signalled to the waiter who nodded and shortly after brought Munroe’s dinner to her table. “Did you purposefully try to give me the slip?” “No. I had already planned to leave today. It was fortuitous, however, since I did not intend to buckle and fall under your command.” He stared at her for the longest moment, and his grey-green eyes seemed to grow luminous. His look made her breathing alter. Her corset felt suddenly restrictive, and she reached for her cordial, suddenly hot. “It occurred to me this morning that I had no idea when you intended to leave.” He paused. “So I set about finding out.” Had he followed her? “Would it be so bad to travel together?” he continued. “We are both headed for the same destination, after all.” She considered his question as she made an attempt to eat some of the food. “I understand you are trying to do your duty, but it is not necessary.” “Your aunt and uncle are concerned for your safety. As am I.”

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Oh, but his voice was seductive, washing over her in roughish tones, suggestive and compelling. She managed a small portion of her meat. He was demolishing his. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, Mr Munroe. I travelled extensively with my father. I’ve seen places in the world that many people can only dream about. I’m a grown woman , familiar with the ways of the world.” “Most admirable,” he drawled, eyeing her up and down in the most inquisitive way. Eleanor’s pulse charged, her body burning up. Her senses were completely awry, but it was an oddly stimulating sensation. She took a sip from her wine glass before continuing. “I feel I should inform you that I am a first-rate shot and a prize-winning swordswoman.” He nodded, smiling, as if he were unsurprised. She felt the need to impress him somehow, to shock him, even. “I carry a pistol with me whenever I travel, and I believe I am strong enough to use it to protect myself or others should the absolute need arise.” Still he looked bemused by her words. “In that case, I may have underestimated your abilities to defend yourself,” he said, his eyes constantly on her. “A miscalculation for which I apologise deeply.” He gave her a gracious nod, smiling discreetly, his eyes fixing her as surely as any hunting creature alighting on its prey. He bowed his head in mock deference. He had made an intimate connection with that remark and she was having difficulty dealing with his teasing manner and the shimmering appraisal in his eyes. Dangerous, attractive and trying to meddle with her plans. What a devil. . “I shall treasure your apology, Mr Munroe, in case I never receive another.” He laughed with genuine amusement at her response. Rather surprisingly, she found that it pleased her to have affected him so. Their eyes met in a moment of naked, mutual admiration. Her skin prickled, and she shifted in her chair. “Tell me,” she asked, in attempt to distract herself, “how did you know which train I would be taking?” He gave an utterly devilish smile. “I’m afraid I gained the location of your whereabouts in a rather underhand manner. Shall we say, a bribe, to look at the booking list.” Eleanor laughed in delight at the idea of it. It was clear, too, that he hadn’t made note of her alighting point, because he did not quiz her about it. That was fortunate. She did not

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want him to know her onward plans. “Well, in retrospect, I find I’m rather glad that you did. You make fine company.” “I’m glad I meet with your approval after our rocky start.” Eleanor found it hard to match his direct gaze, for it was weighted with implication. She knew he was teasing her again, yet she could see passion in his eyes. Desire, even. Her entire body flashed with heat in response, the pulse in her core charged and erratic. Her defences were lowering, but she did not care. Did he feel this, this draw between them, as she did? One glance at his hooded eyes assured her that was the case. He was looking at her body in the most speculative and appreciative way. “Perhaps you think I am still the eighteen-year-old girl you met before,” she said, probingly, “the one you barely glanced at.” His eyebrows lifted. “Believe me, I did more than glance at you.” Eleanor tried not to make it too obvious that she was pleased by his response. “In fact,” he continued, his glance lowered as he assessed her, “I felt I should avoid your presence, because it would be inappropriate to be seen leering at my new employer’s niece.” “You flatter me.” She had baited him, and she had got just the response she wanted. He was attracted to her. So, why not exploit the moment? She didn’t have to bow to his will, in order to take pleasure in his company for the night. He captured her hand. “You are an attractive woman, you deserve to be flattered.” Ah, so he thought he would seduce her into conformity. Little did he know what she planned. If the mood took her, she would seduce him then do as she damn well pleased for the rest of the journey. “Tell me, did you truly worry about propriety, when you considered your behaviour towards your employer’s niece?” she teased. “Because, if so, I’m surprised” “I value respect, not manners.” She nodded, tickled by that. “We are agreed on that point. I’m afraid I have little time for society, and particularly its expectations of women. I am sure you cannot imagine me sitting with my needlepoint in hand, discussing the local beaux with the fragile daughters of the nobility?”

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He laughed at her remark. “No, I cannot. You seem to have the spirit of the highlands, from your father’s blood. Perhaps, when you spend time there, you might not wish to return to your quaint London life nor wander so far away.” Their eyes locked. She felt her heart pound once again in response to his hot, flagrant gaze on her body. “I love Scotland, yes, but I intend to travel, to continue to broaden my mind through adventure.” As she said it, she found she had to force herself to stay focused on that aspiration. “I never had a coming-out,” she asserted. “I refused. I asked Father to take me to Africa, instead. That was much more agreeable to him, too, so we went.” She flashed him a dazzling smile, proud of her strangeness. “He was very fond of you.” She was surprised by that response. “I truly do not intend to become a society hostess or to marry,” she added. “I prefer the freedom of the new woman, independent and able to travel and do as she wishes.” She turned away from him, but glanced back. “Gladstone may have thrown out the question of reform on women’s rights, but one cannot live one’s life by the mutterings of a few dusty old men in power.” He gave a dark smile. “I admire your belief that women should be independent, but I also believe that, sometimes, it is desirable for a woman to submit to being adored and cherished…even if purely for the sake of pleasure.” His smile was so wicked and the look in his eyes so suggestive that Eleanor didn’t quite know what she would prefer: independence or submission to a man such as him. Her mind told her he was mocking her desire for independence, and yet her body was on fire to submit to him—simply for the sake of the pleasure he referred to. “I take it your Father did not mind such brazen affronts to society and its standards?” he asked, drawing the conversation back to where it had begun. “Father never lived the conventional life, and I…I entertain society only as far as it entertains me.” Her tone was emphatic. “I am no society beau myself.” He opened his hands in a gesture of supplication. She stared at him. The image of this ruggedly handsome, strong male, posing as an affected dandy was so unlikely that it amused her immensely, just as it was meant to do. She began to laugh, and the tension in her body broke. “Touché, Gregory, touché,” she replied.

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They continued their meal, discussing the railway and the improvements made since her last journey north. “Let me take you back to your compartment,” he said after they had finished the meal and their table had been cleared. She noticed then that they had pulled up in a small station. The windows were steamed up, and she could not make out the name on the sign. They were well into the countryside. Glancing around the dining car, she found that they had been so deep in conversation, flirting all the while, that most of the other passengers had gone. “So you can keep watch?” she teased. “I hope that we have come to an understanding.” She had to stick to her plan, simply must, even though she wanted more of his company. There would be time for that in Scotland; she had her point to prove. And yet, he provoked strange sensations deep inside her, it was if a hot weight lay in the pit of her stomach. It glowed strangely and unsettled her, making her hot and restless as they wended their way along the train to her compartment. When they reached the door, she turned her back against it, and looked up at him, savouring the feeling of his proximity. Dangerous. She liked that. Something about him made her feel undeniably…feminine. Perhaps that was it. He certainly aroused her in the most delicious way. A whistle sounded outside and the train moved off from the station it had stopped at. Eleanor swayed gently in time with the train’s motion and put one hand against his crisp white evening shirt, to steady herself. The warmth between them intensified in the quiet intimacy of the corridor. Something had been stripped away between them, over the course of the evening. The train jolted, and they swung closer still. He looked down at the swell of her bosom and murmured a gentle tutting sound. Tension filled the air around them. “I appreciated your company this evening, Gregory.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “Under the circumstances, it was most kind of you to escort me to my compartment.” “It was my pleasure to do so.” She presented her hand for his lips. She noticed that he let his mouth linger even longer usual on the back of her hand, while he breathed against her skin. Her fingers closed over his, and she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He went to step away.

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She shook her head, and clasped his jacket by the lapel. His eyebrows lifted. A voice inside her head reminded her that she wanted to escape him. Instead, she pushed open the door to her compartment and invited him in.

What was the little minx up to now? Gregory put his hands on the doorframe and stared at her when she beckoned him into her compartment. He didn’t trust himself alone with her, but she was far too attractive a woman to be ignored, especially with the sparkle of mischief in her eyes. Being alone with her would be fatal. It was practically impossible to keep from touching her, and he was not altogether appreciative of the affect she seemed to have on him. He had been almost overcome with the urge to lift her into his arms right there and then, standing against the wall of the corridor. She was so lush and desirable. He felt unduly intoxicated by her presence. Had his faculties entirely deserted him? Apparently so, because he followed her inside, trying to ignore the presence of her bed and the feminine items around the small compartment. “Is this wise?” As he asked the question, he noticed her eyes were dark with desire. She was attracted to him, he could see that. She looked at him, steadily. “I’m no novice, Gregory, and while I am independent and do not need a man, I am also capable of seeking a man’s company if and when I desire it.” There was no doubting the message in her statement. What worried him more was his reaction to it. He wanted to possess her, yes, but there was something darker there, too. He didn’t want other men in her bed. The tension in the atmosphere intensified, and their eyes locked. The urge to kiss her pretty mouth into submission grew increasingly strong. He moved nearer, his head lowering to close the distance between them. With one hand, he eased a few strands of hair back from her forehead. “I believe that you are a very contrary young woman, and you think you can shock and impress anyone you choose.” She flashed her eyes and raised an eyebrow at him, provocatively. There was a look of accomplishment in that smile of hers. “So, you think you have me all worked out, do you? Well, we’ll see.”

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The challenge in her eyes fired his loins. He drew closer still, breathing her in, his eyes on her mouth. “What I haven’t already worked out about you, I’m sure I would relish discovering.” Lord, yes, he wanted her. “Although I’m aware that I may have to keep you up until dawn, pleasuring you in every way I can, in order to learn your each and every nuance.” Her lips parted, a soft sigh of longing escaping her. And then his fingers were in her hair, against the back of her neck, and her head sank back, ready to take the kiss. When his mouth met hers, it sent a vital charge through him. She was softly pliant, willing and responsive. And the taste of her! His hands went to the niche of her waist, steadying her as she wavered in his arms. She moaned softly when his hands moved higher, beneath her breasts, and she made a barely audible cry in her throat, her eyes wide and dark with arousal. He shook his head, and smiled to himself, cynically. Fate and the sheer physical pull of desire between them took control of the situation. Was there any possibility of maintaining a distance as he had planned, now that he had allowed himself to succumb to her charms? He gently stroked her breastbone through her gown, his hands squeezing her, reassuringly. He looked down at her with possessive eyes. The fire of her passion had been ignited. She had yielded totally to his kiss, and the totality of her willing femaleness engulfed him. He moved to place one last kiss against the soft skin of her throat. Then he released her, setting her at arm’s length, and stepped away. “Dare you risk me exploring you further?” he rasped. Her eyes blazed at him. “I dare risk it, if you do.”

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Chapter Three

Eleanor’s heart hammered in her chest. Her legs felt weak, and she was glad his hands held her upright. “Promise me you will not regret this,” he whispered, a serious look in his eyes. “If I bed you now, it will affect our relationship from here on.” It was true. Whatever happened would influence their relationship when they reached Scotland. But she could no more turn him away now than she could detour the train from the tracks that had been laid for it. “Yes, it will.” “I would respect your decision if you changed your mind and sent me away. Are you sure you want me to stay?” She breathed heavily, but her erratic heartbeat only made her bolder. “Perhaps I should. Perhaps it would make life easier on both of us. But I find myself curious regarding your statement about pleasuring me until dawn…” His fingers lifted her chin as she spoke, and she looked deep into his eyes. “Is it possible?” she added. If it were true, perhaps he would tire, and she could make her escape. He gazed at her possessively. “Believe me, I’m going to do my damnedest to find out.” His mouth descended to hers, and he leaned over her. His hands crushed her body to his as he deftly unlaced the back of her gown while they kissed. His mouth was firm yet gently demanding, and her lips parted readily to take his tongue. She caressed his neck, and slid one hand inside his jacket. He drew back, but kept her in his arms while he eased her gown from her shoulders, his gaze locked with hers. She tilted her head back, fingers entwined in his hair. “I want you, Gregory, and I cannot think of a better way to pass this night than together.” “Nor I.” His voice was hoarse. Even through the layers of clothes, she felt the size and power of his growing erection against her.

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“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his hands clasping her waist, before drawing down her cotton chemise and running them feverishly over her breasts. The hunger in his voice and the intimacy of his words rushed over her, acting like hot air to the flames inside her. Her body trembled. He touched her hair, running his hand over it, the simple gesture somehow claiming her. “Eleanor, since I first met you, I have wanted you. I want to be inside you more than anything. Let down your hair.” She unpinned it, shaking it down in a tumble over her shoulders. He took handfuls of it and felt it between his fingers then began to stroke her breasts. His actions touched her deeply. The pulse at her core sprang higher still, her head fell back as she moaned aloud with need. He ducked down and pressed his lips to her nipples, mouthing her hungrily. She’d never felt anything so good. Waves of stimulation coursed through her. “Dear God, what are you doing to me?” He lifted his head and gave her a dark smile. “I am taking pleasure in the feel of you; you are so ripe for this.” He pressed her back over the bunk and her legs buckled. Climbing over her, he put one knee on the bunk. Then he pulled up her skirts, seeking out the slit in her drawers, and dipped his fingers inside, trailing them up and down her sensitive places. She writhed on the bunk, her back arching, weak with sensation. She begged him to undress, but he ignored her. He continued his mastery of her senses, stroking her until she was shivering with torment, her mouth open, and her hands clutching at his shoulders. “Oh yes, you are ready for this,and you will be mine.” A sweet and sudden sting hit her when his fingers stroked her most sensitive spot, and she moaned loudly when her climax roared up and shuddered through her. The muscles of her inner sex contracted fiercely. She was barely aware of what was happening, her chest heaving with the flood of release that had come with her orgasm. As her breath slowed and her consciousness began to take hold again, she saw that he stood between her open legs, and his fist was on his manhood, slowly pumping, as he eyed her exposed flesh. Her insides contracted with need when she saw the size and readiness of his manhood. She whimpered and moved up the

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bed, making space for him. He climbed over her and quickly entered her. First nudging inside, then stretching her open, before pushing deep and filling her to the hilt. She gasped loudly as the rod of flesh probed into her, panting harshly against his face. Her flesh was so swollen that she was exceedingly sensitive. He held her, his now familiar eyes reassuring her that she was safe in her abandon. It moved her somehow, and her hands went around his head. Her body shifted against his, beckoning him closer. “Eleanor…you are on fire,” he breathed, his face contorting in ecstasy. “Yes, oh to have you there, it’s so…intense.” He began to take slow, deep strokes, masterful. She could see he was on the edge, reckoning with this, wanting to release himself, yet wanting to take control of it and make it endure. The feeling of his manhood thrusting against her, so deep inside, caused an explosion of pleasure with each exquisite movement, each sensation greater than the last. Each time she uttered a breathless cry, it was almost too much to bear. Her senses were dizzy with rapture. And then a dynamite sequence was triggered inside her, wave after wave of acute pleasure flooding her senses. “Gregory,” she cried out. “Oh, Gregory.” Her fingers flexed in his hair, tugged. He groaned aloud, thrusting deep against her. “Bend your knees higher at my sides,” he whispered, refusing to let her rest. Suffused with pleasure, barely able to move, she struggled to do as he suggested. When she did, she felt how her body melded with his, how each stroke he took reverberated through her, and she laughed joyously, flashing her eyes in acknowledgment. He smiled, then moved his face into the palm of her hand and kissed it. Something in her chest ached, and when he turned back to her, eyes aflame, she whimpered with need, primal need. Need to be held and loved by this man. Their movements began to grow fevered and he ground his hips into her. Every inch of her most intimate places was pleasured by the weight and thrust of his body. Eleanor felt another immense wave of release coming over her. A hot tide of pleasure, so large she all but drowned, caused her to jolt and quiver from deep between her thighs to the very top of her head, her liquid release drenching his member.

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“Eleanor,” he groaned, slowing. She drew herself back, savouring this moment, looking up into his intense eyes. Blasphemy crossed his lips, and she felt the reluctance in him as he hauled out and spilled his seed on the linen sheets.

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Chapter Four

Gregory felt a gentle kiss against his shoulder, another touched against his chest. Several hours of exploration had not tired Eleanor. He smiled and blinked. She lay over him, naked. Her skin against his. He sighed, loudly. He could die a happy man. “My dear Gregory, you promised me until dawn. I’m not done with you yet.” He blinked and looked at her hazy form, framed as it was by the muted light from the oil lamp overhead. She trailed her fingers down his flank and rolled to one side. Her fingers closed over his cock. Within moments, he was hard with desire, and she climbed up to straddle his hips. She looked at him while she stroked the length of his shaft. God, she was beautiful. Soft, womanly, yet so unafraid. He had to swallow down the fierce need to own her, to make her his and his alone. Mercifully, she lifted up and centred herself over him, holding tight to the rail overhead to steady herself against the rocking motion of the train. He groaned aloud when he felt the clutch of her inner warmth enclosing him as she lowered herself onto his shaft. Ah, such bliss to be there, to be inside her again. She started to ride him, each stroke like tender torture to his inflamed shaft. The lamplight fell across the soft skin of her breasts. Her head arched back in ecstasy, black hair cascading over her naked shoulders and down her back. Her instinctive sensuality was undeniable. Her body followed a dance that came from deep within, a dance that could only be known through deep and unreserved sensuality. He had known it would be like that with her from the moment he had seen her, all those years ago. Now that he was inside her, he knew he would never know another woman like this, never had, and never would. “I always knew it would be like this, with you,” he whispered. “From the moment I first saw you.” She smiled. Drawing his hand to her lips, she kissed his fingers gently. His balls tightened, and then he felt her grip him tighter as she approached her peak. His hands wrestled her hips down onto him, his hips pushing up to drive himself deeper. She moaned, frantically, her breasts heaving. He felt the spasm of her climax. When she ground

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herself down onto his hips .. he held back as long as he could, then bucked and pulled free, his cock lurching as he spilled his seed over his belly. When he was done, he clutched at her, saying her name. “Eleanor.” He half sat, grabbing her against him with hungry arms. He kissed her, held her, and rocked her against him. “I’m here.” She smiled down at him when he collapsed back onto the bunk. He was exhausted, had to sleep. “Yes,” he replied, lazily. She rose up and reached over, lifted the curtain and glanced out of the window. “You did it,” she said, suddenly serious. “It’s almost dawn.” A sense of accomplishment pulsed inside him. He smiled, locked his arm around her, drawing her close with one hand around her back, and passed out.

It was the hardest thing Eleanor had ever had to do. She stood by the door, her valise in one hand, her reticule tucked under her arm. Gregory slumbered peacefully, his large body sprawled over the bunk, one long leg dangling to the floor, a sheet draped over him. She had to do it, though. She had to leave. If she didn’t, he would assume control of her for the rest of the journey, and she couldn’t allow him to do that. He shifted, and clutched at the pillow she had placed in his arms. He thought it was her. She felt a deep pang of longing, and bit her lip. But then the train slowed down, and she knew it was time to go. The steward would be standing by, ready to unload her trunk. Millicent’s carriage would be waiting. Gathering every ounce of strength she owned, she opened the door, and quietly slipped away.

When Gregory awoke it was with a slow yawn and an intensely satisfied feeling. His limbs were cramped, though, and he opened his eyes and glanced around the compartment, stretching. Eleanor wasn’t in his arms, which made him sit up with a start. Unease shifted up his spine. Where was she? Perhaps she had gone to the water closet. He stood.

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It was morning, gone eight by the looks of it. He needed to get ready to escort her to their connecting train. He reached for his clothes then noticed. Something was missing and not just Eleanor. Her things were gone. His attention focused. The bound leather journal was gone from beside the bed, as were the other female fripperies he’d seen around the place. The bag. Her clothes. He glanced around and saw a folded sheet of paper propped against the window frame. It bore his name. Cursing, he snatched it up and read it. Until Scotland, goodbye, Gregory, and thank you. Eleanor.

His gut churned. He screwed up the note and threw it on the floor. Sitting back on the bunk, he buried his head in his hands, frustration hitting him. She’d gone. He should have known. After what had passed between them, he’d thought he’d undone her doubts. Now, he saw the truth—she had hoodwinked him. The worst of it all was how much it seemed to pull the ground from beneath his feet. Curse the woman, he wanted her, and badly so.

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Chapter Five

“I was hoping you would stay a few days longer.” Millicent pouted at Eleanor as they strolled through the beautifully manicured gardens of her home. Eleanor squeezed her friend’s arm affectionately. “I know, but I have a long journey ahead of me, and my ticket is booked.” In truth, she was starting to feel a mighty guilty about Gregory. She had meant to tease him, to set him straight about what sort of woman she was. But as the days slipped by, she began to worry. She did not want her actions to reflect badly on him and had sent a letter to her uncle and aunt explaining that it was not his fault he had been unable to do as they requested. She’d already had her own plans. “It’s been so good to visit with you.” Millicent sighed. “Thank you for your kindness, dear friend. I must be on my way soon.” “We mustn’t let my husband find out. He’d be terribly shocked if he knew you meant to travel to Scotland without a chaperone.” “You know me better, though.” Eleanor smiled fondly at her old friend. Millicent had married a wealthy industrialist and, even though he had his eyes fixed firmly on the future in that area, he was old-fashioned when it came to women. “It is our duty to educate men that we are as strong as they.” “As you are educating your Mr Munroe, hmm?” Eleanor caught the twinkle in her friend’s eye and felt rather disconcerted. “He’s not my Mr Munroe.” “But he could be, and I wager you would be pleasantly surprised how happy you would be to succumb to a man like him.” “No!” “Eleanor,” Millicent paused, took her friend’s arm, “you have done little but speak of him since you arrived, and it goes beyond tricking the man in order to show him how clever you are.” “But, I…” Had she really been speaking of him so much? She supposed she must have been.

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Millicent looked pleased with herself. “You see, it’s true. You are attracted to him, aren’t you?” “Well you know that. I told you about our…liaison. But I will not succumb to him or any man.” Even as she said it, images of him pinning her down in the narrow bunk, his large, powerful body overwhelming her so thoroughly, sprang to mind, making her feel hot and restless. Millicent prodded her in the ribs. “I wager you wouldn’t mind more of what you tasted that night… despite the fact you ran off on him.” It was true, she did want more. He’d kissed her until her lips were bruised and swollen, yet she hungered for more. She drifted for a few moments on memories of that night, remembering the experience of sinking into his eyes, and the line of his brow when he urged her on as they made love. The thoughts brought about a longing to be near him again. How strange, she thought. Never had a man affected her that way before. She took a deep breath and focused on her personal goal to arrive in Scotland by her own power and prove her point. Once she had done that, she would see how things stood between them. He would be angry with her. That was inevitable. Could she use her feminine charms to undo the damage? She hoped so, she surely did. “You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” Millicent chuckled softly and shook her head knowingly. Eleanor laughed too, her face colouring. “What if I am,” she responded. It wasn’t a crime. Really, it wasn’t.

When Gregory arrived at Oaklands, he leapt down from the carriage and took the steps up to the house, two at a time. Despite several days of trawling various tinpot stations in the midlands for clues to her whereabouts, he had found only what he could have guessed: that she had disappeared in an unmarked carriage. He knew she would eventually arrive in Scotland in one piece; he knew she had it in her and that was what she was about, but he hated to fail in his duty. He also had to admit that he hated to be without her. The woman had somehow got in his blood, and he wanted more. Who the devil was she with? The knowledge that it might well be another man riled him, darkening his mood by the moment.

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“Why, Mr Gregory, whatever is the matter?” Edna, the housekeeper, asked of him as he strode through the hall. “Pardon me, Edna. I need to speak with Mr James.” He reached out and squeezed the older woman’s shoulder. “Urgently.” “He and Madam Frieda are in the library. Now, let me straighten your necktie before you go in there.” She dusted the shoulders of his great coat and fiddled with his necktie. “Thank you.” He humoured her then smiled, gratefully, and headed on. The weight of the news he had to impart pressed heavily upon him as he walked along the hall toward the library. He had failed an important but simple task set him by his employers. They had treated him as a son and had welcomed him into their family when there was no useful place for him within his own. And now, he had to bring this poor result to their attention. “Come in, dear boy,” James Argyle called out, when he saw Gregory by the door. Frieda, seated nearby, put down her book and looked up with interest. Gregory paused, taking in their expressions. James was smiling to himself, and Frieda nodded, her intelligent eyes bright with interest. “It is with a heavy heart that I come to you today. Eleanor is not with me. I have failed in the simple task you asked of me.” James chuckled. Puzzled, Gregory frowned. “Excuse me, Sir, did you hear me correctly?” “I did,” James responded. “But we half expected this of her.” “Poor Gregory,” Frieda remarked. “Please sit down.” Gregory took a nearby seat, baffled. “You expected this result?” “Yes. Forgive us, dear friend,” she offered. “Eleanor is our only family, and if she were younger, she would be our ward. She’s an adventuresome, independent young woman, and we knew that the only way to bring her here with true purpose was by involving you.” Perplexed, Gregory shook his head. “Me? I do not understand what it is you hoped I could achieve with her, for I have not even been able to fulfil your wishes to escort her here?” “That was always a possibility,” James said, “but that was not the main purpose of our request.” “It wasn’t?”

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Frieda looked at him with a certain pride in her eyes. “Gregory, our dearest wish would be to keep Eleanor here with us in Scotland, to be her family as she is to us, the daughter we were not able to have ourselves.” James reached out and touched her hand at that point, a gesture that did not escape Gregory. They were a strong couple, a couple he respected and admired. “You were our only hope,” Frieda added. “Forgive me, I do not understand.” Humour twinkled in Frieda’s eyes. “Gregory, Eleanor was smitten with you when she first set eyes on you as a young woman. That curiosity and interest has endured. Her letters are full of questions about you.” Could it be so? “There was some curiosity on her part, yes, but I cannot believe it is fondness, nor that you hoped it would signify her willingness to be escorted by me, since that is not what has happened.” He wanted to believe it, he wanted to believe it more than anything he had ever wanted, but since she had run away from him, he felt only loss and anger. “She has long harboured affection for you. We were hoping that forcing you to spend time together would help it blossom into something more enduring, and you would help us to keep her here.” Frieda suppressed a smile. “That you would be the main attraction,” she added, “as it were.” Gregory’s eyebrows lifted. James’ eyes twinkled. He went to the cabinet where the spirits were stored, poured a large measure of whiskey into a tumbler and put it in Gregory’s hand. Gregory took a slug, hoping it would restore some level of normality to his mind. He’d come into the house expecting great disappointment from his employers, not to mention concern over their niece’s whereabouts. Instead, they had related wild tale about their aspirations for a match, a tale he could scarcely believe. Not to mention the fact that they seemed bemused by his predicament. He wondered vaguely if he were going mad. He wondered, too, if he should feel duped. Doubly duped, since Eleanor had already outwitted him on the train. And yet…he felt oddly pleased by the news. He stared at them both, realising more than ever their respect and affection for him. “Gregory, may I ask you something?” It was Frieda. “Anything.”

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“I see deep concern in your eyes. Are you worried about her?” He nodded. “She is perfectly capable, as she continually asserts, but, dammit, I wanted to be sure!” “Have you developed affection for her?” “I have, and yet I feel it is futile.” The hurt inside him flared up. “That woman is foolhardy, headstrong and no man will ever be able to make her see sense.” Frieda lifted a folded letter from the sewing table beside her. “Eleanor wrote to us of the trick she played upon you and her regret.” A trick? And she regretted it? Gregory felt as if they had thrown him a lifeline. Hope lit inside him, and his chest quickly filled with it. “Eleanor had made plans to visit a friend in the midlands on her way here.” “She never mentioned it.” Frieda smiled. “She admits that she felt rebellious when you attempted to escort her. Perhaps that’s why.” “Rebellious? An understatement,” he commented, wryly. “She insists she was touched by the actions you took on our behalf, and as soon as she arrived at her friend’s home, she became concerned that we would be displeased with you. She confesses you grew close, and has asked for us to understand it was a game between you.” He took another deep swallow from the tumbler as his mind raced through all that had been revealed. And all that had passed between them that night on the train. Again. He should have been annoyed, but it was the truth. They had played a game. The most pleasurable game he could ever recall playing. And she had won. Or had she? She had stated they grew close. Perhaps the game was not yet over. As he consider that point, he glanced from James to Frieda. He saw they were biding their time, waiting for him to take it all in. He also saw that his role in the game was stronger now, for he had them on his side. He put down the glass, pushed his hands through his hair and nodded. Eleanor would arrive here soon enough then they would see who had won.

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Chapter Six

When Eleanor finally arrived at Oaklands, she was disappointed not to find Gregory amongst the group assembled on the steps, ready to welcome her. Where was he? Was he so furious with her that he wouldn’t even acknowledge her arrival? Her heart sank as she climbed down from the carriage, and she finally faced the fact that her stubborness might have destroyed something worth cherishing. However, when her Aunt Frieda embraced her, and her Uncle James reached over his wife’s shoulder to touch Eleanor’s cheek, Eleanor knew she felt something she had not felt since her father had died. It felt like coming home. It felt good, except there was a place in her heart that ached to be filled. It was the place that Gregory had carved out for himself. She felt suddenly shaky, as the realisation hit her. After her introductions to the staff, many of whom remembered her from her earlier visits, her aunt ushered her into the parlour, one arm tightly around her waist. Her eyes were bright. “You left Gregory in a terrible mood. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Guilt swamped Eleanor, and she felt so much discomfort she wanted to run from the room. “Aunt Frieda, I explained in my letter to you. I had my own plans, and I did not need to be escorted. I am an independent woman.” “Of course you are, my dear.” Her aunt smiled quite jovially. Eleanor didn’t quite understand it, but she was relieved that her aunt was not upset with her. “Is Gregory…is he very angry with me?” Frieda chuckled and led her to an armchair in the parlour. “Well, you should have seen him when he arrived. I have never seen him in such a black mood.” Eleanor listened while she tried to fathom why her aunt might find the situation so amusing. “I shall expect to be chastised as the child he thinks I am.” “He’s a determined, loyal man. I know he would have done anything to fulfil his promise to us, but you gave him the slip nonetheless.”

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Anything? He would have done anything to fulfil his promise? Did that include seducing her to get his way? Doubt undermined her, sending her emotions in all directions. She felt like having a good weep. Instead, she pursed her lips and glanced about the room. “Is he here?” She couldn’t help asking. “You’ll see him soon enough.” Again her aunt’s eyes were filled with humour. “He’s at an auction. I’m sure he’ll make it a priority to come and speak with you when he returns.” Yes, of course he will. Eleanor lifted her chin. She was ready for whatever he had to say. She wouldn’t be treated as a child, and she wouldn’t bow to his will. Not again. She blinked hard, trying to rid herself of the constant memory of that night. It hampered her single-mindedness, her focus. She had to guard her heart. He had only been doing his duty. It was blatantly obvious to her now that he had only seduced her in order to keep her by his side. Well, she had seduced him, in order to do the very opposite. She was the foolish one, however, the one who was wounded. He had seduced her, as she had him, and for all the wrong reasons. She knew she had been a trifle unjust and was ready to weather his berating. She just had to keep her head high and handle it well enough so that they could survive the mutual embarrassment.

Later that same afternoon, Gregory stood in the hall, adjusting his collar in the mirror. He felt unaccustomedly awkward as he looked at his reflection. His hair was windswept, his expression overcast, one might even describe it as ill at ease. The collar was uncomfortable, that was it. He ran a finger inside it. He frowned down at the familiar sculpted wooden griffin that stood next to the dresser, watching him, imperiously, as he fiddled with the collar. Of course, his nerves were shot to hell, damn it. This was important. “Miss Eleanor is in the conservatory,” Edna said, appearing from that direction. “Alone?” She nodded conspiratorially. “I shall see that it stays that way.” Gregory thanked her and patted the griffin on the head. Then he cleared his throat and headed down the long corridor to the exotic conservatory that James had hand built and stocked, a veritable feast for any botany aficionado . It was a high, domed building made entirely of glass panels held together with long ebony struts. It housed a huge number of

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plants and ferns and, at its centre, a palm tree standing about four feet high, surrounded by a circular pond. From that central display, four cobbled walkways radiated like the face of a clock. Gas heaters were set every few feet along the paths to create the perfect temperature, bringing the tropics to the Highlands. Gregory stood inside the doorway and glanced around expectantly, looking for signs of Eleanor. “Good afternoon.” Her voice came from the right, somewhat nervously, and when he turned towards it, he saw her sitting on an ornate loveseat. God, the sight of her made his chest fill with pride and with a fierce need to hold her. She was holding a book in her hands. It was one of James’ botanical guidesand iwas upside down in her hands. He chuckled. “Has something amused you?” She stood and glared at him. He noticed her eyes were rather pink and puffy. It made her look soft and vulnerable, and he instinctively wanted to cosset her. That would be the wrong thing to do, however, at this juncture. He knew that. Now. He shook his head, adopting a more circumspect demeanour. “I’m just pleased to see you arrived safely.” “Surprised I could manage it on my own, hmm?” She pursed her lips. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze. What was wrong? He was the one who should be angry, not her. “Might I ask why you are in bad humour with me, when it is I who should be in bad humour with you?” Her cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry. I know that I did the wrong thing leaving without explanation,” her eyes flickered, and he could see her discomfort, “but I have also come to my senses and I realise now that you measure me somewhere between a duty and a conquest.” What? “I do no such thing,” he declared. “You have no idea of the extent of my concerns for you.” “Oh, yes I do, I know quite the lengths you will go to, in order to hoodwink me and get your way!”

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“What foolishness is this?” “I am not foolish,” she declared. “No, you are not, you are a strong, brave young woman, but you are far too trusting for this world.” Damn, that was unfortunate. She looked even more furious. “I am a grown woman, and yet you treat me as a child. Do you know how old I am, Mr Munroe?” He threw up his hands. “Of course I do, and might I remind you that we have been through this already?” He spoke with much more calmness than he currently felt. “It is my respect for you that made me wish to accompany you-- despite the fact you led me a merry dance-- and change your opinion of me from moment to moment.” Her eyes rounded. “I didn’t lead you a merry dance! I only left because I wanted you to acknowledge that I am not some weak-spirited mare who needs to be guided and led.” “Of course, you don’t, but this is ludicrous. No matter how strong you are, people will still care about you.” She seemed startled by that. “You are simply being irrational about genuine affection.” As soon as the words were out he knew he had made that fatal error. A man should never, ever, call a woman irrational. He roared, angry with them both. “Damn it woman, you need someone to take you in hand and tame your wild streak, is what you need.” “Oho.” She folded her arms tightly over her chest. “And I suppose you think you’re just the man for the task!” Yes. He wanted to roar at her. Yes I am. Dammit to hell. She’d caught him, like a rat in a trap. He groaned aloud, his hands clenched in fury. He knew he sounded like a tyrant, but he was trying to make her see sense, so that he could protect her, love her and be with her. “Eleanor, I don’t wish to argue with you. I came here today hoping for something entirely different to pass between us.” “I don’t doubt it,” she retorted, flouncing out her skirts. “How much sweeter it would have been for you to undertake your duties with me as a willing conquest.” He took a risk, moved closer.

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With the back of one finger, he stroked the curve of her cheek. She did not pull away. “Eleanor, I came here to ensure you had arrived safely and…and to propose marriage.” He paused, unsure of whether he should have even pursued his original plan this early. Her eyes rounded and her hand went to her mouth as if she was thoroughly shocked by his proposal. “Marriage?” she blurted, and then took a deep intake of breath. “Is that your last resort, sir?” she demanded. She turned her back on him then, which struck him oddly. “It’s not a resort of any kind, it’s a proposal…” Exactly how furious was she? Should he not have pursued it at this time? Was it too soon? She threw a glance over her shoulder at him. “You would stop at nothing, would you, to win this battle?” Battle? That was the last straw. It had gone beyond that. He loved her. He grasped her by the shoulders, turned her to face him, and then paused when he saw her expression Oh yes, he saw the humour in her eyes then. She was teasing him, taunting him. Why, he even had the feeling she was aware of his efforts towards her. “You’re a witch, Eleanor Argyle, a demanding shrew who should be put over my knee and spanked until you admit defeat.” “And you would be the man to do this?” Her delicate brows arched provocatively. There was a challenge in her eyes. Challenge that made his passion rise. “You’re damn right there.” Snatching her into his arms, he claimed her in a passionate kiss.

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Chapter Seven

Shock flashed in his expression, and as soon as she saw it, she knew she had him. She reached out, grasped his lapel, and pulled him further into the crowded shrubbery of the conservatory. She wanted him, and it was clear that he wanted her, too. They would share a marriage bed and barter their way to pleasure each night. The thought of it thrilled her. “A chase, is that what you want?” He laughed. She turned on her heel, ran down the narrow cobbled path between leafy palms. He was fast upon her and held her in his arms, walking her backwards against a mound of tropical plants. The air was heavy with a damp mustiness, and her senses responded to its earthiness. She paused where the rock and earth sloped away to her right, thinking it a good place to pull him closer for a kiss. He looked down at her as he bent her across the earthy bank, beneath the lush foliage. “You are outrageous.” “Yes, and you are overbearing. It is only your skills in lovemaking that make me swoon this way.” He looked so very handsome with that fire in his eyes; his features were in stark outline, his eyes so dark and full of animal passions. “Is that so?” He dipped and kissed her, raking the breath from her lungs. “Why must you demand control?” she asked as she pulled away. “Because you deserve it.” “Deserve it! Aha, what an opinion you have of yourself.” “How could I not, since you have remarked on my skills in the lovemaking department.” He pressed himself against her, his manhood ramrod straight and deliciously hard. She gasped when she felt it. “Gregory,” she begged. “Please take mercy on me, you cruel man. I ache for you.” “Damn it, woman, you are nothing but trouble, and you have me in your spell. I am eager for your sweetness.” His voice was low against her ear.

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“My need equals yours, rest assured,” she murmured, heart pounding. He moaned quietly against her mouth and kissed her deeply while they both fumbled with his buttons. He was hard and long in her hand, rearing up for contact. She heard his breath quicken and then a quiet gasp when he felt her hand testing him. She caught his expression, wild and black with lust, and she had to have him inside her. She lifted her skirts, inviting him in, and quickly pulled him against her, their love making fast and furtive. She leaned back against the earthy mound, bracing herself as he pressed his hardness against her sensitive niche. “Gregory,” she gasped. “Oh yes,” he replied, as he slowly eased his way inside, groaning as he experienced her flesh on his. “This is too good to keep waiting.” She gripped his shoulders when he filled her to the hilt, his mighty weapon bruising up against her most sensitive parts, then he began to move against her, sending spasms of ecstasy jolting through her body. “Oh, I’ve never felt such exquisite pleasure,” she whispered. He muttered incoherently, lifting her leg alongside his hip. His shaft seemed to expand even more against her tender flesh. She almost climaxed there and then with the extreme intoxication of her senses. Her head thrashed from side to side and her cheek brushed against his face, tingling at the scrape of his soft stubble on her skin. He was crushed up against her, his angle affording pressure to all her intimate places, both inside and out. Eleanor put her hand to her mouth, the sweet rapture became too much for her to withhold her moans. His manhood massaged the core of her womanly flesh; it pulsed hard inside her hot, wet grip. His body arched like a bow against her, and he ground deep and hard. She began to tremble, and a low sound escaped her mouth. “Decorum, my dear, decorum,” he whispered, teasing her still. He pulled her shaking fingers away. “Forgive me, I…oh!” He gasped when he felt her flesh tightening on his, and rested his hand over her mouth to contain any sounds she might make. She looked at him, gratefully. God forbid the butler or anyone else would hear them or that they would be interrupted.

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She bit against his fingers as she began to spasm, wild, violent torrents of sensation rushing through her. He cursed low and thrust hard and fast, driving them both over the edge of the precipice within seconds.

“I love you, my little minx,” he said, as he straightened her drawers and lowered her skirts, dusting the earth off her clothing. “Your little minx? Perhaps you should rephrase that.” “No. I don’t believe I should.” He smiled, rubbing her gently under her chin. “You never answered my question. So, I will present it again. Will you marry me?” He locked his arms around her. “I have already spoken with your aunt and uncle, they have given me their approval.” Her head lifted. She was startled. “Oh yes, they anticipated this, and I think we have both been manipulated and duped. But I cannot bring myself to be angry with them, when we have shared…this.” He kissed her again, tenderly, inquisitively, and Eleanor felt as if she would float away, were it not for the fact he was holding her. She blinked when he drew back, assuring herself it was real. “Don’t you think we have had a rather short acquaintance to become engaged? Wouldn’t it seem rather brazen to be so rash?” “I learned all I know about brazen behaviour from you, dear heart,” he teased. “Don’t tell me you are worried about convention after all?” “No. No I’m not.” Her face heated. “Well then, say ‘yes’, then everybody will be happy.” He stroked her cheek. “Can you really deny that you were happy, just now, and on the train? I know, I would be a happy man with you in my bed…where I could keep you in check.” “ You’re a devious man, Gregory Munroe.” “When it comes to something I want,.” He breathed kisses along her décolletage, then continued, “as badly as I want you, then yes…yes I am. Will you marry me, Eleanor?” She smiled up at him, her heart brimming. “Yes, Gregory, I will.”

About the Author I'm British by birth, but because of my parent's nomadic tendencies I grew up travelling the globe—an only child with a serious book habit. I dreamed of being a writer since the age of 12 and finally began writing seriously in the late 1990s. By that time I'd got myself a BA in Art History, a Masters in Literature and the Visual Arts, and I'd worked in all manner of diverse careers—but the stories in my head simply had to be written. My first erotic short story was published by Virgin publishing's Black Lace imprint in '97 and things really took off from there. Every spare moment was spent on the stories that bubbled away in my imagination. I’ve now had work published in over forty anthologies, including Best Women’s Erotica, The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica and the Black Lace Wicked Words series. It was such a thrill for me to find that readers enjoyed my stories. I started working on longer projects around 2003, and I’ve had novels and novellas published by US publishers Red Sage, Penguin Heat, and the Juno Books fantasy line. I'm very happy to join the team at Total-e-Bound. Nowadays I live in the north of England—close to the beautiful, windswept landscape of the Yorkshire moors—with my real life hero, Mark. Mark supports my work through all its ups and downs, and somehow manages to keep me sane and grounded when fiction threatens to take over. Email: [email protected] Saskia loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

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