Throwback

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Throwback ISBN # 1-4199-0429-9 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Throwback Copyright© 2005 Annie Windsor Edited by Heather Osborn. Cover art by Willo. Electronic book Publication: November 2005

This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 443103502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

Warning: The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Throwback has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers. Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (Erotic), and X (X-treme). S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination. E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature. X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

THROWBACK Annie Windsor

Author’s Note Dungeon Heat: Throwback has a contemporary setting, but the story is just that—a story, a tale, an erotic fantasy. Relationships in this book have a strong BDSM flavor and show Master/slave relationships. However, none of the books in the Dungeon Heat series are intended to portray true BDSM or Dom/sub relationships as they actually occur. In the spirit of erotic fantasy, the Dungeon Heat books are also total fantasy when it comes to responsible sex. In that complicated real world we all so love to escape with books like these, keep it safe, sane, and consensual, and always practice safe sex. Yours in delicious naughtiness, Annie Windsor

Dedication For Cheyenne McCray, without whom this book never would have been finished. Many thanks to Sire Don (www.sdleather-lace.com), endless thanks to Violet Wanda (www.violetwands.net), and endless hugs to Devilish Dot (www.devilishdots.com),and other hot, helpful souls who have been so giving in helping me learn what I needed to know. Also, thanks to the House of Shadowfind and its e-mail list, and especially to the Kenmeister. Kenny, buddy, you make me laugh—and you make me wonder about dungeons. Chaining you up in one, I mean, for the safety of the universe, random stray dogs, and the wonderful world of kink. I hope one day, you finally get your naked pictures.

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Prologue By the age of thirty-two, Gillian Markham had been teaching for seven years. She had applied for tenure, garnered the required recommendations, published appropriate scholarly papers—and seen two things she would never forget. The first was too horrible to ponder, and she did whatever she could to keep her mind from straying in that direction. The second was too incredible to forget. The night of the dungeon. But she shouldn’t think about that now. It wasn’t conducive to working. Gillian shifted in her chair, grateful that it was larger and more accommodating than the one she was forced to use at the college. She was a large woman, wide around the hips, proportioned like a Renaissance painting, according to Reginald Blackmoor, the man who had raised her after her parents died. Reggie had always gentled the truth, put a delicate cover over life’s harder circumstances. Gillian’s weight was one of those circumstances. She’d tried everything to become less Renaissance and more Modern Art, but she’d given up a few years back. Now, she worked on being active and healthy, and doing the best she could with the body heredity saw fit to give her. She pushed a few strands of her flyaway hair behind her ear and sighed. Maybe she should finally cut her blonde mop short. No matter what style she tried, her hair refused to be tamed and orderly like the rest of her life. Well, like her life had been until Reggie Blackmoor died. Echoes of her earlier conversation with the executor came forward immediately. “…biggest damn legal mess I’ve ever seen. Never heard of this, even between siblings, much less two people who don’t know each other… Don’t know what R.B., Sr. and his demented attorney were thinking—maybe both of them lost a few marbles before the bag spilled…” Another sigh rattled out of Gillian. She didn’t want to think about the disaster created by Reggie’s will. Not yet, at least. For one more blissful night, the only true English castle in the state of Tennessee was hers and hers alone—if she didn’t count the greyhounds and the two live-in servants. Osmond Burns and Jamie Hart were more like family, anyway. If she lost Blackmoor Downs, they would likely leave with her. The Survey of History papers Gillian was grading just couldn’t hold her attention, nor could the essays from the local high school students she tutored. She was too worried about losing her home and too aware of the looming specter of her upcoming tenure committee meeting. It was the first of three, but the last step in the long process of securing job stability.

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“The beginning of the end,” she murmured. “Or the end of the beginning. Or maybe just…the end.” She glanced around at her giant oak desk, and then at her spacious bedchamber, the gray carved stone walls and splendid cloth hangings—tapestries, sconces holding flickering gas candles, and the finest silken draperies. Even her bed had drapes, a feature Reggie insisted on installing when she moved in fourteen years ago. Wouldn’t be proper without it, my dear. If I do a thing, I do it all the way. Gillian rubbed her eyes. She hoped Jamie came back soon from walking the dogs. Since Reggie died, her luxurious accommodations sometimes seemed like a big stone chamber of silence. With rugs on the wall and drapes on the bed, of course. “There weren’t any rugs on Reggie’s dungeon wall,” she muttered, shifting to her most intrusive obsession—remembering the night she had ventured into the one part of Blackmoor Downs Reggie had asked her never to go. Downstairs, to the lowest level, directly under his private apartments. Normally, Gillian was respectful of Reggie’s requests. He never asked anything unreasonable of her, and he always saw to her material and educational needs. He was her friend, her guide, her mentor—and, as she discovered, a man with some unusual secrets. That night, during one of Reggie’s stunning soirees for the faculty of John’s River College, Reggie had disappeared early, leaving Gillian and his small staff of two to tend the guests. This was typical. After all, Reggie had just turned seventy, and he tired easily. But the Dean of Students had needed to speak to him about an urgent matter, so Gillian offered to relay the message. When she reached Reggie’s rooms, he was nowhere to be found. His private elevator was switched on, however, with the indicator lights showing that it had stopped in the basement. Castles don’t have basements, dear girl. Even replicas like this! Castles have… “Dungeons,” Gillian whispered, lost between present and past. She had deliberated for a few moments, but the Dean was an intimidating, persistent sort. She didn’t want to face him again without speaking to Reggie. Quietly, Gillian had pressed the elevator call button and slipped into the carrier when it arrived. Inside, she had found a key inserted and turned, allowing access to the dungeons she had never seen. On the way down, a flare of anxiety almost made her turn back, but she had spoken sharply to herself. “He’s no mad scientist with toxic experiments. Get a grip, Gillian.” The elevator slowed to a stop, and the door hissed open, revealing a long, dark hallway with a bright archway of light about twenty paces in front of her. Suddenly trembling, Gillian stepped into the cool passage. What was Reggie doing down here anyway? What could be so secret?

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Soft, rhythmic music rippled toward her, surrounding her like a heartbeat made of notes and insistent chanting. Reggie’s not doing anything wrong, she told herself. He was likely squirreled away in some private library full of heretical historical documents. Then she heard a woman scream. Only, it wasn’t a scream. It was more like a long, low moan of pain—or ecstasy. Gillian couldn’t tell. Heart crashing against her ribs, Gillian edged down the corridor until she could see inside the arched doorway. What she saw changed her life forever, for the second time. Reggie lounged near the door on what looked like a huge medieval bed, complete with a ruby-red satin spread and straps on all four black metal posts. He was dressed in his favorite black robe and slippers, holding his trademark Scotch and water. The cavernous room was full of medieval furniture. Chairs, benches, tables—many with leather straps or seats. She saw stocks with a strap-laden bench attached, a swing of sorts, also with straps. And something that looked like a metal spider web, and several cages of different sizes. One small black cage was even attached to a pulley and chain, hanging from a big brass ring fixed in a ceiling beam. Various whips rested in a wall rack, along with canes, rods, feathered instruments and what looked like lavender wands. Instrumental riffs swirled and pounded, at first soft and teasing, then hard and insistent. Blinking rapidly, Gillian realized that on a table below the whips rested an impressive collection of dildos, all sizes and colors. Some had long handles. Beside the table were three impressive specimens mounted on poles of various lengths, attached to sturdy-looking metal platforms with shoe-like holders on either side. The sight of them made her entire body clench. She couldn’t fight off an image of herself, stretched out on one of the benches or tables, a dildo inserted in every possible opening, stretching and pushing her wide and wider until she couldn’t tolerate another centimeter. What if she were facedown? A dark, powerful man standing above her, lashing her ass repeatedly with one of those whips—maybe one of the shorter ones, with the soft-looking tips. What am I thinking? What’s wrong with me? OhGodohGodohGod… The music waned. “Stop,” Reggie commanded suddenly. His voice, often tremulous now, seemed forceful and resonated in the cavernous room. “You have no business handling a whip like that, Alan—not for many months, or perhaps years. You know the rules. If you haven’t experienced it, you may not punish with it. Besides, your slave is face-out, not in good whipping position, and nearing the breaking point. Look at her.” Gillian did look, mouth open, at the scene on the far wall. A naked, blindfolded woman—Dr. Celia Lambert of the History Department, judging by her impressive

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height and fiery hair—was strapped to two wooden crosspieces by the wrists, ankles, and thighs. Her arms were stretched high above her head, and her legs were spread wide. For a moment, Gillian felt beyond self-conscious, acutely aware of the thinner woman’s angles and sharply defined body. Nothing like Gillian’s “Renaissance” shape. Dr. Lambert was definitely more the model-figure variety. The redheaded professor was breathing heavily, and her normally pale skin was a bright pink, especially around her breasts and thighs. Her nipples gleamed as her chest heaved, and Gillian saw what looked like bronze clamps on the tips, attached by a chain that joined and dangled to her belly button. Gillian couldn’t help but stare at her redder-than-red pubic hair, which had been shaved to a single strip directly down the parted center of her pussy. The cool air was heavy with the scent of musk, oils and powders. “She hasn’t used her safe word,” the man, Alan, protested. Gillian knew the voice instantly. Dr. Alan Sparks, professor of mathematics. God. I had classes with these people! But she had never seen them like she saw them at that moment. Dr. Sparks moved away from the wall beside the panting Dr. Lambert, wearing only a cape and carrying what looked like a bullwhip. He dropped it on the floor, where Gillian saw several flogging instruments of different colors and textures. “She is helpless, completely at your mercy,” Reggie intoned, startling Gillian into a near scream. She barely bit it back in time. “It’s up to you to care for her completely, to realize when she has reached her limits, even when she does not. You must be acutely aware of her physical and emotional state at all times. A proper Dominant never—and I repeat—never lets his desires override his responsibilities to his submissive.” Gillian’s eyes widened as she took in Sparks’ massive erection. A formidable weapon in its own right, that cock. And Dr. Lambert was shaking, moaning softly again, saying something that sounded like, “Please, please, please…” Sparks gave Reggie a short, sharp bow. “You’re right, of course.” “She needs release,” Reggie instructed. “In more ways than one.” At that, Sparks tugged the chain connecting Dr. Lambert’s nipples. The woman cried out, then sighed with relief as he removed the clamps. Reflexively, Gillian grabbed her own ample nipples through the thick fabric of her dress and pinched. As if in response, the music rose again, more rhythmic. “That’s it,” Reggie instructed. “Massage them. Make certain blood returns to the confined tissue—and make the best use of sweet, sensual bruising.” Dr. Lambert groaned and moved against her restraints as her partner gently checked her wrists and ankles, all the while continuing the brisk nipple massage.

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Gillian couldn’t stop massaging her nipples. A slow, wicked fire moved from the points of her breasts, into her chest, across her belly and lower, until it struck her clitoris and doubled the moisture between her clenched thighs. “Still warm, no cuts or tears,” Sparks announced. His voice was husky, sending shivers from Gillian’s shoulders straight to her increasingly wet vagina. “Good, good. Then proceed.” Reggie sounded blissful and at peace. Gillian thought she might have stepped into an alternate reality. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the dungeon, or the heated events within. Sparks let go of the bound professor’s breasts and sank to his knees. Without warning or ceremony, he jerked open her lower lips, then fastened his mouth dead center. Imagining the feel of his lips, his tongue on her own clitoris—she couldn’t bring herself to use the slangy abbreviation of clit, it sounded so dirty, so forbidden—Gillian had to chew back another set of noises. She released her nipples and thrust her hand into the waistband of her ankle-length skirt, down into her underwear, until she reached her throbbing, aching button. Clit. Clit, damn it. If she was going to masturbate while watching people have sex in a dungeon, she could damn well say clit. Just saying the word in her mind, just touching herself in the dark, cold corridor, watching what she was watching, almost pushed her over the edge. Dr. Lambert was clearly falling from the cliff already. The woman emitted a series of breathy screams, punctuated by a “God, yes, bite me!” Instantly, Sparks stopped what he was doing, forcing a frustrated scream from his partner. He stood quickly and started unlashing her from the crosspieces. Instead of being grateful, instead of sighing with relief as she had when he released her nipples, Dr. Lambert fought his actions. “Tell her what you are doing and why,” Reggie commanded. “Anticipation is half the pain—and the pleasure.” “I’m going to punish you, djinni.” Sparks spoke in a low, clit-stirring growl, accentuated by the throbbing soundtrack playing in the background. “I’m going to strap you to the whipping table and lash your ass until you learn to follow the rules.” Gillian held back a gasp, a sense of outrage. He said he was going to whip her—but she didn’t seem angry! The Dr. Lambert Gillian knew would have pummeled any person who dared touch her, but now, she seemed to turn into a kitten at the math professor’s threat. “Answer me,” he commanded. “Tell me what you did wrong, and what I’m going to do.” “Yes, Master,” the woman said in a throaty, spacey-sounding voice. “I spoke without permission. You’re going to whip me for it.” 9

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“I’ll sting you until you beg, and it better not be too soon.” Still kittenish, seeming almost drugged, Dr. Lambert went meekly as Sparks moved her away from the wall. He stroked the back of her neck. “Now, djinni,” he said softly, almost kindly, “Lean forward.” Would she do it? Or would she hit him, walk away—Gillian’s jaw ached as she clenched it. Dr. Lambert leaned forward. In a few seconds, Sparks had her facedown on one of the padded tables. She extended her arms, and he tied her wrists to either side. He repeated the process with her ankles, until Dr. Lambert was spread in much the same way as she had been on the wall. Reggie got up from the bed and flowed past the door, the ice in his cup clinking softly as he passed Gillian’s hiding place in the shadows. She stepped back, fingers tight against her clitoris, holding her breath until it hurt. Her mentor went to the wall and took down a short whip with multiple leather tips. He also picked up a long, fat dildo with a handle. Both of these, he took to Sparks. Extending the whip, Reggie said, “This flogger is deerskin. Soft, but firm. Take your stance.” Sparks complied. From there, Reggie directed with hand-signals. First, he pointed to Dr. Lambert’s backside. Sparks nodded. He raised his hand and smacked Dr. Lambert sharply across both cheeks. She gasped and wriggled on the table. For a time, Sparks waited. Then, unexpectedly, he brought his hand down again and again, harder, sharper, moving around Dr. Lambert’s ass like a well-honed spanking machine. Each blow drew a choked mew of pleasure. “You are not allowed to come,” Sparks said in an authoritative tone. He paused and fondled Dr. Lambert’s labia. “Tell me when you’re approaching the edge. Don’t disobey me, djinni, or I’ll have to punish you again.” Gillian had a clear view of the woman’s vagina, which was opened directly toward her. The flesh looked swollen and red beyond imagination. Soon, the woman was squirming and groaning, almost moving her ass into his hand. Sparks alternately whipped her and toyed with her obviously tender folds. Then, he sank three fingers deep in her channel. Gillian pressed hard against her own center, feeling a tidal wave of heat rise between her legs and wash up, up toward her face, and down to her knees, making them tremble. The sight of Sparks pounding his hand into Dr. Lambert’s vagina over and over as the woman screamed and gasped was perfect. Gillian thought she might catch on fire, knew she would melt into nothingness. The force of her orgasm made her

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sag against the wall as she bucked against her own fingers. This was too much. Too, too much. Dr. Lambert moaned, “Edge. Edge!” At that, Sparks backed off completely. Reggie, standing next to the table and still holding the dildo, nodded. Sparks seemed to count to ten, then he began massaging Dr. Lambert’s bright red ass. As he raised the flogger, Gillian bit her lip and pressed her fingers deeper into her clit. The first smack of the lash made her come again, shaking, wanting to sink to the floor and moan with redheaded woman on the table. Again and again, Sparks struck Dr. Lambert with the deerskin flogger, moving side to side and up and down. Reggie handed him the dildo, and Sparks slid it inside the woman’s yawning opening, pushing it deep, then deeper, thrusting between lashes, and sometimes at the same time. The music seemed to keep time, driving the pace and tempo. His voice was still a growl as he spoke. “Imagine what you could have had if you had followed the rules. Answer me now. Tell me you understand.” “I understand, Master!” Dr. Lambert’s tone was unearthly, overcharged. She sounded like a person about to snap. And then she did—or seemed to. She stopped moving against the dildo and the flogger, lying still, trembling like a leaf. Reggie made a flying motion with his hand, then a gesture clearly urging caution. Sparks slowed his strokes, easing back on the intensity. A few minutes later, he removed the dildo. By then, Gillian had brought herself to too many orgasms to count. Under Reggie’s direction, Sparks unstrapped Dr. Lambert, pulled her to him, then sat on the floor with her and cradled her for long, long minutes, kissing her face and stroking her arms. At last, she seemed to come back to herself, kissing him back, murmuring what sounded like appreciation. Gillian had never used a dildo before, but by the time Reggie had assisted Sparks with putting Dr. Lambert in the leather swing contraption, she desperately wanted one. She had known one passionate lover in her teens, and a few lonely liaisons during college, but as of late, nothing. Full-figured women weren’t high on graduate student lists. Or philandering professors’ lists, either. As she stared at Dr. Lambert, hanging in midair, legs tied wide into stirrups, arms fastened above her head, breasts thrust forward between two leather straps, tears streamed down Gillian’s face. She watched, breathing in short gasps, as Sparks sank his thick, long cock into Dr. Lambert’s swollen vagina. Gillian couldn’t rub her own clit fast enough. She had no interest in Sparks, but at that second, she would have paid for the services of his no-doubt hot and throbbing erection.

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The woman in the sling swung back and forth as he slammed into her again and again, drawing shrieks and moans of pleasure. Gillian could hear the wet slapping of flesh, and the air grew denser with the smell of leather and sex. She barely heard the music over the shouts of Dr. Lambert and Sparks’ throaty grunts—and the sound of her own wet flesh, moving back and forth as she swirled her fingers against the wet, throbbing button. “Harder,” Reggie commanded. “She’s trusting you to hold nothing back, to see to your own pleasure and thereby double hers. Fuck her, man! Fuck her!” Sparks roared and plunged his cock even deeper, hammering Dr. Lambert’s hole like he would never have sex again. Dr. Lambert, in turn, seemed to achieve orbit. She let out a scream that wouldn’t end, somehow managing to insert the word, “Edge!” “Come for me,” Sparks ordered, shouting over the music until the whole room seemed to echo. “Do it. Do it now!” He grabbed her legs and pummeled her with his thrusting hips, and Dr. Lambert moaned and shook until Gillian thought the suspension chains would tear loose. Her own orgasm flooded her with a force she didn’t expect, making her head spin, giving her the slightest taste of what it would feel like to be at the mercy of a Master, to be that out of control. Sensation. Pleasure. Heat. The world seemed to spin. At least she had the good sense to slide her hand out of her skirt before she stumbled away, half-crazed and gasping like she had run a two-day marathon, making enough noise to rouse the dead—or the occupants of a dungeon. Gillian jolted back to the present with a decent orgasm, feeling the warmth push across her fleshy thighs and higher, into her large breasts and thick, neglected nipples. Reggie had been honest and honorable, of course. He had come to her the next morning and visited her in her room—and he was fully clothed in his typical tweeds and ascot, looking very concerned. When he tried to explain what he feared she had seen before her noisy exit, Gillian stopped him. “You’re a grown man, Reggie, and those were adults with a full range of choices.” Gillian had worked to keep her voice clinical, detached. “I invaded your privacy. Please, don’t feel like you owe me apologies or discussions.” And that had been that. They had never mentioned it, and Gillian had never so much as stepped into Reggie’s private elevator again. She had also never forgotten one long, hot, musk-drenched moment of the time she spent in the dungeon. She figured she never would, especially with her endless fantasies.

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A masterful man, skilled in the art of total domination. He probably doesn’t exist. Anyway, Reggie’s not here to train him. Dead for almost three months. I can’t believe it. Gillian pushed back from her desk and turned resolutely from the waiting papers. She was crying freely now, turning loose little pieces of her deep, abiding grief. The secret heart of Blackmoor Downs had stopped beating the day the old man died. Gillian didn’t know if anything could make it pound again. “Maybe I should give the castle to Reggie’s son. Concede everything and fix the mess without a fight. I could just hand it over and encourage Oz and Jamie to stay.” She stood and balled her fists, imagining the loss of her home, the place where she had known healing and learning. Her next words came out in a shaky, terrified cry. “No. Please. I don’t think I could stand that.”

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Chapter One The Wanderers arrived near midnight on Saturday, trooping into John’s River and spreading across Blackmoor Downs like an ancient army. They rode horses instead of driving cars, and they brought tents instead of seeking a nearby hotel. Gillian kept one hand on her ever-tightening throat, on her pulse, so she wouldn’t lose track of reality as she watched from her bedroom window. She felt like time had played some wicked trick, twisting back on itself until the barriers between centuries had dissolved. Reggie, you loveable old bastard. How could you do this to us? Jamie Hart, the live-in housekeeper, brushed chestnut bangs from her forehead. She adjusted her white robe, but Gillian could see enough cleavage to feel inadequate. The woman had an excellent figure, lean in all the right places and perfectly round in all the rest. Gillian’s cheeks flushed. She liked women’s bodies—all but her own. And she loved men’s bodies, even if she hadn’t touched one in a long, long while. Her academic pursuits left little time for romantic entanglements. Besides, most relationships turned out messy, and she had no tolerance for messes. “You’d think we were in medieval England,” Jamie muttered. “Medieval England,” Gillian echoed. Her voice sounded hollow against the stone walls of her second-story bedroom. With another embarrassed flush, she realized she was standing in her window like a child excited by a dream. Staring into the September night, she let go her throat and ran her fingers along thick, heavy curtains to keep herself grounded. Only the finest cloth graced the walls and windows of Tennessee’s first bona-fide English castle. And only the finest hounds graced its beds. For a huge dose of comfort, Gillian glanced over to her huge four-poster. Reginald Blackmoor’s rescued greyhound racers lay coiled in tiny balls. Her closest friends. Her best confidants. The three of them, the females Guinevere, Elaine and Morgan, seemed utterly undisturbed by the influx of intruders. Yes, they were as relaxed and comfortable as three hounds could be. As if sensing Gillian’s gaze, Morgan raised her flawless black head and perked her ears toward her mistress. “It’s okay, girl,” Gillian murmured. “Well, sort of okay.” “Don’t trouble yourself,” Jamie added absently. The dog settled back into the sheets but kept her wary eyes open. Gillian turned her own wary eyes back to the castle yard. As she watched the strangers fill Blackmoor’s grounds like a creeping blight, she brushed long strands of 14

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her blonde hair behind her ears. Even though it was still fairly warm in middle Tennessee, she shivered. Gillian wasn’t much on crowds, and the arrival of the Wanderers felt like an invasion. In fact, it was an invasion, specially made and ordered up by one Hawkins Blackmoor, leader of the Wanderers, estranged son of the master of the castle, and cold, insensitive New York stockbroker. From what Gillian could tell, the man had a stable of lawyers and a stallion’s sense of entitlement. Go to hell. Gillian aimed the sentiment at Blackmoor the younger, wherever he might be. Outside the window, the full, bright moon cast a light on the spectacle of tents and horses and human beings. An entire community moved slowly into place, mobile and mysterious, and utterly devoid of modern convenience. She had to admit it was the strangest thing she had ever seen. Beautiful and terrible at the same time. Reg, I hate you! What were you thinking? Of course, the reticent spirit of Reginald Blackmoor said nothing at all. Gillian tugged her hair with her right hand. Thinking of Reggie brought quick tears to her eyes, but the bizarre show below tied her muscles into fine, tense knots. The endless flow of people had stopped at last, but now they were circling as if a dance master had proclaimed it time to perform. Some began driving poles into the ground while others unpacked goods and smoothed what would no doubt become the stuff of tents and exhibits. That thought brought another round of shivers. Exhibits. At Blackmoor Downs. God, but all of John’s River would turn out to see the spectacle of this Renaissance Fair. Probably half of Nashville, too. There would be hundreds of people gawking at her once private haven. Maybe thousands. What would she do? How could she face such a nightmare all through the fall? Every day, Gillian would have to run a gantlet to get back and forth to John’s River College, battle through her final tenure committee meetings, keep up her academic service work, and make the endless revisions on her latest book about Tudor England’s political structure. And if she failed to get her tenure as a history professor at the school that had been her second home since her parents were killed—well, that was unthinkable. A soft knock at the door startled Gillian, but the dogs didn’t bark. Gillian didn’t turn around or tighten the belt on her robe. Neither did Jamie. Both knew without looking that their visitor had to be Osmond Burns, Reggie’s distinguished butler. Proper, cultured, devastatingly handsome but oh-so-reserved—Oz would never enter a lady’s room at night without knocking.

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Jaime rearranged her hair in a big hurry, and the flush on the woman’s cheeks told Gillian the whole story. Jamie had an interest in Oz. Reggie had suspected that, but Gillian—well, she ignored gossip. Even intimate gossip. The door creaked, then closed with a quiet thump. Just as quietly, the movie-star gorgeous butler strode to the window. “Do you see him yet?” Jamie’s soft southern accent wound through the drafty castle room. “Come on, Oz. You’re the only one who’ll know the boy.” Oz leaned forward and studied the moonlit landscape. Soft silver highlights shone over his ears, adding to his sophisticated air. “Thus far he hasn’t distinguished himself.” “Well, odds-on he would, being as he’s Reggie’s flesh and blood.” Jamie tapped her fingers against the window. Her rich brown hair glittered with her gown in the moon’s generous light. Gillian couldn’t help thinking that Reggie’s long-time staff member looked like a faerie godmother, come to bestow some wish or favor. Too bad Jamie couldn’t wave a wand and make the Wanderers disappear, Hawkins Blackmoor and all. “I cannot believe what Reggie did to us,” Gillian muttered. “He had to know there would be all manner of legal troubles.” “Never expected it from him myself,” Jamie admitted. “Old squirrel. I’m sure he had something up his sleeve. Maybe he hopes you and his son will get on well and share what he’s left you.” Gillian shook her head. That was exactly the sort of thing Reggie had been famous for orchestrating. Schemes full of purpose and droll British humor. He was a character. No. Scratch that. Reggie was a character’s character. A ripple of pain brought new tears to Gillian’s eyes. Reggie had been both father and mother to her since she was seventeen years old. He had taken her to his home and raised her as his own after that awful night when her parents, her brother and her boyfriend had died. It had been Reggie who kept Gillian from giving up, Reggie who sponsored her college education, and Reggie who supported her graduate studies and her initial appointment as assistant professor in a tenure-track position at John’s River College. And now, just shy of his seventy-eighth birthday, Reginald Blackmoor was dead. He had been gone three months, yes, but Gillian still woke each morning thinking— hoping—she could hear his rich laughter as he played with his beloved greyhounds in the long stone halls of Blackmoor Downs. In spite of her best effort to maintain control in front of Jamie and Oz, Gillian sniffed. The housekeeper patted her arm. “It’s okay, dear. I miss Reggie, too. So does Oz, though you know it would take an act of God to get emotion out of him.” “I beg that same God to keep you calm on a daily basis,” Oz grumbled. He straightened but kept his cool, dark eyes glued to the grounds below.

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“And poor, poor Arthur.” Jamie sighed. “Old Sir hasn’t much stirred from Reggie’s favorite bench in the garden. Oz had to carry him in again, just tonight.” Gillian nodded. She thought about Arthur, the first and eldest of the rescued greyhounds. He was steel-blue and majestic, and utterly devoted to Reggie. They were afraid that the dog Reggie called “Old Sir” would follow his master to the grave no matter how much love and attention they showered upon him. He was scarcely eating, scarcely moving, preferring to lie beside that garden bench in hopes that Reggie would come back to him. The younger male, Merlyn, who was about the same age as Elaine and the same color as Arthur, seemed less concerned. And Lancelot, the two-year-old, as black as Morgan and as active as a human toddler, had been rescued just weeks before Reggie’s death. All Lancelot worried about was his next bowl of food. “Oh, dear.” Jamie’s soft words cut through Gillian’s thoughts of the hounds and brought her attention back to the yard. It took her only moments to see what had startled the housekeeper, and the sight gave her pause as well. A man had ridden through the main gates, and even in the moonlight, he cut a dashing and disturbing figure. The attitude, the entitlement evident in his every move—there could be no doubt that this man was Reggie’s estranged son. “Indeed,” Oz confirmed. “That would be the younger Blackmoor, in the flesh.” Astride a massive black stallion that might have been a warhorse in eras gone by, the man’s size was no less impressive than his mount’s powerful girth. He rode with ease and command, circling the perimeter of the Wanderers’ camp like a king surveying his subjects. Gillian could just make out the dark hair hanging nearly to his shoulders, but his heavily muscled physique was impossible to miss. She felt her heart beat faster with each of his graceful movements. This she hadn’t expected. Reggie was a tall man, yes, but sharp-featured instead of classically handsome. And the rude letter Hawkins Blackmoor had sent after the release of Reggie’s will—well, it wasn’t the sort of letter Gillian would have expected from a man so dashing and in control of himself. The younger Blackmoor had been incensed to learn that Gillian had inherited his father’s fortune and the land of Blackmoor Downs. Gillian, in turn, had been shocked to discover that Hawkins Blackmoor had been deeded the castle itself. It made no sense. Reggie knew how much Gillian loved her home, how important it was to her. The land and the money had no more meaning to her than hay in a field. Reggie’s son, on the other hand, was in need of land and cash for his displaced Renaissance troupe, or so Reggie’s lawyer had intimated. From the moment Reggie’s will had been made public, Gillian’s world had been turned upside-down. Nothing was certain or secure. And Reggie had always seen to her security. It seemed so odd that he would do anything less, even in death.

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And then, a few weeks after Hawkins Blackmoor received notice of his inheritance, he’d sent that letter to Gillian. The tone was one of dispassionate disgust. He had done everything shy of accusing her of gold-digging. Of having an unthinkable relationship with a kind old gentleman she loved as her only family. Gillian had been furious, which in itself was unusual. She was not a woman prone to temper. In fact, she was not a woman prone to feeling at all—not after the tragedy that forever changed her life. She had torn up the letter from Hawkins Blackmoor and burned the pieces in her bedroom fireplace. After the hateful words charred to ash, Gillian had amused herself by imaging the younger Blackmoor to be scrawny and imperious, like a rodent or some anemic beaver. She had relieved her terrible anxiety about losing her home and what little she had left of Reggie by assuming she would easily best his rat of a son in a battle of wills and intellect. And so, at her lawyer’s recommendation, Gillian had agreed to allow the Wanderers to come to John’s River and stay on her land for the fall Fair season. In return, Hawkins Blackmoor had agreed to allow Gillian to remain in the castle with Oz and Jamie until the estate could be settled. A compromise. And perhaps a way to avoid going to court all together. If they could reach some agreement, perhaps further unpleasantness could be averted. Three meetings were scheduled more or less in stone, for the fifteenth of September, the thirteenth of October and the seventeenth of November. Private mediations, just Gillian and Hawkins Blackmoor, and whoever they chose to bring to support them. No lawyers, no judges, and nothing binding. A beginning to peace. Or the full onset of disaster. Whatever had been in Gillian’s mind when she made that agreement, she hadn’t been prepared to confront a man who was more lion than mouse. A man who was most certainly a throwback to King Arthur’s court. In Gillian’s wildest imaginings, she hadn’t been prepared for Hawkins Blackmoor to seem so…powerful. As if he heard her thoughts, the striking man wheeled his mount and reined the horse directly under Gillian’s window. She startled. Surely he couldn’t see her. Of course not, yet she sensed the heat of his gaze. For a few long moments, Gillian felt completely alone in her room, in the castle, in the entire world. The moonlight might have been playing tricks, but the man’s face seemed as flawless as the rest of him. And if she wasn’t mistaken by the shadows and darkness, Hawkins Blackmoor looked very, very angry. Gillian shivered at the sight. Her skin burned at the thought of this furious knight snatching her up, riding away with her and spending his anger in a long, rough night of

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passion. Maybe he would haul her down to Reggie’s dungeon, tie her spread-eagle on one of those tables. She would be at the mercy of the man’s expert lash… She swallowed hard, almost feeling the sting across her ass. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s not a knight, and this is the twenty-first century. It is! Besides, he hated her. A large woman like her, she’d never be Hawkins Blackmoor’s type, “Renaissance” proportions or not. Unfortunately, her taut nipples disagreed. They pushed against the whisper-soft fabric of her gown, and she wanted nothing more than to grab them both and pinch hard. The blazing ache between her legs made her want to go farther, to touch herself. She even had a three-second wanton fantasy of doing it right there in the window, for the scowling Hawkins Blackmoor to see. He was still looking, too. Sweat broke across her forehead. Maybe it was time to get rid of her company. Morgan stirred on Gillian’s bed, and when Gillian didn’t comfort her, the nervous hound issued a sharp bark of concern. Jamie closed her fingers around Gillian’s elbow, dragging her back from the brink of carnal insanity. “It isn’t going to be as easy as we thought, is it? To convince this man to sell us his father’s castle.” “I tried to warn you both,” Oz intoned. “Hawkins Blackmoor was stubborn even as a child. We will have a damnable time getting him to see things our way.” Gillian tried to force herself to meet Blackmoor’s fiery glare. “Yes. I suspect we will.” Hawkins Blackmoor couldn’t stop glaring at the castle window. Two women, one of them no doubt his father’s greedy little companion, were watching him, with Osmond Burns lurking in the shadows. The woman on the left seemed older, close to forty, but damned well-proportioned. Both seemed pleasing enough to have turned old Reggie’s head, but the one on the right…he’d wager she was the one. In fact, she was pleasing enough to turn a thirty-three-year-old man’s head as well. Hawk shifted in his saddle. He could discern the younger woman’s wild blonde hair shining bright beneath the full moon, and her fuller figure and tempting curves were obvious and attractive. She was tall, too. If he held her, her head would rest just beneath his chin. Damn. Where did that come from? He ground his teeth and tore his eyes from the castle view. Fuming inwardly, Hawk leaned forward and rubbed his horse’s neck. Galahad was a fine and loyal worker, but the poor animal was no doubt footsore and spent by the last leg of their trek to Blackmoor Downs. Bad maps and Hawk’s unfamiliarity with Tennessee had added four hours to their journey since Nashville. 19

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The soft plodding of hooves let Hawk know that Jarrod Dorn was approaching. His best friend eased his exhausted mare into place beside Galahad and nodded toward the large window on the second floor. “Who are those women? The lass on the right has a pleasant shape, but damned if the other one doesn’t look just as good.” Hawk relaxed in his saddle and grinned at his friend’s heavy Scottish brogue and lack of manners. Jarrod had inherited both from his father, along with his freckled face and red hair, or so the big Scotsman liked to tell. Many years ago, in another life, Jarrod Dorn had been in the U.S. Navy JAG corps. Now at thirty-nine, he had retired from the military and returned to the troupe just like Hawk, but he was still the same salty sailor. And the man was one hell of a jouster, thanks to his bulky muscles. “I’d wager the younger one is our Dr. Markham.” Hawk didn’t censor the bite in his tone. Jarrod whistled. “Well, well. I don’t have to wonder what your father saw in her. Think she’d be in the market for another wealthy old fool?” “Let me know when you become wealthy or old, and I’ll ask her.” Hawk avoided glancing at the castle window again as he and Jarrod moved away. “If you could get Gillian Markham away from Blackmoor, that would solve a lot of our problems.” “Lad, I think our problems are just beginning.” Jarrod nodded back toward the castle. “It’s splendid, just as you said, but I can’t figure why your father didn’t leave you his land and money straight away. Actually, I can figure, but I wouldn’t like to think it of old Reg. The way your mother spoke of him before she died, Reggie had much better sense than to get caught up with some chippie on a treasure hunt. Even a squeezable handful like that one.” “You overestimate my father’s judgment.” Hawk gripped his reins too tightly. “The scandal over Reggie’s affair with Mother almost ended his career. The smallmindedness of the academic community—well. You know about it.” Jarrod waved a hand. “Everyone should be allowed a fanciful romance in his later years. Your mother was older with two dead husbands behind her. And Reggie was regular with his child support, or Diane couldn’t have raised you with the likes of us no-goods.” “I would have preferred my father’s time to his money.” Hawk’s body went rigid, and he had to work not to take his temper out on his friend. Managing his rage was a skill learned after eight years in the Army. He had been a Ranger, and Rangers could ill afford childish tantrums because Daddy wasn’t the man he should have been. “I only saw Blackmoor Downs once, a week after the reconstruction was complete. I was eight years old.” “I’ll say it a single time and not again.” Jarrod nudged his mare forward until he could look back at Hawk. “You can lay Reggie’s absence in your mother’s lap. That’s the way she commanded it. Diane didn’t want the old man or any of his university ways near the troupe. She didn’t want to live all stuffy and refined, and she didn’t want you raised that way, either.”

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Hawk fisted his reins. “Nobody would keep me from my son if I had one. Not even his mother. No woman will ever control me like that, Jarrod.” “Which is why you’ve not had a female in your bed longer than a night, except for various slaves we won’t be mentioning.” Jarrod shook his head. “Women want to be equals, Hawk, special and apart from the herd. You treat the fairer sex like that horse. Whip ‘em hard, cool ‘em down and put ‘em in the barn. Not that I’d expect an Army grunt to have any better sense.” “We’ll see who has the better sense and the better muscles in our next joust.” Hawk clenched and unclenched his jaw. Jarrod urged his mare away. “I’ll pitch the tent,” he called over his shoulder. “The pleasure tent—hey, the faster the better in my opinion. Seeing as the lady’s awake, and you’re supposed to be an English gentleman, you should at least announce yourself.” Hawk swore under his breath at the combined thoughts of the pleasure tent and the sexy blonde he had seen in the castle window. The two images did not need to be paired. Jarrod was right, of course. But that didn’t mean Hawk would just ride up and knock on the front door of his own castle. Blackmoor Downs was his by right and birthright. Having to ask permission to enter seemed absurd and only increased his irritation. He didn’t want to seem like a brute, though. That wouldn’t have pleased his mother. Diane Smith was a stickler for politeness and civility, even in the heat of combat. Even in the heat of all-out war. Both of Hawk’s parents were Brits, though they had chosen to live in the colonies. Hawk himself held dual citizenship, American by birth, British by heritage. He had taken more than his share of ribbing in the Army thanks to his cultured accent and the manners he had learned from his mother. Diane never approved of her son’s military service, but Hawk thought he should at least do his part for the country he had grown up enjoying. In the end, Diane hadn’t stood in his way, though she had bemoaned her failed efforts to raise him free of such ridiculous societal obligations. Manners, however, were not societal obligations. They were a free man’s duty to his neighbor. Even if that neighbor was a no-good, inheritance-thieving female, living in the free man’s castle against the free man’s wishes. Well, that will be resolved in good time. Hawk dismounted and ground-tied Galahad, who hung his tired head and seemed genuinely relieved. Just as soon as we meet and I convince her to sell me this land for a fair price. Otherwise, I’ll have to move the castle again, and I can’t see the sense in that. Before he could carry that thought any further, a lithe woman on a dapple mare approached him tentatively. Hawk glanced up and almost groaned with weariness. Emerald Nathans was an ongoing problem. She looked like a model from a European fashion magazine, with her green eyes, midnight hair and the angular cut of her figure. Hawk had made the mistake of consenting to train her and her partner in the arts of

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flogging and bondage, a specialty he’d cultivated for almost a decade. Unfortunately, Emerald wouldn’t hold to the contract. At every turn, she had tried to seduce him, to draw him into one of her endless fantasies. Ultimately, she had separated from her partner, no doubt convinced she could win Hawk in the end. She’d found out about the slaves who had served him over the years, and she desperately wanted to be one of those women. Hawk knew better than to fall for that, however. Emerald didn’t know herself enough to consent to that kind of relationship. She’d lose her identity and her mental health, and take her Master with her in the process. If she hadn’t been born into the troupe, he would have asked her to leave. He had told her “no” more times than he could count, gently and kindly—but firmly. She still made attempts to show him her worth and her assets. Right now, she probably wasn’t wearing anything under that riding cloak, except maybe nipple clamps and a chain. “Sir,” she whispered as she drew alongside him, keeping her gaze averted. “Might I help set up your tent?” Hawk struggled not to roll his eyes. This type of trap was hard to escape, but he knew the only way out. “Emerald, you’re an adult and not bound to me or my will. Please, make your own choices.” Then, for good measure, “I’m not your Master, and you don’t need to be anyone’s slave. Don’t call me Sir.” With that, he strode away, rapidly building distance between himself and the confused young woman. Thankfully, she didn’t try to follow. With quick, self-conscious swipes, Hawk dusted himself off as he headed toward his dead father’s transplanted estate. It was a castle keep, more to truth. Four modest turrets, no more than three or four stories high, marked the corners of the square twostory main building. Instead of “curtains”, the impressive outer walls seen in most older castles, Blackmoor was surrounded by a modern chain-link fence interrupted by a stone arch with wooden gates. Reggie had abandoned tradition in that respect. Hawk shook his head. He knew he didn’t need to think about his father and all that Reggie had chose to abandon, or of Gillian Markham and her opportunistic treachery. He would be polite to this woman and his father’s staff. He would use his charm and intellect to reason with them, and he would help them to understand how it would be in their best interests to sell him the land of Blackmoor Downs. He had faced down business moguls and stock-trading barracudas for several years—and that was after knowing the heat of battle for years. One woman, a maid and a butler should present no trouble. Too soon and yet not soon enough, Hawk found himself facing the stone arch. He drew a deep breath, marched forward, and flung open the wooden gates. After all, technically, any part of the castle was his. Why should he feel guilty for barging in, even at this ungodly hour?

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As the gates slammed behind him, a frantic yelping and barking ensued to his right, a few yards away. Hawk froze, cutting his eyes toward the noise. A large black dog, skinny but wellmuscled, was making quite a ruckus. The mutt’s hackles were raised, and he danced back and forth, wagging his long whip of a tail. A frightened dog. Wonderful. Hawk didn’t know much about canines, but he knew that frightened dogs often bit what scared them. Two more hounds loped around the far corner of the castle. They were easily as big as the first, but these two were bluish-colored in the bright moonlight, and they weren’t barking. One of them moved with a feeble step, reminding Hawk of a determined old warhorse. Three dogs. Great. Just great. No sooner had the thought finished forming in Hawk’s mind than another of the cursed dogs burst through a flap on the castle’s front door. And another. And another. They surrounded him in a flash, or four of them did. The two black ones stood back and did all the barking. “Down,” Hawk said, hoping against hope that the command would be effective. The front door opened, and out came Osmond Burns, a shapely brown-haired female in a white gown and robe, and the tall, curvy beauty who could only be Gillian Markham. “Down, Merlyn,” Osmond ordered in his clipped bass, taking two of the dogs by their collars. “Old Sir—I haven’t seen this much movement from you in a week or better.” To Hawk, he said, “My apologies. They aren’t much accustomed to strangers.” The brown-haired woman collected another of the dogs, fussing the whole time in a thick Southern drawl. “Guinevere. I’m ashamed of you. Don’t you recognize your master’s son? And you, Elaine. Sit. Both of ya’ll need to mind.” As they wrestled the four dogs back toward the castle and inside, Hawkins Blackmoor found himself face to face with Dr. Markham. She was even more beautiful at close range. The tempting lines of her body swayed beneath the folds of her flowing robe, and that long blonde hair, falling free and mussed about her shoulders—it almost glowed in the moonlight. Words failed him. Hawk knew from his lawyer that Dr. Markham was in her early thirties, but her face was so smooth and unspoiled that she might have been a teenager. It was as if she had been chiseled by an artist’s hand and rendered in fine ivory. Even frowning, her natural beauty was enough to steal Hawk’s breath. Before he could back away from his thoughts, he imagined training a woman like her—intelligent, traditionally striking and oh-so-innocent. Seemingly. She would probably make one hell of a submissive, for the right man. 23

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Get hold, and get it fast. This woman would call the police if someone even suggested that sort of sexual play. With the force of many years of discipline, Hawk shoved the image from his mind. He couldn’t go in that direction. His nostrils flared with irritation. “I’m sorry. Hello. I’m Gillian Markham.” The woman’s voice was breathless and light as she placed herself between Hawk and the remaining two black hounds. “These two are newer and less tolerant of intruders. Stop it, Lance. Back off. There’s a good boy. You, too, Morgan. Sit.” The black dogs slowly obeyed, crouching in almost-ready positions and stopping the near-unbearable racket. Hawk was relieved, but also annoyed at being called an intruder on grounds that were rightfully his. His father’s castle. Certainly not hers. “The dogs need to go,” he snapped, surprised by the force and anger in his tone. The woman flinched. Her expression alternated between shock and outrage. “Excuse me? What did you say?” “I said the dogs need to go.” Hawk clenched his fists. “I’m willing to tolerate your presence in the castle for a while longer until we sort out this mess, but I’ll not have my father’s things drooled on and ripped to shreds by a bunch of mutts.” For a moment, Gillian said nothing. She simply stared at Hawk with a cool, level gaze eerily mirrored by the remaining hounds. Silently, he cursed himself for losing control, but the sooner this gold-digger understood that he meant to take what was his, the better. “Mr. Hawkins Blackmoor, I presume,” she said at last, “since you didn’t bother to introduce yourself. I can see you are no more polite in person than you are on paper. It’s the middle of the night, and as far as the dogs knew, you were a criminal. They were only doing what came naturally. Protecting their turf, not unlike most men do when they’re threatened. Are you threatened, Mr. Blackmoor?” Hawk opened his mouth to give a quick retort, but he found himself quite undone by the mixture of Gillian’s seeming vulnerability and her frost-laden tone. Her accent was a cross between a southern drawl and the cultured rhythm of his parents’ speech. And damn her if she hadn’t hit his mood dead-on. He felt exposed and instantly mistrustful. Gillian stroked the black dogs with long, supple fingers, never taking her blue eyes from Hawk’s. For a moment, he imagined that she was one of the hounds, some sort of witch who could shift between animal and human form. “I’ll have you know that these are no mutts,” she said. “They are papered and pedigreed greyhounds, the oldest and most noble breed on earth, and your father handpicked and rescued them from racing tracks. They were his passion and his delight.” Gillian paused, and Hawk thought about answering sharply. Before he had the chance, the snow queen continued her speech. “These two are very young, and they’re still recovering from a life of rigors and abuses I’m sure you can’t imagine. Now, unless 24

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you would like to take your troupe of medieval misfits and get off my land, the dogs and I will continue to borrow your castle, at least for the night.” With that, Gillian Markham turned and walked straight back inside. The dogs trotted behind her, and when they were safely within the stone walls, she slammed the door with more than a little bit of force. Another bang announced the closing of the dog-portal. Hawk stood where she left him, stewing like meat in a kitchen pot. His face felt hot, his gut tight, and damned if his cock wasn’t stiff and throbbing. What had the woman just done to him? He thought about marching right up to the entrance and storming into his castle, just to ask. Fortunately, he remembered one important fact before he made a fool of himself for the second time that night. It might have been his castle, but at the moment, Hawkins Blackmoor had no key to the door.

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Chapter Two Gillian leaned against the door she had slammed and slowly sank to the floor. Lancelot, who had already had an accident in the hallway, stood above his puddle and quaked. Morgan licked at the younger dog, whining and growling as Gillian put her face in her hands. “That went badly,” she whispered to the dogs. God, the man was powerful. Gillian started a war with herself almost immediately. She had sensed a deep pain behind Hawkins Blackmoor’s anger. He was distant, unreachable, imperious—that much was obvious at first glance. But what was the rest? What was she picking up? And did it matter? After a disaster that bad, she would likely never know the man except through failed negotiations and a nasty court battle. That was too bad, because at some level, she did want to know him. He was Reggie’s son. And he seemed…intriguing. As Gillian peeked between her fingers, Jamie’s bare feet padded into view. “Lance,” Jamie muttered. “Did you piddle on the floor again? Well, I guess there was too much excitement. Y’all get on out of here. Find Oz and let me clean this mess up.” Jamie hurried off toward the kitchens to get paper towels, and Gillian watched as the dogs slunk away. She felt like slinking away with them. What madness had made her think she could convince Reggie’s offspring to listen to reason? “It must be genetic,” she said to no one in particular. “Stubborn and impulsive, the both of them. And that accent. Hawk sounds just like his father.” Gillian rubbed her head and sighed. “Reggie, what made that boy so angry? And if you knew he was so…so uncivilized, why didn’t you bring him around more and train him properly?” “You’ll find men are more difficult to housebreak than dogs,” Jamie said as she bustled back to Lancelot’s puddle and knelt to do the cleaning. “And—well, I guess I should keep my peace. Reggie didn’t like for us to discuss Hawk.” Hawk. God. Even his nickname was untamed. Raw. Sexy, just like that damned accent. Gillian felt an embarrassing rush of heat between her legs. Damn. She could not let a foolish attraction cloud her thinking. She flushed and got to her feet, absently twisting her blonde hair around the fingers of her right hand. Hawkins Blackmoor—Hawk—had been a non-topic for the years Gillian had shared Reggie’s home. Reggie certainly had never mentioned that his son was the image of an Arthurian knight, a crusader replete with prickly armor and eyes as devastating as any weapon. 26

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“I don’t think it would dishonor Reggie’s memory if you told me what you know about Hawk.” Gillian eased over to Jamie’s side. “Please. That meeting outside was awful. I need all the help I can get to win the man over and convince him of our point of view.” Jamie scrubbed the stone floor as if she might turn it from gray to white. “It doesn’t feel right, Gillian. It’s like—it’s like I’m afraid he can hear me. Reggie, I mean. And I wouldn’t hurt him for anything.” Gillian sat down beside Jamie, who sopped up rinse water with the paper towels and stuffed them into a plastic bag. As soon as Jamie finished, Gillian put a gentle hand on Jamie’s wrist. “I understand that you’ve always protected Reggie. And Reggie always protected me from any unpleasantness, so I assume something in this story is unpleasant. But, Jamie, if I don’t understand Hawk Blackmoor and what makes him tick, we’ll lose our home. And that will feel like losing Reggie all over again.” Jamie teared up almost immediately. She sat back and took Gillian’s hand, squeezing Gillian’s fingers against her damp palm. “I was just a kid, but…my mom said it was Diane’s fault. Diane Smith, Hawk’s mother. She was a weirdo, if you ask me. A hippie out of her time, with all these radical ideas, but Reggie thought she hung the moon. Thing was, even though she wasn’t some young, giggly girl, she was his student.” Gillian’s intake of breath was audible. “Reggie really did have an affair with his student? I’d heard—but I never believed it, and I sure wasn’t going to hurt him by asking.” Jamie nodded. She turned Gillian’s hand loose to wipe her eyes. “I know, I know. It sounds awful.” “Well, many professors do things like that, but Reggie never struck me as the sort.” Gillian frowned. The scene from the dungeon rushed back to her and she swallowed hard, realizing Reggie’s true “sort” was a complete unknown. “He wasn’t the frivolous type at all,” Jamie said. “I used to go with Mom to clean his apartment in town, and the man lived like a monk. He never did or said anything out of line. That’s how he was, before Diane and after she was gone, too.” Jamie’s expression communicated absolute respect. “Mother said there was a big brouhaha at the College, though. That was nearly thirty-four years ago—heavens, I was what, six or seven years old? Times were different.” “But what about Hawk?” Gillian found herself imagining Reggie’s son as a little boy. Wouldn’t he have wanted his father? Wouldn’t he have wondered why Reggie wasn’t around? Jamie’s voice was emphatic. “Mom said Reggie was devastated when Diane took the baby and left. The way I understand it, Reggie would have had to sue her to gain any legal standing, and back then, we didn’t have DNA tests to settle the matter. Things weren’t so clear.”

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Jamie frowned and shook her head before continuing. “Dianne asked Reggie to keep away from the child, and apparently, that woman always got what she wanted. The poor man paid and paid even though no court said he had to do it, but he only got to see Hawk a few times.” Jamie stood and Gillian stood with her, still full of questions. “Reggie would have been a fantastic father, I’m sure. Did Diane feel like Reggie took advantage of her?” “That wasn’t it.” Jamie started for the kitchen, and Gillian followed. “Like I said, the few times I saw her—well, Diane was a hippie out of her time. Mom said she didn’t want her son caught up in the world’s silly, empty ways. Reggie was afraid if he pushed the issue, Diane would take the boy and disappear. At least when he cooperated, she sent letters and pictures.” Gillian helped Jamie empty the scrubbing pan and throw away the bag of soiled paper towels. She couldn’t help wondering if Diane Smith had shared her ideas with her son, or if Hawk Blackmoor had grown up thinking that his father didn’t want him around. That would explain some of his anger. Then again, maybe Hawk was naturally abrasive and controlling. Dominant. The word intruded like the ever-present images from Reggie’s dungeon. Gillian found herself shaking. Yes, dominant was the word for Hawkins Blackmoor. He would be the man strapping her down, working her over with the floggers, choosing the exact moment to thrust his cock deep, deep into her wet, waiting center… Coughing, Gillian tried to gather herself. She fanned her face. She wished she could fan her vagina, too. Dominant or not, Hawk likely grew up just as Diane Smith wanted, rejecting society and all of its conventions, including honoring his father. “That’s all I know,” Jamie said as she finished washing her hands. “Except that Hawk was in the Army. Saw some combat, I think. Reggie was very worried.” She dried her hands on a dish towel and smiled at Gillian. “Well, all done with Lancelot’s latest accident. I suppose I should turn in, assuming you don’t need me anymore.” “I’ll always need you.” Gillian touched Jamie’s shoulder. “But goodnight.” Jamie gave her a quick hug, then slipped out of the kitchen. Gillian switched off the kitchen lights, closed the door, and departed for her room on the second floor. With every step, she tried to picture Hawk, the Arthurian throwback, dressed in fatigues and sporting a combat rifle. The image didn’t fit. She could sooner imagine him with a mace and sword. Or a whip. Maybe some chains… Gillian shook her head to clear the thought. Whatever the case, Diane Smith hadn’t been totally successful in alienating her son from mainstream society, not if he’d served in the military.

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He’ll need another excuse for being such an ass. I’ll have to ask him tomorrow, during the first meeting. God, I hope it will only take one to get this worked out. As Gillian entered her room, three graceful heads lifted from her king-sized fourposter to watch her approach. Guinevere, Elaine and Morgan had returned to their usual places, and they thumped their tails against the covers as Gillian stripped off her clothes and slipped naked into her side of the bed. She reached over and stroked their silky ears, one right after the other, feeling another flare of anger at Hawk Blackmoor’s insistence that the mutts had to go. “We’ll see which mutt has to go,” Gillian whispered, but even as the words left her lips, she knew she didn’t want Hawk to leave. Not before she got a few more looks into those dangerous, fiery eyes. Reggie’s dungeon crossed her mind again, and this time she didn’t dismiss the image. In fact, she could almost hear the slow, sensual drum of the music. Gillian closed her eyes, seeing the room just as it had been that night, only without Reggie and the professors. She saw herself drifting inside, touching the firm leathers of straps, pommels and tables. She imagined stroking the hard wood of those wicked crosspieces—a Saint Andrew’s cross. Gillian smiled. She had looked it up. The Saint Andrew’s cross would be polished to a stunning shine. She would lean forward, face to the wall, and stretch her arms up, up—and a man would appear beside her, dressed in sinfully tight leather breeches. Black. Yes. Black would be a must, like his bare, tanned chest. And his voice would be husky as he commanded, “Higher.” Her heart would race. She might bite her lip or shiver as he forced her to extend her arms as high as she could tolerate, then strapped down her wrists. He wouldn’t stop, even if her nerves made her whimper. No. That would only drive him harder as he ordered her to spread her legs wider and wider. The straps on her ankles would feel like firm comfort, holding her tight, fully open, spread and vulnerable, her wet vagina tingling from cool exposure. He’d probably say pussy. Gillian flushed at the thought. My…pussy…would be completely pulled apart. He could do anything to me then—use his mouth, his fingers, the butt of his flogger, a dildo—maybe even his cock, to tease me. I wouldn’t even be able to see what he chose. I wouldn’t know until it happened. Shaking with anticipation, Gillian thrust her hand between her legs and rubbed her clit. Her own wet readiness surprised her. She was shocked and embarrassed by the force of her own longing for things most people never considered, much less wanted. But she did want something…different. Something…more. She was aching beyond belief, and her fantasy had only just started. Warmth radiated from every inch of her skin, and she felt a fine sweat break across her forehead.

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In her mind’s eye, she let the man in her waking dreams become Hawk Blackmoor, doubling her pleasure and the flush burning her cheeks. That rugged, angry face. That black hair, and those dark eyes—and his hands. They looked so strong. What would they feel like if he touched her? If he grabbed her? Would his skin be rough and weathered, or smooth and firm? Before she had a chance to savor the image, to envision how he would punish and please her, how he might swap her from cross to wheel to table to swing, she climaxed with a blistering, bone-jarring wave of tremors. “Damn,” Gillian whispered aloud, pressing her fingers hard into her folds to enjoy the aftershocks. “I guess I might earn a spanking for that.” Outside and across the grounds of Blackmoor Downs, Hawk Blackmoor paced in his freshly raised tent. His quarters were Spartan at best, with only a pallet to sleep on, a single chair and a trunk to hold his clothes. A lantern sat on top, giving the whole tent a glow too gentle for his current mood. A bonfire would have been better. His armor and gear were in the training tents, wherever they were setting up the arena. If Hawk had been in possession of his armor, though, he might have put it on and gone out to spar with something. Anything. An insolent pine tree or a smartmouthed oak would have done just fine. Blood hammered through his veins, his face burned hotter than three volcanoes and his stone-hard cock rammed against his breeches and strained to return to the damned castle. Jarrod Dorn, who was sitting cross-legged on Hawk’s thick sleeping mat with his hands on his knees, shook his auburn mane. “If you don’t calm down, lad, you’re gonna have the big one. The pleasure tent should be set up in a few minutes—you could get a load off.” Hawk stopped pacing, but only to grind his fist into his palm. “Damn that woman. She set those dogs after me on purpose.” “You should know that women are impossible.” Jarrod grinned. “After all, Diane was your mum.” “Leave my mother out of this.” Hawk’s voice sounded gruff even to his own ears. “I wouldn’t want her to see what Reggie stooped to before he died. She would have been embarrassed for him.” Jarrod shrugged. “Dr. Markham’s a right pretty piece from what I could tell.” A new wave of rage washed through Hawk. Jarrod’s appreciation of Gillian bothered him. And the very thought of his father paying attention to the woman made him doubly furious. He stood, shaking with the strength of his anger, and with the shock of realizing he wasn’t angry with Gillian Markham at the moment. He was furious with Jarrod and Reggie. For what? For noticing her. For wanting to touch her.

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Hawk let his breath hiss through his teeth. That was ridiculous. What did he care who appreciated the good doctor Markham, or who touched her? She was cold. She was arrogant. And she was most definitely a treasure-hound. The most beautiful and elegant of treasure-hounds, like those six beasts she was protecting. The ready lusciousness of her shapely body, the way her blonde hair turned to golden silk in the moonlight—he had wanted to kiss her right then, take control, take command, teach her the joys of dominance and submission. Even when she became angry. Especially when she became angry. His cock bucked against his breeches, and he bit back a groan. Sparkling blue eyes, a body made to fuck, and damn, that gown and robe were thin… Cursing his own weakness, he dropped to his knees on the tent floor. “So,” Jarrod rumbled from beside him. “Tell me about her. Obviously, she’s taking up space in your head.” Hawk cut his eyes to his friend. The Scottish jackass was smiling. “Bugger off.” “You fancy her. Admit it.” The laughter in Jarrod’s light words felt unbearable. “Some things are obvious.” “Dicks have a mind of their own.” Hawk glared at Jarrod’s ruddy face. “But I’ll not stick my wick in my father’s wax, thank you.” “And what makes you think old Reggie’s wick ever took a dip?” Jarrod’s laughter was outright this time. “The lass is probably near to bursting for a healthy young lover. Bedding her wouldn’t hurt our case, and you’ve never been above wenching for a good cause.” He wiggled his thick eyebrows. “Mayhap you should introduce her to our pleasure tent. A good flogging might do her wonders. She’d probably call the law on us afterwards, when she woke up and felt guilty—but it could be one hell of a ride.” Hawk closed his eyes and refused to see the vision of what Jarrod described. It had been nearly a year since he had been interested in a woman’s attention past a single night of mutual relief, and he was still having trouble getting Emerald to move on from the fantasy in her mind. Besides, his “wenching” days were long over, finished when his Army service ended five years ago. If the Scotsman implied that Gillian was a wench again, however, things might get unpleasant. Gillian might be many things, but after coming face-to-face with her undeniable dignity, Hawk had to concede that “wench” wasn’t among them. Jarrod got to his feet, still snorting laughter every few seconds. As he headed for the door, he noted, “You Army pricks have the wits of chickens. Without heads.” Before Hawk could fire a response about the oxymoron of “Naval Intelligence” Jarrod was gone. The tent flap ruffled in the wake of the big man, and Hawk jammed a fist into the soft tent floor. Despite his anger and the unsettling thoughts of Reggie and what sexual activity he was or wasn’t capable of, Hawk Blackmoor was still aroused to the point of pain.

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At least for the moment, and likely for the night, he wanted Gillian Markham as much as he had ever wanted anything. Just imagining how soft her lips would be, what it might feel like to hold her full, tender body against his, to discover how much fire lay beneath that layer of ice—it was enough to keep him awake for several uncomfortable hours, never mind the idea of seeing her on her knees willingly, head bent, waiting to serve him and double their pleasure. He didn’t know if he was dreading the next day’s meeting, or looking forward to it. He stood and crammed his hands down his breeches, taking hold of his traitorous cock. For now, at least, he could enjoy the fantasy of taking her hard and fast on the conference table in the castle’s library. Assuming the damned table was still there. He’d start the negotiations by ripping off her blouse and sucking her nipples until she begged for mercy. Hawk’s hand moved up and down, up and down, harder and faster with each stroke. Release would ease the pressure, but he had a feeling it wouldn’t satisfy him. What he really wanted was to spend his frustration with Gillian Markham. In the good doctor, to be more precise. Hawk pumped his cock, imaging how she would squirm beneath him, how she would cry out and arch to meet every thrust, hungry for more. There was something about her, something he’d sensed even in those first few minutes. He found himself grinning as he came closer and closer to spilling his load. Yes. He’d lay her across the smooth oak table, spread her legs wide and hammer out a new agreement.

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Chapter Three At precisely 1:00 p.m. on Sunday, September 15, Gillian Markham took her seat at one end of Reggie’s executive table in the library of Blackmoor Downs. The dark oak was polished to a perfect shine, and the table’s clawed feet were impressive. She hoped they might be a little frightening, too. Osmond Burns cleared his throat. He was standing behind Gillian, in between her and one of the bookcases lining the library walls. As per usual on formal occasions, he wore a black suit with a long jacket and a white dress shirt. His shoes were so spotless they reflected the soft light of the library’s chandelier. Jamie hovered next to him, wearing old tennis shoes, jeans and a short-sleeved sweatshirt that read Try my fried green tomatoes. After all, as she was quick to point out, it was her day off. Five of the six greyhounds were seated in a semicircle between Jamie and Oz, as Gillian had planned that morning. A show of force. Passive resistance to Hawk Blackmoor’s imperious attitude. Gillian could hear collars jingling as the dogs fidgeted. Old Sir was the only family member excused from this meeting, and that was because no one had the heart to force him in from the garden during daylight hours. “Where are they?” Jamie asked. “Late.” Oz’s voice held an unmistakable note of disapproval. “That figures. They look like savages, the lot of them.” Gillian said nothing. Her eyes fixed on the open library door. The room was positioned directly at the end of the long main hall, and she had left the front door standing wide to welcome her guests. Who were indeed late. Five minutes and counting. Gillian’s throat tightened and her heat fluttered. She tried to tell herself she was anxious to get this meeting finished, but deep within her mind, she knew something else had her excited. Hawk Blackmoor. Would he look as rakishly handsome today as he had the previous night? As if summoned by her thoughts, Reggie’s son came striding through the open front door. Oh, my God. Yes, he does look just as handsome.

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Gillian blinked, trying to catch her breath as Hawk hesitated, spotted the library and headed straight for her. He was dressed in tight black breeches and a black shirt that outlined his masculine shape to perfection. Two people followed him. One was the large, buff redheaded man Gillian had seen riding with Hawk the night before. The other was a strawberry blonde dressed like a medieval maiden. Warmth rose to Gillian’s cheeks. A woman? Well, of course he would have a woman. Maybe even a wife. What was I thinking? Hawk’s brisk pace didn’t slow until he reached the room and spotted the dogs. He frowned immediately and swept his blazing gaze to Gillian. She locked eyes with him, feeling like someone had slammed a fist into her chest. Her breath came short and her fingers curled, but she didn’t look away. Through sheer force of will, she kept every muscle in her face still. Mistake, she realized with a race of her pulse. To sit back here where I can’t leave without pushing past him. Hawk’s companions eased into the library to stand on either side of the door. “Sorry we’re runnin’ behind,” the big redheaded man said, and Gillian caught the hint of a Scottish brogue. “I think you’ve met our fellow Hawk, here. My name’s Jarrod Dorn, and this is Sara Burnside.” Burnside. Gillian tore her gaze from Hawk and allowed herself a small measure of air. Probably not a wife. A mistress? A fling? Sara was undeniably beautiful, with her braided hair and bright green eyes. Her skin was all cream and freckles, giving her an innocent yet appealing look. Gillian felt a wave of anger followed quickly by a wave of shame. Why should I care if the rat has a girlfriend? I have no reason to be jealous of this woman. With forced politeness, Gillian nodded to Sara and Jarrod, ignoring Hawk. “Welcome. This is Osmond Burns, our butler, and Jamie Hart, our housekeeper. Please have a seat and make yourselves comfortable.” Jarrod grinned and reached for a chair, but Hawk Blackmoor put a hand on his arm. “We’ll stand, thanks.” Sara cut him a glance. Gillian thought she detected the woman’s slight twitch of discomfort, but Sara’s expression quickly faded to neutral. Jarrod seemed to be too busy staring at Jamie’s fried green tomatoes to pay complete attention. “We’d like to get this meeting out of the way quickly.” Hawk’s voice had a rough edge, and when Gillian dared to look down the table at him, she realized he was appraising her like a horse up for purchase. Her fingers curled again, this time in a flash of rage. “As you wish. We would like to propose—”

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“Sell me the land, and we’ll have done with this,” Hawk interrupted. Oz sniffed. Jamie made coughs that sounded remarkably like the words damn asshole. Gillian counted to ten and tried to let the cool anger she felt seep into her next words. “Sell me the castle, and you can buy any piece of land you desire.” Hawk’s blood sizzled. The woman had guts. She was wearing a dark blue sweater and slacks that accentuated every achingly perfect curve, and she was seated at the head of that massive table with her ankles crossed like a proper lady. A queen. A snow queen. Hawk’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. Of course. Her majesty was holding court, attended by her servants and her damnable hounds as she was forced to tolerate some ridiculous jesters. The dogs were all in a straight line, tongues lolling out, ears forward, waiting to attack if he twitched in the wrong direction. No doubt Gillian had brought the mutts on purpose, to unsettle his temper. And it had. Hawk’s hands fisted at his sides, and he worked to keep from growling his words like a territorial wolf. “I don’t want any piece of land. I want my father’s property, my rightful inheritance. We can settle this now or in court. The choice is yours.” Sara shifted beside him, letting her foot stray over his and press down hard enough to make him look at her. Back off, she warned with her trademark stare. Jarrod also seemed uncomfortable as Hawk’s military command voice and daytrader style took over the room. At the other end of the table, Osmond Burns kept his eyes straight forward. His mouth became a thin line, and he remained the picture of control and decorum. The housekeeper, though, made no secret about her displeasure. Her shame-on-you frown filled her pretty round face, and Hawk decided he might have to avoid her. She looked like she might be the slapping sort, and her right hand twitched at her waist. Also, if he wasn’t much mistaken, every time she coughed, she was calling him names. Gillian’s emotions remained a mystery. Her chin jutted forward, and her sapphire eyes turned even more chilly and distant. He wasn’t intimidating her. Of that much Hawk was certain, and her nerve impressed him. She would do well on Wall Street. She would do well anywhere.

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Instantly, Hawk had an image of Gillian’s frozen face melting with pleasure as he massaged her large breasts through that clinging sweater. The picture both infuriated and excited him, and he swore silently as he felt a definite stiffening against his leg. This was no time to get distracted. My father’s mistress, he reminded himself. She was my father’s mistress. The silence in the room grew heavier by the second, and Hawk watched as Gillian slowly rose to her feet. Gracefully. As if she were in no hurry. As if she had no cares past feeding her blasted dogs or polishing some bit of brass to better show her stunning reflection. She leaned forward on the table for a moment, palms down, the curve of her hips swaying over her leather seat. Several more fantasies seized Hawk in a relentless grip. Gillian, head back, shouting with the force of her orgasm… Gillian, on her knees, staring up at him, sucking him tip to balls as he rammed hard, hard down her willing throat… Gillian, screaming with pleasure as he flogged her shapely ass to a bright, stinging red… Hawk’s cock throbbed and bucked, and he felt glad for the chair blocking Gillian’s view as she straightened and sighed. “I see that you aren’t interested in compromise.” Ice dripped from Gillian’s words as she spoke. “Until you’re ready to take me and this situation seriously, I have nothing further to say, Mr. Blackmoor. Osmond, please see our guests out.” With that, Gillian walked straight toward Hawk. Her approach was so quick and unexpected that Hawk’s gentleman’s instincts got the better of him. He moved aside reflexively, almost knocking into Jarrod. The dogs followed Gillian in a straight line as she swept by, and behind them marched Jamie Hart. The housekeeper didn’t even grace Hawk with a glance as she stormed past. Her parting cough sounded like fuckwad. Sara’s mouth dropped open, and she shook her head as Osmond Burns stepped forward and gestured toward the door. “Gentlemen,” he murmured. And to Sara, “Ma’am.” Jarrod Dorn didn’t speak until they reached the castle’s front steps, and then it was only to grunt, “Bravo,” as the door to Blackmoor Downs once more slammed in Hawk’s face. Hawk stood staring at the blasted piece of wood for a few interminable seconds. His cock was hard enough to be miserable. Thankfully, Jarrod and Sara didn’t see fit to mention it. The walk back to the encampment was none too cheerful. Hawk refused to dignify Jarrod’s barbs with a response, and Sara hit Hawk two or three times in the shoulder

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and called him an idiot—probably the only insult Jamie Hart hadn’t thought to hack out in the library. He didn’t protest. It took an idiot to underestimate an enemy or a business competitor twice. And to shoot off his fat, arrogant mouth when he should have kept control. In under an hour, he stalked into the pleasure tent needing to relieve himself of a few tons of irritation and stress. Passing the day’s guard, whose job it was to keep children from looks and peeks, Hawk entered, already hard with anticipation of release. The rules of the tent were simple. Monthly STD test results submitted to Jarrod for review, play and play alike, sensual, sane and safe—and what happened in the tent stayed in the tent. This last was the hardest for some. A few people wanted to carry relationships past sexual play with no strings attached. Hawk had been forced to ask a few troupe members not to return to the tent, or to come only during couples-play, when activities were restricted to pairs who showed up together. Sunday afternoon was a free-for-all, however. Hawk stripped off his clothing at the door, then turned to survey the occupants. After all, watching was half the fun. The tent was roped off into some twenty different areas. If a group closed the stall completely, they were “full” and didn’t want any more participants. On Sunday afternoons, almost no one roped off their play area. And almost every stall was full. A few groups were in the later stages, like Sheila and two of the men who usually worked the Boar’s Head Tavern during festivals. A buxom thing with rich black hair, Sheila’s laugh—and her moans—often carried through the camp. Thomas was reclining on his back as Sheila sucked his cock on all fours. Meanwhile, Alan was giving her quite a hammering from behind. Her big nipples scraped the straw-and-dirt floor, and Hawk saw clamps fastened to both hard red pearls. With each slap-and-jiggle, she moaned louder. Hawk turned, cock hardening, to the next group. Mora from the stables lay on her back, her servant’s dress hiked above her bare pussy as one of the grooms slowly licked her clit. He was fucking her with the rounded end of a riding crop, gentle and easy, while she licked another groom’s rigid prick. The man had his head back against a hay bale, groaning. Their rhythm was so sensual, so easy, so torturously slow. They were planning to give it a long go, he could tell. They always did. On the more active side of the tent, the side with the tables and straps, women were gasping and giving little cries of pleasure as men made use of floggers and dildos to tease and please. Hawk liked watching this the most. Nothing like the sensual creak of restraints and the scent of sex mingled with sweat and oiled leather. “Fuck me,” pleaded Aria, the blonde ticket-taker, as she bucked on a table, straining against wrist ties and ankle stirrups. Pash the cook granted her wish, going after her with two glass cocks, one up the ass and one in her wet, swollen folds. He kept stopping and starting, which only made the girl scream more. 37

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Pash was definitely a man with a plan, Hawk thought. Admirable restraint. Could he show as much if Gillian Markham were the one on the table? Legs spread a little wider than comfort allowed, pussy yawning and glistening and begging for a real fucking from a real cock… Hawk stepped into one of the stand-up areas, an invitation to an uninvolved female to lend her mouth for their mutual pleasure. There was a shelf table included and several clean dildos under rags, for him to lift the woman up, open wide and return the favor, of course. He put on a condom and started stroking himself as his attention turned to Georg and Telish, who were making use of the full-sized leather bench. Telish was fastened securely atop, loosely hooded and rocking with every blow from Georg’s ramrod of a dick. Her nipples looked huge and well-sucked, and strands of her yellow hair spilled out from the relaxed-fitting hood. For a few seconds, Hawk let himself imagine Gillian on that bench, moaning helplessly under his passionate onslaught. She’d still be stinging from the spanking when he strapped her in. Maybe she’d fight the restraints immediately, testing her limits, realizing she was at his mercy more than ever. He’d suck her big nipples, yes, until she thrust them hard into his mouth and moved her hips, begging for his cock. Then— A woman took his swollen shaft deep in her mouth. Hawk looked down only long enough to verify it wasn’t Emerald. It wasn’t, thank the goddess. Joellen, the little brunette from the kitchens, or maybe Sparta from the arms tent, he couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t Emerald. His attention turned back to the blonde on the bench. She was convulsing in orgasm, adding her screams to the tent’s uproar. “How rough do you like it?” Hawk asked, so far thrusting his cock slowly. The woman purred against his shaft and slipped her lips off long enough to say, “Rough as you’ll give it.” “And your name?” The woman grinned. “That’ll be naughty girl to you, Tall-Dark-and-Handsome.” Hawk smiled. “Hold on, naughty girl, if you really want it rough.” The woman reached out and grabbed the shelf table on one side and rope on the other. Hawk pushed hard into her mouth, aiming for the back of her throat. She moaned against his rigid flesh, and he slammed her again and again, all the while keeping most of his attention on the blonde being fucked on the table. Part of him was furious that he thought so often of Gillian Markham, and another part of him loved every blistering second of imagination. Gillian on her knees, taking him from behind.

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Gillian on her back, pussy stretched wide as he tongued her clit without mercy. Gillian, bright blue eyes blazing with excitement, holding her big breasts up for him to tweak, then suck the life back into the tender flesh. “That’s it.” Hawk fucked the brunette’s mouth without mercy as she groaned and sucked. “Want it all? Do you? You’re nothing but a naughty little girl. That’s right.” His partner moaned an assent, and he rocked forward, spilling himself hard into the rubber. To his great disappointment, Telish and Georg were moving on, probably to the leather net or some more advanced stalls, which were out of his line of sight. As the rush of his orgasm faded, he pulled his cock from his partner’s mouth. “Bad girl. Shall I punish you now?” The girl whimpered and raised her arms for him to lift her to the stall’s shelf table. Later, back in his tent, Hawk felt well-spent and more relaxed, but he knew his time in the pleasure tent hadn’t been what he expected. His attentions to Joellen—it had been Joellen—were mechanical at best, though she didn’t seem to notice. He couldn’t bring himself to go down on her or give her his cock, though she had been well-pleased by the variety of dildos he chose. Later, he passed her on to Jarrod, who had none of Hawk’s inhibitions for the night. No doubt she wouldn’t walk straight for a month, or care, either. Hawk sat on the edge of his bed, cock rigid between his legs, and tried to think about anything but Gillian. The exercise was futile.

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Chapter Four Gillian stood inside Reggie’s private apartments dressed only in a short, silky gown. The darkness pressed in on her skin. Moonlight filtered through the dusty curtains, gleaming off the burnished silver of the elevator. All she had to do was push the button, but the thought of it made her heart race. She couldn’t possibly go down into that dungeon again. Yet she wanted to in the worst way. Thoughts of Hawk Blackmoor had invaded her day, alternately filling her with fury and lust. She’d never spent so many hours lost in fantasy, and she had to do something to ease the pain between her legs. Masturbating twice hadn’t been enough. So, she forced herself to confront the true nature of her daydreams. Maybe a little time in the dungeon would give her the satisfaction she craved. A real flight of imagination, carried through to the finish. With a deep breath to shore up her courage, she forced herself forward and pressed the call button. A soft hum of machinery immediately answered her touch. The door whispered open. Gillian’s heart thumped even harder. Of course the elevator would have been right here on the main floor, ready and waiting, from the last time Reggie stepped back into the real world. Maybe the key wouldn’t be inside. Reggie might have taken it out. Perhaps he kept it somewhere in his many chests and drawers…but as Gillian slipped into the small space, she saw the key immediately. Inserted and turned. As if the dungeon had sent the car to retrieve her. As if the space below the castle had been waiting for her all this time. Gillian chewed her lip as she pressed the down button. The door whisked shut and the machine dropped at a steady pace. The journey took only seconds, but to Gillian, it felt like interminable minutes. When the door hissed open again, she saw absolute darkness. “I can’t do this,” she muttered, but stepped into the chilly passageway. The elevator closed behind her, leaving her in the minute glow of the call button. Trembling as she had that first time so long ago, she started forward. Surely she could find her way to the archway and locate a light. If she couldn’t, she’d use the call button for a beacon back to real time and real space.

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Her bare feet padded across smooth, damp stone. The cool air made her nipples ache against the fabric of her gown and she groaned softly. More arousal—that she definitely did not need. Hands in front of her, she slowed when she thought she had walked far enough to reach the arch. After a few seconds of groping, she located the raised, rough rock comprising the opening to the dungeon. There, her courage faltered again. “This is ridiculous,” she told herself sharply, then jumped at the echo of her voice. As soon as her pulse reached a reasonable rate, she muttered, “I don’t have any reason to be afraid.” Yet, this sort of fear, anticipation and adventure, felt delicious. She eased around the rough stone, running her fingers across the wall until she located a set of round buttons on the left side. She pressed the first one and lights flared, bathing the dungeon in blinding yellow hues. Gillian blinked until her eyes adjusted to the brightness, then caught her breath. The dungeon was exactly as she remembered it. Near the door was the medieval bed with the metal posts and red satin spread, all neatly made. That was where Reggie had been sitting, instructing Celia Lambert and Alan Sparks. The chairs, benches, and tables with leather straps and seats looked a bit dusty, as did the stocks. The leather and chain swing, the metal spider web contraption, and the cages didn’t shine in the bright light, either. The wall rack of whips, canes, rods, ticklers, wands and floggers looked undisturbed, and Gillian felt a small thrill of mischief at learning the names of all the instruments. Below the rack, on a long table—ah, yes. Just what she had come to use. The dildo collection, and beside the table, the rubber and wooden cocks mounted on wooden platforms with leather stirrups. With a rush of heat, Gillian ran through her favorite fantasies. Herself, bent over and strapped to a bench, legs spread wide and tied, unable to see what was coming, or defend herself against it… Herself, lashed to the Saint Andrew’s cross, her body utterly vulnerable to a man who knew how to use his teeth, his hands and all the toys in dungeon… Herself, astride one of those cocks, forced to ride it and ride it as a flogger worked her back and ass until she thought her body might explode… A dark man, large and powerful, bending her to his will and using her body in ways she hardly could bring herself to imagine. Gillian cried out with need and plunged her fingers into her wet, aching vagina. Her clit throbbed against her fingers, and she almost came just from the sight of the dungeon and its many possibilities. The leather gave off a thick, heady scent, and the distant perfume of oils and lotions and pleasure hovered in the air, teasing Gillian’s nose even as the cold air tortured her nipples.

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Once more biting her lip to regain a little control, she withdrew her fingers and turned back to the round wall switches. She pressed the second. In a few seconds, music began, so low and insistent it gave her a new set of shivers. Gillian realized the switches were dimmers, and by turning them she could adjust the lights and the volume of the music. In a few seconds, she had the room just as she wanted it—candlelight and background rhythm. Swaying to the sensuous beat, she made her way to the table of dildos and the tempting rack above it. With her left hand, she touched and explored the various cocks and plugs, and even reached up to stroke a few of the whips and floggers. With her right hand, she slowly stroked her swollen clit. Each time she neared orgasm, she made herself stop, then start back slowly. She had read in books that Doms dictated when their submissives could have orgasms. Gillian had never had an easy time holding back. She came easily and often, but this way, she could draw it out a while, and sometimes build to a mind-blowing bodyrocker. That was what she needed tonight. She could tell. Besides, the practice wouldn’t hurt if—but, no. That would never happen. The thrum of the music filled her mind as she inspected the dildos on the table, but none were what she wanted. No. She needed something closer to the real thing—like the thick, sizeable tools mounted on the leather-covered horses. You can’t do that! part of her mind insisted—the cautious, inhibited part she often wanted to kill. Do it now! the other part of her mind demanded—the impulsive, risk-taking part she kept tightly under wraps, showing no one. She rarely acknowledged that part directly, even to herself. Tonight, she listened to the impulsive urges. As the music rose and fell, she stopped stroking herself long enough to grab one of the floggers, then marched straight to one of the mounted dildos. Breathing sharp and shallow, she pulled off her gown, leaving herself naked in the dungeon. Her nipples strained and ached as she drew the fabric across her large breasts a few times, keeping time with the pounding beat of the music. When she couldn’t take the excitement anymore, she started to use the silky fabric to dust the rubber cock, but realized it was clean. Odd. The leather on the horse looked well-oiled. Even the wooden studs and polished wooden stirrups gleamed. Gillian didn’t want to spend too much time worrying about it. Instead, she checked the stirrups, feeling wanton as she bent over, exposing her bare ass and vagina, moving back and forth in a slow fuck-me dance. She allowed herself to imagine someone behind her, watching. Even though she knew it was a bad idea, that someone had to be Hawk Blackmoor. She thought about him with that angry, dangerous expression, arms folded, waiting for her to perform.

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In her fantasy, he’d be the one holding the flogger. He’d be the one giving the orders. Mount it, her fantasy Hawk ordered. The music seemed to get louder. Shivering with delight, Gillian dropped her gown, placed her right foot in the stirrup and pulled herself up, swinging her left leg over the horse to the opposite stirrup. This left her standing just above the cock, feeling its firm head pressing directly into her wet slit. Now sit. Hard. Don’t go slow. Gillian gripped the flogger, not sure she had the courage to follow the imaginary instruction. She lifted the handle over her head, and brought the leathery lashes down across her own back. The sensation tickled more than stung, so she did it harder. This time, it stung. With the next blow, she rocked forward, feeling the cock head move tantalizingly around her hole. She couldn’t help touching her clit, relieving some of the pressure. Bad girl, said her fantasy Dom. She imagined him delivering a harder blow with the flogger. Slowly, she withdrew her fingers and instead began a rhythm of slapping first one shoulder and then the other with the flogger, letting the music dictate her cadence. Sit down hard, insisted the imaginary Hawk, his voice growing harder. And pinch your nipple with your free hand. Closing her eyes, Gillian complied. She almost came when she squeezed the rockhard nub of her right breast. Then she moved to the left and pinched, all the while inching down, making sure the huge fake cock would fit inside her tight, wet channel. It would, but by the scarcest margin. Sit! fantasy-Hawk commanded. Gillian squeezed her eyes tighter and let her weight drop—probably not as hard as the Dom would demand, but hard enough to make herself scream with mixed pain and pleasure. The dildo was huge and cool, stretching her wide. Her juices coated it instantly, flowing more freely as she alternated pinching her nipples and flogging her shoulders. Her hips rocked back and forth as she took the full measure of the dildo. God, it felt good to be so totally filled. And if a Dom really were calling the shots… She had to hold her breath to avert a sudden orgasm. Dropping the flogger, Gillian leaned forward, letting her nipples brush against the horse’s tough leather and wooden studs. The rough scrapes punctuated by cold rushes made her gasp. Using her hands to balance, she lifted herself up in the stirrups and brought herself down on the cock again as the music picked up speed. “Yes, good. Very good.” Her words sounded like dry rushes in a stiff breeze. She was doing it. She was actually fucking herself in the dungeon. She couldn’t believe it. But she sure could feel it. The music drummed on, insisting that she move.

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Again and again, she raised and lowered her hips, harder and harder each time. Her nipples banged against the leather and wood, occasionally striking the cold of the horse’s polished wooden sides. She shivered, but realized her entire body was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. Fuck the horse, fantasy-Hawk ordered. I like watching your beautiful body move. I like watching the cock slide in and out of your wet pussy. Gillian’s temperature rose another ten degrees. She was pouring sweat now, rocking in the stirrups, sliding up and down the dildo like it was made just for her. She had seen pictures in catalogues of machine-powered dildos. Cumbots, they were called. She imagined her mounted cock was a Cumbot, slamming in and out, in and out beyond her control, as Hawk’s dark, brooding eyes burned into her back, studying her ass, her open slit, watching the action and savoring the show. Her head started to spin. She felt like she would melt soon, forever molding to the dildo and the stirrups, swirling into a puddle, vibrating with each drumbeat. Come now, Gillian. Fantasy-Hawk spoke with firm, steady authority. Rub your clit and come until you scream. Gillian kept herself balanced with one hand and rocked back and forth against the cock even as she thrust her fingers into her moist lips and found her pulsing button. She was soaked. So slippery. The wet sounds of her fingers moving through her juices rose to compete with the music, as did her moans and soft cries of pleasure. She climbed closer and closer to the insanity of a huge orgasm, and this time, she let herself shoot over the top. The walls of her vagina clenched the dildo as she slammed backward, rocking against it as fire spread through across her thighs, up through the center of her being and seemingly right out of the top of her head. Her body convulsed again and again, and she mercilessly kept up the pressure on her clit. Her balance hand slipped and she fell forward onto the horse, which was just as well. If she hadn’t fallen, she would have collapsed anyway. Bravo, the fantasy-Hawk said, sounding so real in her mind that she almost screamed and turned around. She might have pulled that off if she could move. As it was, she cursed herself for not realizing that after all this wonderful, sating fantasy play, she’d have to get up and haul herself back out of the dungeon, down the hall, back to Reggie’s rooms, and aaaallllll the way to her own bedroom. In her flimsy dust rag of a gown, the one she had thrown heaven-only-knew-where in her haste to mount the cock. “I’m hopeless,” she muttered against the leather and wood. “I could have at least worn a robe.”

***** Frustrated by the wreck of a first meeting, not to mention embarrassed by her fantasies of Hawk Blackmoor in the dungeon, Gillian pointedly ignored the entire

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Wanderer encampment for a week. On her way to work, she caught a few glimpses of Hawk riding the perimeter of the tents on his ink-colored horse. Once, Sara Burnside was riding beside him, and Gillian had to fight a wave of sick anger. She also saw him with a dark-headed beauty a few times. They seemed to be arguing. It was hard not to stare at the man’s chiseled muscles, but she managed. It became easier each time she thought about what an ass he had been. And each time she saw him with Sara or the dark-headed hussy. Then again, there was the issue of the second mediation session. Twenty days and counting, if they were even going to meet. As angry as Hawk had been, she wasn’t certain he would show up. Gillian wished she could accelerate the sessions, but their written agreement didn’t allow for that. Not that it mattered. Whether they finished the third meeting tomorrow or November 15, it seemed obvious they were headed to court. Eight days after the failed session in the library, Gillian was dressed and ready for work before Monday’s sun fully rose over Blackmoor Downs. She had chosen a light blue skirt and a white blouse, accentuated by a sleeveless sweater bought to match the skirt. It was still warm in late September, as was typical for Tennessee, maybe too warm for the sweater—but Gillian thought the outfit was professional without being overstated. That was important. Professional, not overstated. Exactly how Gillian hoped to present Elizabethan politics at her tenure meeting later that afternoon. In an eerie parallel she hadn’t noticed when she made the legal agreement, the damned committee meetings ran on a similar schedule to the mediation sessions. She would probably learn with only a few weeks’ difference whether she got to keep her job and her home. Gillian took another long look at herself in the full-length mirror near her closet. She had pulled her hair back and fastened it at the nape of her neck with her lucky clasp, a silver Celtic Heron Knot Reggie had given her right after she moved to Blackmoor Downs. He had told her the Heron Knot symbolized the creation of life, which was more than appropriate at the time. And now, Gillian found it even more appropriate that Reggie’s gift would keep her from twirling her hair around her fingers during her tenure meeting. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle anywhere. Yes. She was ready. Guinevere, Elaine and Morgan blinked at her from the bed. “What do you think, girls?” Gillian nodded to them. “Will I make the cut?” Morgan thumped her tail hard against the mattress. Guinevere and Elaine were more reserved, taking care not to smack their thin, vulnerable tails against much of anything. When Guin first arrived, she had broken her tail wagging it against the door, and Gillian figured that experience taught the older dog all she needed to know. Guin must have warned Elaine about the danger, but Morgan, of course, would have refused to listen to such nonsense.

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“Easy, baby.” Gillian hurried over to give Morgan’s soft ears a scratch. “Take care of yourself. I don’t have time to make a run to the vet, so you’d be stuck with Oz and the boys.” Morgan gave a soulful whimper, as if understanding every word. Her tail flopped a few more times and fell still. Gillian pushed the covers up around the girls, gave them each a kiss, then hurried downstairs, going over the day’s schedule in her head. Two classes first thing, both undergraduate surveys of World history, from eight until ten. At eleven, the first of her final three interviews for tenure. She would be speaking with the four senior staff members and Steven Cathcart, newly promoted department chair. Gillian had known Steven since her first week at John’s River years ago. Dr. Cathcart was twice divorced and nearly fifteen years her senior, but all last year, Reggie had been fond of saying that Steven “fancied” Gillian. Of course, Reggie had also been fond of saying that Steven was an “insufferable, arrogant git who spent too much time obsessing about the Civil War”, too. Gillian smiled at the memory as she pushed open the kitchen door, and she smiled again when she saw coffee already perking. Jamie must have gotten up long enough to make it before rushing back to bed for her beauty sleep. Typical. Jamie and Oz were so thoughtful. Like Reggie. And not at all like Reggie’s loathsome son. Even though I wouldn’t mind having a hard session in the dungeon with him… “Oh, I do not need to be thinking about him right now,” Gillian muttered, feeling the flush in her cheeks. Her voice seemed to ring from the stone walls and bounce off the wooden cabinets. She shook off a wave of loneliness, located her coffee mug and filled it with hot, steaming liquid. Morning Blend, by the smell of it. Reggie’s favorite, and hers. Habit almost made her take down a second mug, but she stopped herself just in time. A lump formed in her throat because no second mug was needed. Jamie never drank coffee, and Oz would have nothing but tea. Without Reggie, she was all alone with her morning ritual. “I can’t cry. Not this morning. Not today.” But tears squeezed from Gillian’s eyes even as she spoke. She grabbed a dishtowel and tried to dab off her cheeks without smearing the touch of mascara she was wearing. Reggie always told her she was too pretty for “all that silly paint”, and every now and then she had believed him. Today, though, she thought the mascara couldn’t hurt. The coffee felt warm to Gillian’s tight throat as she forced down her first sip. There. That was better. Familiar and soothing. A low-pitched whine caught her attention, and she glanced up to see Arthur limping into the kitchen. The dog’s rheumy eyes were dull and distant, and he moved so slowly Gillian was surprised that he covered any ground at all. A step at a time,

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though, he headed for the back door. The door to the gardens, where Reggie’s favorite bench rested beneath a lovely willow that overlooked Blackmoor’s trickling stream. Old Sir was leaving to take up his day’s vigil, waiting for a beloved master who would never return. Watching the noble greyhound hobble to the door was more than any heart could bear. Dogs were so simple and loyal, so straightforward and caring. Why couldn’t people be so safe and easy? Gillian started to cry all over again. She set her cup on the stone counter and unlatched the door, and before Arthur had stumbled down even two of the five back steps, Gillian had picked him up. He seemed to weigh no more than a cat. “Poor thing,” she whispered. “You haven’t eaten a full meal since Reggie passed. Kindred souls, you two.” Carefully, lovingly, Gillian carried Old Sir the length of the large garden and ever so gently, she laid him on the ground in front of Reggie’s bench. The elegant hound shifted his weight only a little, then fixed his eyes back on the garden paths. With a single sigh, he settled in for his wait. Gillian’s soul ached with understanding. “If I could bring him back to you, Arthur, I would.” She sniffed and wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. The dog didn’t look up as she left. Once back in the kitchen, Gillian finished her coffee, then washed her face and straightened her clothes. A glance in the beveled cabinet glass told her she was in perfect order, except for her swollen red eyes. Even mascara wouldn’t help with that, so she decided not to wear any. “I suppose I can’t be perfect.” She sighed. “Even for tenure interviews.” Gillian made a quick trip to the study to collect her briefcase. After checking her watch, she slipped out the front door and headed for the large five-car garage where her sensible black coupe waited alongside Reggie’s totally un-sensible pair of roadsters, along with one luxury sports car and one classic convertible, vintage 1969. The latter was baby blue, and if Gillian was honest with herself, she had to admit she liked driving that one. And the dogs loved riding in it with her. Before she reached the garage door, however, strange smells caught Gillian’s attention. Hay, leather and manure—definitely manure—but also the sweet, sweet smell of fresh bread baking. And bacon, frying. And coffee and more coffee. Gillian glanced to her right, out over Blackmoor Downs. The Wanderers’ encampment was already in motion. Tents stood in straight rows, with open paths like streets between them. Fires burned low like orange path lights. Plumes of smoke curled toward the bright blue sky, and here and there a horse went by, or a child, or a woman wearing a long skirt and apron. It was charming, really. Gillian set her briefcase on the cobblestone driveway and smiled at the unique sight. She didn’t feel as much anxiety as she thought she would,

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despite all the strange people on what was, essentially, her huge front yard. Something about the quaint appearance of the tents and the people put her at ease. “Maybe I should have turned my studies more toward medieval England,” she mused aloud. “Reggie would have been thrilled with this. And with his son being nearby.” Thoughts of her disastrous first encounters with Hawk Blackmoor made Gillian cringe with guilt. Even if the man was a complete boor, she shouldn’t have been so rude. Reggie wouldn’t have wanted that. After all, even though Hawk and Reggie weren’t close, Hawk was bound to be affected by his father’s death. He had to be hurting. Was that the pain she sensed in the man? Gillian sighed and reached for her bound hair, brushing her fingers against her ear. She really had been abrupt with him last week. “I should confirm the next meeting,” she told herself. With another sigh, she glanced at her watch again. There was plenty of time to make reasonable amends and still get to John’s River before her first class. If the ass was even awake, of course. Hawk Blackmoor was, in effect, the king of this little troupe. Gillian supposed a king could sleep as late as he wished while his servants ran about doing the lion’s share of the labor. Hawk had just returned to his tent from his early workout on horseback and his morning shower. The water from Blackmoor’s creek had been cold and bracing. Hawk’s muscles felt toned and tuned for the day, and his thoughts were focused. As he dried off and wrapped his towel around his waist, he considered Gillian Markham. Again. He needed to demand that second mediation today, damn it. She wouldn’t stand a chance against him, the way he felt. He was ready for any jousting partner, even the lovely doctor and her sword-sharp words. Bravo. Jarrod’s groan after the awful first meeting rang through Hawk’s mind, and he had to grin. For eight straight days, he’d had an earful of Scottish accent and Sara’s wagging tongue. Both of them flayed him for being intentionally difficult and cruel. He rubbed his chin and sighed. Am I misjudging the snow queen? The woman was obviously intelligent and possessed of a strength he hadn’t expected. Perhaps a strength he hadn’t before encountered. That intrigued him. Someone knocked on his tent flap, and he assumed it was Jarrod or one of the camp children, come to bring him his breakfast.

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“Good morrow!” Hawk boomed without turning around, falling into Wandererspeak. “Enter, gentle friend. You’re none too soon, because I’m well-worked and nearly starved.” The tent flap rustled, and a woman’s voice said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that problem.” Hawk glanced over his shoulder. Gillian was standing just inside his door, demure and sophisticated, and twice as lovely as she had been the week before. Her soft-looking cheeks flushed and her eyes went wide. She stared straight at him with thinly masked appreciation, and it occurred to Hawk that he was nearly naked. The good doctor didn’t seem to mind how he looked, either. “Well.” Another grin tugged at Hawk’s lips. “Hello, Dr. Markham. I wasn’t expecting company, but come in. Perhaps we can start off on a better footing this beautiful morning.” Beautiful, indeed. Hawk’s body responded despite his best efforts to keep himself under control. Just the sight of her was enough to make his blood pound, to make his cock swell to painful dimensions beneath his towel. His hands drifted downward, shielding the obvious evidence of his arousal. “If this is a bad time, I could come back.” Gillian cleared her throat. “After school, I mean. When you’ve had a chance to—to get dressed.” “Does the natural look bother you?” Hawk asked softly. Gillian’s cheeks turned an even brighter red and Hawk found himself unable to take his eyes from her. In fact, he was moving toward her with slow steps, as if she was one of those skittish greyhounds. A racer that would take to her feet and flee if he approached her too quickly. “Yes,” she murmured as he came closer and closer. “I mean, no.” She rubbed her long fingers against the side of her head, as if searching for a loose strand of hair. “I don’t suppose I know what I mean. I-I just came to say I was sorry. About last week. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt with you. You weren’t exactly what I expected, and what you said about the dogs and the way you were so demanding—I didn’t know what to make of you.” Hawk stopped only a few inches away, drinking in the doctor’s decidedly feminine presence. She brought a light to his dark tent, and for a moment, he forgot the thousand reasons he intended to dislike her. “You aren’t what I expected either.” She smiled. Just a little smile, but Hawk was pleased to see it. Gillian’s face was even more picturesque when her lips turned upward. Hawk gazed into her crystal blue eyes and Gillian didn’t look away. For a moment, there was a connection between them, tangible and real and warm. Hawk felt it wrap around them like a halo. He raised his hand and slowly traced the line of her blush with his thumb.

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Gillian shivered. Her eyes grew even wider, and Hawk heard her catch her breath. He let his hand stray to her neck, brushing her skin ever so slightly until he reached the clasp holding her hair back from her face. With a gentle tug, he released it, letting her blonde tresses fall around her shoulders in wisps and ripples. She looks like an angel. “It’s a spell, isn’t it?” Hawk’s voice was ragged in his throat. “A glamour to capture my senses so you can lock me in some cave like King Arthur’s poor Merlyn.” Gillian’s expression wavered between enthralled and terrified. She swallowed hard and stepped back, but Hawk caught the enchantress in his arms before she could slip out of his tent and barricade herself in her castle. “Oh, no.” He was careful to keep just enough distance between them to prevent his pounding erection from seeking its target. “Not until you release me from the spell.” “I-I don’t know what you mean.” Gillian’s voice was sweet and deep, the way women sounded when they felt aroused, and the delicious hum of her words excited Hawk all the more. He ached to kiss her, to feel her pressed against him, wound around him like some heavenly vine, but already, she was growing rigid and hesitant in his embrace. Hawk swore to himself, battling an urge to press his luck and see what would happen. Gillian’s eyes were half-closed and misty, but they were also puffy. Red around the edges. She had been crying. Before she came to him, Gillian had been crying. What had upset her so much? A cool splash of anger helped douse Hawk’s passion. His presence, no doubt, had been the cause of her tears. The presence of the Wanderers. Proof positive that her little fortune-hunting scheme was coming to a bad end, and quickly. What had he been thinking? This woman was no angel. She was Satan in pale blue sweater. Hawk’s body relaxed, and he regained at least a tenuous grip on his better judgment. With a flick of the wrist, he let Gillian go. She wrapped her arms around herself and opened her mouth to speak. “Never mind.” Hawk cut her off, waving his hand. “I forgot. You’re a professor. An intellectual. Talk of spells and magic is lost on you, like decorum and ethics.” “Excuse me?” Gillian’s tone sounded shocked. Hurt, even. Wasn’t she the consummate actress? No wonder she had fooled old Reggie so thoroughly. Hawk squeezed the oval clasp he had pulled from Gillian’s hair, and he laughed out loud. “You’re really very good at this. Have you considered a career on stage? We could use another performer in the troupe.”

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“I-I—what?” Gillian’s face colored a new red now. A fresher red. One more befitting her nature, as far as Hawk was concerned. “You don’t fool me, Dr. Markham.” Hawk leaned close to Gillian, letting out his anger in small bursts. “I know what you are and what you want, and don’t for a minute think that I’m the fool my father was. You won’t find me tumbling head over heels every time you flash your cleavage and wink.” Gillian hesitated only a second before she drew back her hand and slapped him. Hawk dropped Gillian’s clasp and staggered back, shocked by the raw pain and disgust on Gillian’s face, and by the strength of her blow. That was no weak-Nellie punch. His jaw actually hurt. “You’re a bastard.” A single tear coursed down Gillian’s cheek. “That’s the third time you’ve been horrid to me, and the last. May Reggie’s soul forgive me, but I’m through trying to be nice to you. You’re nothing like your father! This agreement was a mistake. Anything else we have to say to each other can be said in court. Goodbye, Mr. Blackmoor.” Before Hawk could respond, Gillian snatched her clasp from the ground, whirled around, and ran from the tent. A huge crash and some loud Scottish cursing told Hawk that she had collided with Jarrod, and Hawk knew his breakfast was probably lying in the grass. As he peeked out the door, some of that breakfast came flying through the still-open flap and struck him square in the face. A fried egg, a piece of bacon, and some wet, buttery toast, in fact. “Bastard!” Gillian yelled again, and then she was gone, storming up the path toward the castle. No doubt she would bar the gate and lock all the doors. He would need tanks and battleships to lay siege now. Hawk stood rubbing his food-covered face and aching jaw, surprised by his urge to run after her and apologize. Jarrod poked his big, hairy head through the door. “Got to hand it to you, lad,” he said. “You Army fellows sure have a way with the ladies.”

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Chapter Five After changing into her backup navy suit, washing her tearstained face, and getting a speeding ticket, Gillian was a half-hour late to campus and close to screaming. She parked near South Hall, the ivy-covered history building, soon to be renamed Blackmoor Hall in Reggie’s honor. Her briefcase fought her as she yanked it out of the car, and she wasted another minute or so wrestling it free. At last, damp with sweat and chewing her lip, Gillian hurried up the stairs to South Hall’s second floor. Her heart made sharp raps against her ribs, keeping time with the tap of her shoes on the stone floor. I can’t believe I’m late. How terrible does that look—up for tenure, late for class? Hawk Blackmoor should be flogged. I wonder what Sara thinks of him flirting with other women? Perhaps I’ll ask her. Or that black-headed woman. She might be interested, too. Gillian reached the door to her classroom and felt a flicker of surprise when she saw that every desk was still occupied. Odd. Survey students rarely waited past fifteen minutes for a teacher. And they were writing something—oh. Oh, dear. Heat rushed to Gillian’s already warm cheeks. She stopped short in the doorway, staring at her desk. Staring at Steven Cathcart, the chairman of the history department. A picture of calm reserve as always, Steven reminded Gillian powerfully of Osmond Burns, but the professor looked more Sean Connery than Adrian Paul. His silver and black hair was cropped close, and his matching beard was neatly trimmed against his tanned face. He stood, revealing a black turtleneck and black slacks, perfectly pressed, covered by his typical tweed jacket. “Dr. Cathcart.” Gillian’s mouth was dry as she closed the door, but she didn’t offer any excuses in front of the students. Steven smiled. His dark eyes sparkled, and his expression was a mix of amusement and concern. “Dr. Markham. I told your class that you had no doubt gotten caught in traffic. There was a wreck on I-65 this morning.” “Yes.” Gillian nodded. Her neck and shoulder muscles ached from tension and embarrassment. “I did have—er—trouble in traffic.” Her hand clenched her purse strap, instinctively moving toward the ticket in her wallet. “I took the liberty of asking your class to write a paragraph comparing General Lee to General Grant.” There was no hint of judgment or irritation in Steven’s tone. “They are covering the Civil War now, correct?” 52

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“We’ve just reached it.” Relief made Gillian’s knees weak, and more than anything, she wished Steven would make his exit so she could sit down. As if hearing her thoughts, Steven walked toward her. “I’ll surrender the helm to your much steadier hand, my dear.” He winked, but instead of leaving, he took Gillian’s arm, opened the door, and steered her into the hall. A few of the students glanced up as Gillian allowed herself to be led from the class. Once she and Steven were outside, she took a deep breath, forced herself to smile, and turned to face her old friend—and new boss. Steven grinned at her. “A little nervous about the tenure interview today, are we?” “I-I—yes.” Gillian swallowed hard. “Thank you for taking the class like that.” “Not a problem. I want to be sure nothing goes wrong for you this week.” He winked at her again. “I have a vested interest in your success, you know. And the stress of Reggie’s son and his friends coming to town during all this—such bad timing.” Gillian gazed at Steven, briefly allowing herself to imagine him evicting the whole troupe of Wanderers from Blackmoor Downs. He would, too, if she asked him to help. But leaning on Steven would give him a mixed message, and hurting him was the last thing Gillian wanted to do. Besides, breaking the heart of one’s department chair during the tenure process would definitely be dicey business. “So, could I interest you in dinner tonight?” Steven’s brown eyes were kind, but Gillian could see an eager, hopeful gleam deep within them. That was Steven. All calm and simple on the surface, but energetic and optimistic at his core. He was, in truth, the perfect successor for Reggie at John’s River. “I think that might be crossing the line.” Gillian dropped her gaze to her feet. “After all, you’re on my tenure committee. You’ll be judging me.” “Yes, yes. Terrible inconvenience.” Steven tucked a finger under her chin and lifted her head up until she was eye to eye with him. “But you must know, I would never let dinner interfere with your tenure. Fried chicken and Tudor England simply don’t mix.” “Steven, be serious.” Gillian gently pushed his hand away from her face. “Dr. Beck and Dr. Baumeister already have their doubts. Celia Lambert and Geraldine are neutral to positive, but I hardly think they would approve of our dating right now. If one of them decides to vote with Beck and Baumeister—” “That won’t happen.” Steven sighed. “But I won’t push. Just know you’re important to me, Gillian, and I don’t plan to go away quietly. After this tenure business is over and done, you owe me a fried chicken rain check. Are we straight on that?” Gillian smiled in spite of herself. “One fried chicken dinner. Check. I might even talk Jamie into cooking it for us, but don’t go telling anyone I bribed you for your vote.” Steven gave her a mock salute before taking his leave. Gillian watched him stroll down the hall and turn the corner toward the stairs. The man really was too handsome for his own good, and a true gentleman—but Gillian just

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didn’t feel any spark when she was with him. She always had a good time when Steven visited Blackmoor, and the few times she had gone to dinner with him, she had enjoyed herself. Still, Steven wasn’t the sort of man to interest her beyond friendship. Since her first love so long ago, there had been no one who made her heart pound. Until Hawk Blackmoor. Gillian’s fingers rubbed her pulled-back hair almost immediately, and there in the quiet, stoic halls of John’s River College, Gillian allowed herself a few decidedly nonstoic thoughts about the handsome throwback. The image of Hawk’s wet, towel-clad body had almost been enough to make her knees buckle. And the way his voice became deep and quiet when he walked toward her, she could so easily imagine him picking her up and taking her straight into the castle, to Reggie’s elevator and down, down into that dungeon… “Enough,” Gillian said into the silence. She jerked her hand from her hair before she made herself a mess for the second time that day. “I don’t have time for this. That bastard is only perfect until he opens his mouth. Every other thing he says makes me want to kill him.” And Sara. She couldn’t forget Sara or the black-haired woman. On top of everything else, other females had claims clearly staked on that piece of turf. Well, they can have him, and luck to them. Smoothing her conservative and sensible navy skirt, Gillian banished Hawk Blackmoor from her mind. She opened the door to her classroom, intent on dealing with General Lee and General Grant. The Civil War suddenly seemed like an easier topic, predictable and far less complicated than her life. At the foot of his father’s castle, dressed in full battle armor, Hawk Blackmoor was working hard to get Gillian Markham off his mind. He had slain two straw dummies, unseated Jarrod twice on the jousting course, and exercised Galahad at a hard run until the horse was lathered. Finally, in complete frustration, he handed Galahad’s reins to a stable hand, instructed the boy to cool the horse down and took a long walk. The weight of his Norman-style armor was comforting though difficult to heft, and Hawk prided himself in being fit enough to take a stroll with the extra pounds of metal strapped to his body. At first, he circled the Wanderers’ camp, keeping his gauntletcovered hand on the hilt of his sword. If Hawk had lived in medieval times, he likely would have had such a job—protecting others, taking care to see to the needs of those he felt responsible for guarding. After all, that was what he had been doing since his mother died a year ago. Up until that time, Hawk had been a successful day-trader in New York, building his military earnings and small savings into a modest fortune. He thought he had his future mapped out, then the letter from Jarrod arrived and changed everything. The letter that told him that his mother was dying, and that her Wanderers were in trouble in Colorado. 54

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Hawk had closed up shop in New York and left for Aspen immediately. By then, Diane was very ill, and she died only a few months later. The troupe was devastated, and to a one, they had looked to Hawk to lead them. To save them. To honor his mother’s wishes and memory, Hawk was trying to do just that. For almost a year now, he had been back with the Wanderers, giving the troupe his time and his money. He was determined to find them a permanent home, a place where they could live true to their values and flourish. Once he got them settled, he planned to use the remainder of his savings to set them up with trusts and endowments. Then he would go back to Wall Street and take a job with one of the bigger firms. If he fed enough of his income back into the troupe, they could make it. Though the troupe was largely self-sufficient, there would be expenses. Land taxes, supplies, horses, condiments and staples—and medical care. Hawk paused at the head of the camp and let his eyes rove over the tents. Yes, his biggest problem at the moment, Gillian and the castle aside, was affording medical care for his extended family. For Sara Burnside’s twin boys, so young but already diagnosed with diabetes. Sara made beautiful outfits and blankets, but she couldn’t tease insulin from her cloths or threads. Then there was Jimmy Two-Shanks, the stablemaster, who’d had pneumonia twice last year in the unforgiving Colorado winter. Old Jimmy needed lodging in warmer climates, and he needed tending appropriate to a gentleman in his waning years. And, of course, there was Jarrod. Jarrod and his damn stubborn pride and his damn stubborn insistence that he would be fine no matter what those V.A. docs had to say about the irregular heartbeat he developed after taking a blow to the chest. Hawk wanted Jarrod assessed at Vanderbilt Hospital in Nashville. He wanted second opinions and the best care for his friend, but the initial workup alone would be in the thousands of dollars. Treatments could run into six figures. Or seven. Thanks to Hawk’s infusion of cash, the troupe was housed, horsed and stocked with flour and meal. They were even making a modest profit from putting on fairs, but there was no way he could buy everyone in the troupe what they really needed— medicine, quality medical care and a permanent home in a kind climate. The Wanderers had to have ample space to perform and to live as they had always lived, or Hawk feared their spirits would break. Jarrod’s most of all. Traveling with the Wanderers again had been a dream come true for the big Scotsman, and Hawk wouldn’t see it taken from him now. Reggie’s accounts would have been a godsend, and the land of Blackmoor Downs. Hawk could have used his father’s money to make the Wanderers healthy and secure. He could have gotten on with the business of rebuilding his own future, if not for one particularly beautiful gold-digger.

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Hawk tore off his gauntlets and threw them on the ground. Gillian and her blue eyes. Her succulent body. Her golden hair. She had all but cursed the Wanderers to disaster, and he had to take back what she had all but stolen from the people he loved. With long, angry strides, Hawk made his way to the castle, through the front gate and around to the back gardens—where he stopped, frozen with surprise. Wheels of red and yellow met his gaze, along with squares of orange and triangles of purple. The garden was perfectly crafted and manicured, and yet it blended together as if nature meant to make it a paradise. At the back, a stream skirted around willows, and in the midst of the willows stood a single bench. And beside that bench was one of those infernal dogs. Hawk glowered, letting his bare hand slip back to the hilt of his sword. “Oh, no you don’t. Not this time. I’ll put up a fight.” “You won’t need a knight’s blade to handle Old Sir,” said Osmond Burns from behind Hawk. Hawk covered his startle with a growl. “He barked fiercely enough last week.” Oz drew even with Hawk, and Hawk noticed that the man was once more polished to a shine and wearing black tails and slacks. “All that noise,” Oz said sadly. “Just a hint of his better days. I came to fetch him back inside. He’s been out here all morning, grieving his life away, and I saved him a bit of milk and leftover pot roast. Don’t tell Gillian, though. She prefers the dogs have nothing but veterinarian-recommended cuisine.” “She would,” Hawk muttered. Oz arched an eyebrow. “Yes, well.” He nodded toward the greyhound. “By your leave, sir.” “Excuse me?” A patient smile turned up Oz’s lips. “By your leave, I’ll tend to the dog.” “Oh.” A fresh wave of surprise washed over Hawk. “Yes. Of course.” He followed Oz down the main garden path, out of the flowerbeds to the willows, the bench and the silent, motionless greyhound. “There, there.” Oz knelt and scratched the dog’s ears. “What say we share a little lunch, Arthur?” Arthur didn’t raise his head. Hawk noticed that the animal kept his eyes on the path, as if expecting someone else to arrive. Curiosity edged out irritation, and Hawk sat on the bench and leaned toward the butler. “Who is he waiting for? Dr. Markham?” “Oh, no sir.” Oz shifted his weight and cradled Arthur’s head. “I’m afraid Old Sir is a one-man dog. With Mr. Blackmoor gone, Arthur has no reason to continue.” An unexpected stab of sorrow made Hawk draw a sharp breath. “He’s waiting for Reggie?”

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“Yes, sir.” Oz’s smile was sad, and his eyes glassed over as if he might shed a tear. “Every day, right here, at your father’s favorite spot.” “I see.” Hawk pressed a hand against his breastplate, wishing for armor strong enough to fend off the strange ache in his chest. “Some soldiers prefer not to leave their watch, no matter how great their burden. Jarrod’s like that. Pig-stubborn Navy bastard. He won’t leave his spot, once he’s decided where that spot ought to be.” Oz met Hawk’s steady gaze, and Hawk saw understanding dawn in Oz’s eaglesharp eyes. “Indeed. Arthur has always been the best of soldiers. Perhaps you have something. I’ll go back to the house and bring the old boy’s dish to him.” “You do that.” Hawk nodded. “I’ll get out of this armor and see what I can do to help.” Oz was already up and heading back toward the castle. “I’ll return in a moment.” Hawk stood and loosened the straps of his breastplate. In moments, he had it off. The rerebraces and vambraces covering his arms took a bit more time, as did the kneecops and greaves protecting his legs. Taking off his sollerets, the five plates covering his feet, was the most difficult, but Hawk managed it, and he stacked the whole mess in one great pile for a stable boy to pick up later. Hawk stretched his arms and gazed at the river, enjoying the freedom of his tunic and breeches. That armor was certainly heavy, heavier than he thought, as he realized each time he took it off. Footsteps on the path behind him let Hawk know that Oz was returning. Before the butler could speak, something cold and damp nudged at Hawk’s hand. Hawk looked down to find his father’s greyhound tentatively nuzzling his fingers. The old dog’s eyes were wide, and his tail moved slowly back and forth. For a moment, Hawk thought about being surly, about saying cross words to the animal, but there was something in the dog’s feeble grace that won him over. “Hello, there,” he murmured, feeling the silk of the dog’s ears. “You are an old soldier, aren’t you? What is it, then? Do I smell familiar?” “Amazing,” Oz said as he once more reached the bench with a large bowl of roast and gravy. “He’s up!” Hawk eased himself back down on the bench, determined not to frighten the dog. Oz held out the dish of roast. “Would you give him this? Perhaps he will take it better from you.” Hawk shrugged and took the dish. He placed it at Arthur’s feet, but the dog kept studying him. Waiting, as he had been waiting at the head of the path. For something. Hawk smiled at the dog. “Of course. A proper soldier awaits his orders. Go on, old fellow. Eat.” Arthur hesitated. His tail wagged once before he lowered his head and nosed around in the dish. Hawk saw the dog’s tongue slip out to sample the gravy. “You can do it,” Hawk said. 57

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Arthur still seemed hesitant. Hawk leaned down and took a piece of the meat in his hands. “It’s good, see?” He pretended to take a bite, then held the meat out to the dog. Arthur sniffed Hawk’s fingers. After a long second, he took the bite from Hawk’s hand, chewed and swallowed. Hawk could have sworn the old dog smiled at him. Then, unabashed, Arthur stuck his head into the dish and began wolfing down the meat and gravy. “Well done!” Oz was obviously delighted. “Gillian will be thrilled.” Hawk’s fists clenched. “I’m not interested in how Dr. Markham feels about anything, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to her.” Oz fell silent for a moment or two, then said, “As you wish, Mr. Blackmoor.” Regretting his sharp words, Hawk leaned back on the bench. “Dr. Markham tries my patience.” “Yes, sir.” Osmond nodded. “Gillian can be trying, or so your father often said.” A surge of rage nearly made Hawk snap again, but he kept his eyes on Arthur and held his tongue until he could think. After a few seconds, he let out a breath and muttered, “Yes, well, lovers will have their spats, won’t they?” “Lovers?” Oz sounded truly horrified. “Surely you don’t mean—” “Come on, Oz.” Hawk took another deep breath. “I’m no boy of eight, wide-eyed and innocent about the world. You don’t have to put on a show for me. I know what went on here. A lonely old man, a lovely young woman—the rest is elementary, isn’t it?” He glanced at the butler. Osmond was the picture of reserved English disgust except that his cheeks turned a slow red. “I’ll thank you not to say something like that in my presence again. Gillian would never—Mr. Blackmoor would never—there is quite a bit about Gillian’s tragic circumstance that you clearly do not understand. Excuse me, but I should go back to the castle, sir.” Osmond drew himself up, but he didn’t move. Hawk had never heard the word sir sound so much like you baseborn bastard in his life. So, he had misread the whole Reggie-Gillian situation. He didn’t know whether he felt elated or more furious than ever. His father left his fortune and his castle to a woman he hadn’t even bedded? Turning it over to his favorite whore made more sense. And hurt a little less, didn’t it? And why on earth was Oz standing there when he said he wanted to go back to the castle?

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Permission. He’s waiting for permission, because I might be a piece of gutter trash, but I’m the master of this house now. And he’s too refined to punch me out, even though he probably could. Hawk sighed. “Go, if that’s what you want.” Osmond Burns turned and stalked from the garden. Hawk watched the butler’s angry retreat and shook his head. After a few seconds, Arthur nuzzled his hand again, and Hawk found himself in the odd position of sitting on his father’s bench in his father’s gardens, petting his father’s favorite dog and wondering what on earth his father’s relationship with Gillian Markham had been. “Who is she?” Hawk asked his dead father. “What tragic circumstance? Why was Gillian here with you?” Hawk waited for a whisper of wind, the rustle of grass—anything. But in death as in life, Reginald Blackmoor managed to frustrate his son with a profound and lasting silence.

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Chapter Six The days after the food-flinging episode passed slowly for Gillian. She thought about heading down to the Wanderers’ camp to explore, but she didn’t want to run into Hawk. Who knew what she’d throw at him this time? Damn it. As it was, she thought about him almost constantly, alternating between rage and fascination. So, exactly seven days after their messy breakfast encounter, she drove home from John’s River in the early evening, doing her best to direct her mind toward other things. On the endless pines and curves of the long driveway to the castle, she was careful to keep her eyes away from the right. Away from the camp. Still, she kept replaying two things—the hot way Hawk had touched her in his tent last week and her lukewarm tenure meeting later that afternoon. Both troubled her deeply. Half of the time, she wanted to strangle Hawk. The other half of the time, she had wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. She had even found herself wondering how she would feel if he opened up to her, if he let her into that strange darkness that seemed to surround him. Then the real fantasies started. Her heartbeat quickened as she once more remembered how Hawk had looked in that towel. How husky his voice had been in those seconds when she thought he saw her as more than an obstacle. She wanted him to think of her as more than that. She wanted him to think of her as a woman. A person with plans and dreams and wishes. And needs. She wanted him to get to know her, and in spite of her urges to tell him off, she wanted to get to know him, too. He was so arrogant—but under it all, there was…that something she kept sensing. “I still can’t believe I threw food at him. But he was such a bastard!” Gillian shifted in her seat as she reached Blackmoor’s large garage. “I haven’t done anything like that since I was a kid.” She pulled into her spot between the convertible and the sports car, killed the engine, and let the soft gray of the Tennessee dusk wash over her. “Before…everything happened.” Familiar pain crept from Gillian’s chest into her throat, sealing off her words. Before her family had been killed, she had been spirited and loud. Opinionated. Fiery, even.

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At least that’s what everyone said. Especially her first real boyfriend Stan, who adored her. It hurt Gillian to remember that she hadn’t always been the quiet and conservative history professor worrying about her tenure and security. Who am I kidding? I worry about everything. But a thousand lifetimes ago, I knew how to laugh. A thousand lifetimes ago, I wasn’t scared of strangers, and I wouldn’t have been rattled by a boor like Hawk Blackmoor. And I would have tried out that damn dungeon with a dozen men by now. Well, maybe not a dozen… Gillian rubbed her throat, trying to ease the sensation of choking she always battled when she thought about her past. The therapist she had seen with Reggie told them that Gillian just “couldn’t swallow” what had happened. Who could? As Gillian’s nerves calmed, her hand moved from her throat to her hair. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, taking a deep breath of the car’s stuffy air. Automatically, she pulled a few strands from her Heron Knot and tugged at them. God, but she had stumbled and fumbled through her tenure meeting last week. Staring Celia Lambert in the face hadn’t helped a bit. She kept seeing the woman naked in the dungeon, strapped down and screaming as Dr. Sparks fucked her silly. Thank heavens Steven had been there, asking good questions at perfect moments. Still, the tenure committee had seemed…cool. She could tell they were skeptical. Halston Baumeister and Devon Beck, the two other men on the committee, were nearly a lost cause. Reggie had warned Gillian that Baumeister and Beck preferred to keep the department in male hands with a male majority. Her appointment would make things a little too balanced for their chauvinistic tastes. Gillian tugged harder at her hair. Life had gotten so complicated. Was it like this before Reggie died? Tears sprang to Gillian’s eyes, and she looked away from her reflection. The car was starting to feel too small. No. Of course life wasn’t so complicated before Reggie died. Reggie was such a hopeful man. His love and support had allowed Gillian to dream of the future, of a husband and children and a home of her own that wouldn’t be ripped away from her by tragedy. Reggie had a deft way of simplifying things. Of helping Gillian break the world into pieces small enough not to frighten her. I can’t believe he’s gone. A sob escaped Gillian’s tight throat, and a bone-deep tiredness swept over her. She leaned forward and put her head on the steering wheel. I can’t believe they’re all gone. Everyone I’ve ever loved. Oz and Jamie and the dogs, they’re all I have left. What will I do if I lose them? And the castle—how could I live anywhere else? A shadow suddenly blocked what was left of the day’s light, and Gillian jerked upright. Someone was in the garage.

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Someone was standing beside her car! Horrible memories flew to the surface of her mind. The night her parents and Stan were murdered. The night Reggie brought her home from John’s River College’s high school history bowl because no one had come to pick her up. The garage. What they saw. Panic surged through Gillian, searing away all reason and thought. Moving on instinct, she scrambled across the front seat to the passenger door. Her hands shook as she yanked the handle and leaped out, striking her knees as she fell on the harsh concrete. “Gillian?” A man’s voice. Gillian’s thoughts swirled like a tornado. Something moved nearby, and she screamed. She couldn’t seem to get up. All she could do was kneel on the garage floor and await her fate. Light flooded the garage, banishing the shadows. Gillian blinked against the glare, shielding her eyes. There was a man in front of her! She screamed again, but the man came toward her and crouched down so that she could see his face. “Gillian.” Hawk Blackmoor’s dark eyes swam into view. They were wide and concerned. Gillian’s heart thundered as she focused on Hawk’s tight-fitting shirt and pants. They were black like his hair. Even his knee boots were black, and the strings that laced them tight against his muscled legs. No wonder he had looked like a shadow in the low evening light. Now, though, the shadow had become a man, and the man appeared to be sorry for frightening her. Hawk’s fists were clenched, and his rugged face was drawn with worry as he murmured, “I won’t hurt you.” The irony of his words brought new tears to Gillian’s eyes. She pressed her palm against her chest and felt compelled to make some explanation for her absurd behavior. “I thought—I thought—” “Don’t try to talk. Not until you’re ready.” Hawk offered his hand. “Let me help you up.” Gillian hesitated. Her heart was still pounding so hard she thought her head might explode, and the last thing she wanted to do was touch Hawk Blackmoor. Still, she knew her knees would be weak after such an episode, and she feared she would make a fool of herself by swooning if she didn’t accept Hawk’s aide. Frowning, she extended her hands.

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Hawk’s fingers closed over hers. His hands were so large. Rough, but not unpleasant, and very warm. When Gillian glanced up, his black eyes were bright and intense, and she felt like she could fall into their depths and stay lost forever. Hawk stood, carefully helping her to her feet. “I had no intention of scaring you,” he said. His voice was low, as it had been when she surprised him in his tent. His accent sent shivers of pleasure to mingle with the remnants of her fear. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she forced herself to look away from Hawk’s handsome face. Hawk kept hold of her hands. She was standing so close she could smell the scents of leather and cedar smoke clinging to his clothes. Another step, and she would be pressed against the hard muscle of his chest. Her head would be tucked beneath his chin, and she could run her fingers along his powerful arms as they held her. My God. What am I thinking? Gillian cut her eyes back to Hawk, but his expression was unreadable. Hawk’s day-trader instincts urged him to press his advantage. The lady was intrigued. She liked being close to him. Maybe she even wanted him to kiss her. But, damn it, he couldn’t. As much as he would like to fold Gillian into his arms until she stopped trembling, now was not the time. Hawk had been a soldier long enough to know shell shock, or post-traumatic stress, when he saw it. Something hideous had happened to this woman, and Hawk figured his sudden appearance in the garage had brought some part of that horror back to Gillian. Osmond Burns’s words floated back to him. There is quite a bit about Gillian’s tragic circumstance that you clearly do not understand… He could see the truth of that comment now. Gillian was frightened and vulnerable, and no matter how much he wanted to taste the sweetness of her lips, Hawk couldn’t allow himself to use the situation for his own gain. Am I losing my edge? “I came to apologize,” he said, unable to disguise his husky, raw tone. “For what I implied last Monday morning, about you and my father. Osmond—er—corrected me on that account, and if I had let myself see past my own temper, I would have realized it for myself. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” Gillian made no move to pull out of his grasp. “Thank you. I’m almost sorry I threw food all over you.” “I deserved it.” Hawk smiled, hoping to keep her fear—and her temper—at bay. He wanted to ask her about her fear, about the “tragic circumstance”, but this didn’t seem the time.

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Gillian smiled in return, and some of the spark came back to her blue eyes. Hawk felt a wave of relief, and without thinking, he squeezed her fingers gently. Again, Gillian made no effort to pull away. Instead, Hawk felt her squeeze his fingers in return. A small sigh escaped her pretty mouth, and despite his best intentions, Hawk pulled her closer and held her hands against his chest. With a bend of his neck, he brushed his forehead against hers. She turned her head just slightly, welcoming him, and he felt the silk of her cheek against his own. Hawk’s pulse quickened. His fierce need to shield her, to comfort her, to have her cling to him and believe in his ability to protect her, shook him to his core. He hadn’t planned on feeling anything for Gillian, much less the gut-level cravings burning through his every fiber. This woman was far too tender for him, and he couldn’t imagine her enjoying the type of sex he preferred. The type of sex he needed. Still, he brushed his lips against her golden hair, then kissed her ear and nibbled at the rogue blonde strands escaping the clasp at the nape of her neck. She smelled of mint and ginger, clean and fresh and new. The unusual scents excited Hawk. The feather touch of her full breasts against his chest, the curve of her sweet face, even the way Gillian’s breath came short and fast as she wound her fingers through his—everything about her aroused him. He could imagine the velvet of her lips, the taste of her kiss, how she would sound if he pleased her in all the ways he wanted to please her. Hawk forced himself to raise his head and take a long, slow breath. This woman was getting to him. He had known her just over two weeks, yet something about her was touching feelings he had forgotten he could have. Was it her innocence? The tenderness he sensed like a perfume, swirling around her? Gillian stepped back just enough to meet Hawk’s gaze. Her entrancing eyes were misty and warm, as if she were lost in some sweet dream. Hawk released one of her hands and ran his thumb along her cheek before slipping his hand back to the clasp holding her hair. Cool metal met his fingers as he touched it, and he recognized the Celtic pattern immediately. “The Heron Knot.” He brushed his knuckle against the intricate silver weave. “You were wearing that last Monday in my tent. It’s for life. Or making life.” Gillian shivered against Hawk and nodded as he carefully opened the clasp. Her hair fell down in golden ripples, covering her shoulders. “There. That’s better.” Hawk slipped the clasp into his breeches pocket and brushed soft yellow strands away from Gillian’s flushed cheek. Once more, his thumb traced the outline of her jaw, this time stopping at her chin and moving up, up to her lips. They were as warm and inviting as he imagined, and again he nearly groaned with the force of his swelling desire. His cock transformed into a hot, hard misery.

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“If you would like to kiss me, I wouldn’t slap you,” she said in a low, sexy tone that nearly cost him the few shreds of self-control keeping him in check. With a mighty effort, Hawk reined his passion enough to whisper, “When you’re sure. And be sure, Gillian, because I won’t settle for just a kiss.” Gillian’s expression changed to one of disappointment, then gratitude. For a moment, she closed her eyes. Hawk could almost hear his heart beating in the stillness. She sighed. As if answering some magical voice in her head, she nodded and turned her lips to his hand to kiss his fingers. To thank him. Hawk heard his own low rumble of pleasure. Clenching his teeth, he made himself kiss the back of Gillian’s hand and let it go. Without a word, she turned and slipped out of the garage. Through the open garage door, she looked like a mystical vision, yet again fleeing back to her castle keep. “Your time is coming, princess,” he whispered. Hawk Blackmoor wasn’t a man to ignore the truth once he finally grasped it. And he had grasped the truth of this situation. He had misjudged Gillian Markham as a woman, as an adversary—and as a potential lover. The woman was a born submissive. She just didn’t know it yet. She needed a man like him to care for her, to protect her and restore her sense of safety, maybe even to help her rebuild whatever had been torn down inside her. Hawk was the man to help her with that reconstruction. Damn the legal issues, damn his father, and damn everything. They could meet each other’s needs, and together, they could see to the Wanderers, too. He didn’t know how he would convince her that he wasn’t using her to get the castle, but he’d find a way. He was up for the challenge. After a few seconds, Hawk realized he was smiling. His blood was pumping. Yes. Soon, he would have Gillian. He would more than have her. This woman he would take. He would claim her and mark her for his own. Then maybe he would fuck her on that big oak table after all.

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Chapter Seven The next day, Gillian drove home from John’s River College feeling a mixture of nervousness and relief. She and Steven had finally found time to review the first tenure meeting and gone over some points for her to cover in the next, coming up in a few weeks. Don’t worry about it, Steven had said. You did fine. I’m sure you’ll perform admirably at the next, too. But Gillian could see the worry in his eyes. She really needed to do well in the interviews to overcome some negative feedback from her spring semester class. Her student evaluations from the January term had been less than glowing. Distant, one student had written. Another had called her unapproachable. There was also an unfriendly, and at least one boring. “Boring,” she muttered, squeezing the steering wheel. “Honestly. I’d like to see them make Victorian politics lively.” Celia Lambert had suggested that Gillian “put some feeling” into her lectures. Maybe they’re dry, she had observed. Lacking passion. That’s what you need, Gillian. A little heat and spice. History is so…so alive. Make it breathe for them. It had been all Gillian could do not to turn red and die. Celia leaning across the table with that intense look in her eyes, so tightly wound, so in control. But I’ve seen you in a different circumstance, Gillian wanted to say. You can’t imagine how different—or how much I’ve seen! Heat and spice. Definitely Dr. Lambert’s secret skills—but definitely not Gillian’s specialties. Still, Gillian was trying her best to make Victorian England as racy as she could for her current classes. At least the service work component of her tenure application was complete except for the tutoring she planned to continue indefinitely. All those hours of extra groups and classes—it had been exhausting. For now, she refused to think about the fact that in twelve days, she was supposed to have another negotiation with Hawk Blackmoor—then five days later, the first Wanderer Renaissance Fair was scheduled to open on the grounds of Blackmoor Downs. That was too much to consider, given that her second tenure meeting would follow a scant few days after that. This was bound to be a fun-filled three weeks. Gillian sighed as she made the turn into her long driveway. She had left before sunrise and come home late to stay away from Hawk, and to his credit, he hadn’t pressed the issue. 66

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Good thing. He might have seen her dreams written all over her face. Gillian had been tortured by visions of the man’s dark eyes, his deep, resonant voice and the feel of his arms around her. Sometimes, he was dressed in his medieval breeches and tunic. Other times, he was wearing only his towel and a wicked, enticing grin. But always, Hawk kissed her, and there was enough passion in his kiss to wake Gillian from a dead sleep five or six times, at least. Thank God Oz and Jamie were too polite to mention her obvious distraction at breakfast. And the dogs, as always, loved her even when she was being silly. Especially Morgan and Arthur. Old Sir had been almost chipper the last few days, and Gillian took that as a good omen. Now, if only Hawk Blackmoor would come to his senses and offer to sell her the castle at a reasonable price, all would be well. Except that Hawk would leave once he had no vested interest in Blackmoor Downs. Gillian’s heart flooded with pain at the thought, and she silently cursed her own weak will. “I have got to get over this,” she told herself. “Hawk is not a man to get attached to. He only wants his share of what Reggie left me. Once we’ve settled up, he’ll ride away on the next sunrise, taking his Wanderers to God knows where.” But until then, I could enjoy him. The thought shocked Gillian so badly she almost forgot to use her garage-door opener. It was by grace of quick reflexes and luck that she didn’t drive right through the stone and aluminum barrier to park her car. With shaking hands, Gillian turned off the engine. She couldn’t possibly have a casual encounter with Hawk Blackmoor. She wasn’t a “casual” sort of person. “Let’s face it,” she whispered in the car’s silent interior. “He only wants what he sees. What he thinks I am. Hawk doesn’t know me at all, and I’d likely be a huge disappointment to him.” Never mind the dungeon fantasies. Gillian collected her briefcase, locked the car and slipped out of the garage, trying her best to rid her mind of her Hawk Blackmoor obsession. She had twenty-two essays and over thirty tests to score, and she needed to find a way to make Friday’s lecture on the relationship of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert exciting for a bunch of disinterested college freshmen. Morgan greeted Gillian with a joyous bark as Gillian stepped inside and struggled to close the castle’s front door behind her. All she could think of was the kitchen, a warm cup of coffee and a few long minutes of peace and quiet at the breakfast table. That was her best paper-grading spot. The light was perfect, and the table just right to spread everything out.

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“Hello, girl.” Gillian managed to scratch the dog’s ears despite her purse and briefcase. “Where is everyone? And that Arthur. He’s been doing much better this week. Have you been romancing the old man?” “Oh!” Jamie popped out of the kitchen just before Gillian could open the door. “You—you’re early! Imagine that.” “Well, yes.” Gillian smiled. “Thought I needed a little time to catch up on my paperwork.” Jamie was talking louder than usual. Her eyes were wide, and her round face was flushed. “So, you want to go in the kitchen?” Those last words were almost shouted. Jamie twisted her hands together, a gesture Gillian had only seen a few times before, when the housekeeper was extremely anxious about something. “Is something wrong, Jamie?” “What? Oh, no. Nothing.” Jamie’s nervous smile screamed LIE at the top of its lungs. “Here. Let me help you with all that stuff.” Gillian allowed Jamie to take her briefcase, and she held the door open for Jamie and Morgan. A quick glance around told her that there was nothing amiss in the kitchen—except for Oz, who was standing in front of the window that looked out over the gardens. Oz had his hands behind his back, and his smile was every bit as broad and unnatural as Jamie’s. “How was your day? Would you like Jamie to fix you some coffee?” “Coffee!” Jamie put Gillian’s briefcase on the table and rushed to the stove. “What a great idea. I’ll just put some water on, and—” “Okay, okay.” Gillian held up her hands. “Confess, you two. What’s the matter?” Jamie held the coffeepot under the faucet and cut her eyes to Oz, who paled and cleared his throat. “Nothing. We simply want to see to your comfort.” “Where are the rest of the dogs?” Gillian’s breath suddenly caught in her throat. “Did Hawk Blackmoor take them away? If he did, I’ll kill him myself!” Oz’s expression softened to one of relaxed composure. “No. Nothing of the sort. Guinevere, Elaine, Merlyn and Lancelot are keeping Old Sir company in the garden. Of course, Morgan has been waiting for you at the front entrance most of the day.” At that moment, it occurred to Gillian that Oz was standing unusually still, and he seemed to be determined to block her view of the trails and Reggie’s bench by the creek. Jamie seemed to read her face, and she, too, joined Oz at the window. Gillian narrowed her eyes at the two of them. “What’s out there?” “The dogs.” Jamie tried to smile, but she looked more like she wanted to scream her guilt to the heavens. “Yes, the dogs.” Oz nodded, but he kept his eyes on his feet.

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Gillian immediately rushed to the window, and over Jamie’s shoulder, she saw Hawk Blackmoor sitting on Reggie’s bench. As he had been the last time she saw him, Hawk was dressed in black knee-boots and pants, and his black shirt outlined the curves of his muscled arms. Guinevere, Elaine, Merlyn and Lancelot were pacing in wide circles around him, and as Gillian stared, the man who ordered her to remove the greyhounds from Blackmoor Downs wrapped his hands around poor old Arthur’s neck. “I can’t believe you left him alone with the dogs!” Gillian cried. “He hates them! Don’t you know he hates them?” She whirled around and headed for the kitchen door. “It’s not what you think!” Oz called from behind her, but Gillian was already out of the castle and running down the main path. Hawk carefully removed a tick from behind Arthur’s velvet ear. “There. That’s better, isn’t it?” The old dog let his tail flop against the ground, and he gazed at Hawk with a simple dedication that would have warmed a stone’s heart. Smiling, Hawk shook his head. No wonder his father and Gillian loved these animals. Especially Arthur. Hawk had taken to spending a few hours each day with the dog his father and Oz called Old Sir, and even though Hawk knew it was silly, he found himself telling Arthur some of his worries and concerns. As if the dog understood. As if somehow, through Arthur, Hawk might finally reach Reggie’s essence and understand what had occupied his father’s mind. Perhaps Old Sir even knew the way to Gillian Markham’s better graces. Hawk sighed. He thought about her every five minutes. And every ten or so, he wondered what it would be like to talk to her late into the evening, debating the finer points of anything on his mind—and then make love to her until sunrise. He had a feeling she could keep up with him, both intellectually and physically, and that feeling kept him distracted. Jarrod Dorn had been relentless in his teasing, especially when he succeeded in unseating Hawk during a jousting workout. And Emerald—the woman seemed to know his heart was now committed elsewhere, so that made her double her efforts to win him back, even though she never had him to begin with. Jarrod rarely unseated Hawk in practice—and never in competition—but Hawk had to admit he had been off his game. He would have to get his mind back to business before the first Fair, which was scheduled for the seventeenth of October.

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From behind Hawk, the sound of rushing footsteps caught his attention just as he heard Gillian’s panicked voice. “Get away from him! Don’t hurt Arthur! Don’t you dare!” Hawk got to his feet as the other four dogs yipped and barked at Gillian’s frenzied approach. Arthur, impassive as always, sat at Hawk’s side, thumping his long tail against Hawk’s ankle. “Slow down.” Hawk held up his hands. “What are you saying?” Gillian’s eyes were as round as the moon, and her pretty face was nearly crimson. “I saw you through the window. You put your hands around his neck. I know you hate the dogs, but—” “I was removing a tick.” Hawk felt his own face turning an unpleasant shade of red. “Woman, do you really think I would strangle a helpless animal?” Gillian’s chest rose and fell with quick, short breaths. She didn’t answer right away. Hawk’s gaze drifted to Morgan, who had followed Gillian outside. The two of them, woman and dog, looked wary and nervous, mirroring each other as they stared at him. He felt uneasy in his gut, as if he had trespassed on holy ground, or blundered through something fragile when he meant to be careful. Like a wave retreating back to the ocean, Hawk’s anger subsided. “You think I’m an oaf because I told you to get rid of the dogs.” Gillian nodded slowly, flicking her eyes from Arthur to Hawk and back again. Hawk sighed. “I was an oaf, and I was wrong about that, too. Please, feel free to let the animals stay.” The tight line of Gillian’s jaw relaxed, but Hawk saw a flash of fire in her blue yes. “Well, thanks. I guess. I’m—I’m sorry I thought you were hurting him.” Hawk gave a slow nod. He couldn’t stop himself from staring at her, from mentally touching her through her clothes. This unnerved her completely, he could tell—but it didn’t entirely put her off. He watched her fish for something to say until she almost shouted, “Do you always hold women in garages and then disappear?” “I do believe you’re the one who left before dawn this morning, so I couldn’t come by to check on you.” Hawk risked a step in Gillian’s direction. She looked beautiful in her blue skirt and white blouse, the same outfit she had been wearing that unfortunate morning when she came to his tent and hurled his breakfast in his face. He could see the curve of her hips, the outline of her breasts, and he wanted to hold her again. She was so damned soft. Soon, she would be his, even if he had to tame her like a wild beast—one bite and one gentle caress at a time. Gillian clenched her fists at her sides. “I’ve been busy. I’m trying to get tenure, and I have classes to teach, and meetings, and they aren’t going well so far. The interviews, I mean. And besides, what about Sara?”

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“Sara who?” Hawk slowly approached until he was standing less than a foot from her. Morgan was close by, growling softly, but the rest of the dogs were sitting or lying down, keeping their wide, dark eyes on him like palace guards. “The woman who came to the meeting.” Gillian’s expression communicated mistrust. “And that black-headed woman I’ve seen you with—her, too.” “The redhead—Sara—she’s a friend. We’re not involved.” Hawk reached out and touched Gillian’s shoulder. “The other one isn’t my lover. More a problem than anything else. And about your tenure, I can’t imagine that you’d have trouble with anything you set your mind to.” Gillian didn’t flinch away from him, and the wild red of her cheeks faded to a pleasant cherry blush. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Hawk Blackmoor.” Hawk brought his other hand up and gripped Gillian’s arm as gently as he could. “I hear you’re a professor. So, perhaps you would help me learn to be less of an oaf? There are things I could teach you, too.” Gillian’s blue eyes were bright with fear and eagerness as he drew her close to him. At the moment his body pressed against hers, she gasped, and Hawk cupped her face in his hands. “I’d like my first lesson to be the taste of your lips. After that, we can talk about your first lesson.” Endless seconds passed as Gillian studied Hawk. Her mouth was parted, and the feel of her shallow breathing against Hawk’s chest made his cock swell and ache. “The taste of my lips would be a good place to start,” she whispered. Hawk responded by lowering his head and leaning toward her. Gillian turned her face upward, meeting him, and his lips brushed hers. So soft. So sweet and moist. Gillian’s small moan made Hawk’s blood turn to fire, and her mint and ginger scent filled his senses, crowding out his thoughts. His arms slipped around her, holding her tighter, and he felt her return his embrace. Gillian’s fingers dug into his back as he kissed her again, this time longer and harder, letting his tongue push into her mouth and explore the warmth she offered. Gillian shifted against him as their lips finally parted, and she pressed against his obvious erection. Hawk bit back a groan. He felt her tense, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, she kissed him again, moving against him as if testing her power to bewitch him completely. If Hawk hadn’t been certain Osmond Burns and Jamie Hart were watching from the kitchen window, he would have cupped Gillian’s soft breasts in his hands and tried to work his own magic with the witch of Blackmoor Downs. As it was, he pulled back, pressed his lips against her forehead and murmured, “That’s enough, teacher. Especially since we have an audience.” Gillian glanced at the dogs. Her voice was like the whisper of satin when she spoke. “I don’t think they’ll tell on us.”

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The sight of Gillian’s kiss-swollen lips nearly drove Hawk to taste them again, but he forced himself to maintain a shred of decency. “No, but Osmond and Jamie most certainly will.” “Oh!” Gillian’s cheeks flared a bright red, this time like strawberries or well-ripened apples. She stepped away from him, and Hawk found himself wishing he had kissed Gillian until pleasure made her blush like that, then made love to her until she didn’t have the strength to blush anymore. He thought of asking her back to his tent, but he didn’t want to insult her. Besides, he had a sense that a different approach would be more to her liking. Hawk would dearly love to fulfill this woman’s fantasies, and he had an inkling of what those fantasies might be. On the ground near his leg, Arthur studied him with eyes that urged caution. Temperance. If Old Sir could have put words to his thoughts, he might have said, “Watch this one. She really is a witch, and she’ll have your heart in a jar before you know it.” As for Gillian, her expression was not unlike Arthur’s. Her bright blue eyes seemed to reflect the words she had spoken only moments before their first kiss. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Hawk Blackmoor. Yes, indeed. Quite a bit he didn’t know. And quite a bit he wanted to find out. Inch by inch, if necessary. To do that, he couldn’t let her disappear for another week. Before the temptress could flee back to her keep, Hawk shook off the stupor of his arousal and asked, “Would you have dinner with me Friday?” Gillian looked surprised. “Dinner? As in going out to a restaurant?” “Oh no, Milady.” Hawk flourished his hand and gave a small bow. His tone had changed to a showman’s baritone, showing Gillian his Wanderers’ role. “I’ll prepare you a proper feast, and set you a table beneath the stars. Be at my tent by six.” “That sounds too unique to pass up.” Gillian’s quiet laughter rang through the garden, making the flowers seem brighter even in the waning light. “Yes, okay. I’ll be there.” She paused. “I know what our agreement said, but can’t we have a second meeting sooner—or wait. I’ve got it. Can we try the first mediation meeting again? I’d really like to lessen my stress right about now.” Hawk shrugged, then sighed. “Meeting one, round two it is. Would Thursday afternoon be convenient?” Gillian nodded. “But I still get my dinner, even if you get angry.” Hawk’s gaze sharpened. “As you wish, Milady. Though I believe you quite outdid my temper during our last official negotiation.”

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Chapter Eight On Thursday afternoon, after she got home from work, Gillian once more massed her forces in the library of Blackmoor Downs. Oz was as spic-and-span as usual, and Jamie had chosen a black cotton dress, completely out of character, except that it made her bosom look huge. We’re still in mourning, she had told Gillian when Gillian reminded her they weren’t attending a wake. Thought I’d make the point this time. Best to let the Yankee bastards remember that, right? Gillian mentioned that being from Colorado didn’t exactly qualify a person as a Yankee, but Jamie hadn’t much cared. She hadn’t softened when Gillian mentioned Hawk’s work with Old Sir, either. That’s personal. Jamie had given her chestnut curls a shake. This is business. And I think that man would sell his own kin to get his way in a business deal. Call it instinct. Gillian’s instinct led her to choose a different outfit for this encounter. No power suit. No office-chic skirts or jackets. This time, she was in khaki shorts with a white blouse that allowed for an ample glance of cleavage. Let him look, she had told herself in her mirror. That doesn’t mean I’ll let him touch. And maybe it’ll keep his warrior side in retreat. It was a nice surprise to feel so attractive, something she hadn’t much considered or enjoyed in her life. Hawk didn’t seem to care that she wasn’t small or delicate. When he wasn’t being a bastard, he treated her like a fragile flower. She couldn’t believe she was so comfortable choosing shorts, showing her plus-sized legs to a man she didn’t really know. Gillian seated herself at the executive table, on the end nearest the library door. She insisted that Jamie and Oz sit, too, and she let the dogs roam about the castle as usual instead of keeping them at attention by her side. Leaving the dogs out of the meeting was her gesture of good will. After all, Hawk had said he was wrong about the dogs. And she had kissed him. Heat immediately blistered Gillian’s cheeks. She fumbled with her pen, and tapped her fingers against the notepad she brought. Her vision blurred as she tried to quell her excitement, and she made herself focus on the number she had written on the pad. The figure was more than generous. Come on. Don’t be late. This time, I’m ready for you. Much to Gillian’s spectacular irritation, Hawk was late. Again.

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Ten minutes, then eleven, then twelve. Finally, at fifteen minutes past their appointed meeting time, when Gillian was about to climb out of her skin, Hawk arrived with Jarrod Dorn. His walk to the library was nowhere near as aggressive, but his stride and presence remained undeniably forceful. Gillian wet her lips as she took in his snug jeans and navy blue shirt. Hawk looked…modern. And he wore modern as well as medieval. When Hawk reached the library, Gillian noticed that the collar of his shirt was open. Just enough for her to wonder what it would feel like to put her lips against the curly hair she could see in the opening. Dropping her gaze to her hands, she waited until the two men sat across from her and pulled their chairs to the table. “Good afternoon.” Hawk’s British accent added an air of proper respect to his soft tone. Gillian looked up, keeping her expression even. “Hello. Thank you for coming, and for sitting down this time.” Behind her, Oz gave a patented sniff. Jamie added an asshole cough, but it was decidedly quieter than last time. Gillian then heard the distinct rustle of fabric as the butler nudged the housekeeper. “S-U-L,” Oz whispered. Shorthand for stiff upper lip. Gillian smiled. Her fingers tightened on her pen, and she felt her confidence rise. Hawk leaned forward, and Gillian couldn’t help but notice the predatory gleam in his eyes. This gleam wasn’t about sex, however. She could tell by the steely edge of his smile and the tension rippling through his muscles. Male aggression. The thrill of competition. This was about business. She felt her own resolve turn to iron. This man was no tenure committee. If she could have bland academic conversations with a woman she’d seen flogged and fucked in a dungeon, she could face Hawkins Blackmoor without flinching. She could handle herself in a situation like this, and damn him if he thought she couldn’t. “We’re off to a bit better start, I suppose.” He offered a tense nod. “What are our goals today, for this retry of our first official meeting?” Gillian gave him a short smile. She tore the page off her pad, folded the bottom of the page to the top, and slid it across the table. “My goal is to agree upon a number.” Hawk’s right eyebrow lifted, slightly. Good. He was surprised.

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He took the pad and unfolded the paper, keeping the number to himself. Jarrod Dorn didn’t attempt to look, even when Hawk cleared his throat. He met Gillian’s gaze with narrowed eyes. “This is what you’re asking for the land?” Once more, fabric rustled behind Gillian. She steadied herself by placing her hands on the table, palms down. “No. It’s what I’m offering for the castle.” Hawk stood so quickly that Gillian had to fight not to flinch after all. “I was under the impression we were here to work out an expedient method and proper price for me to assume my father’s estate.” Gillian glanced from Hawk to Jarrod. The muscle-bound Scotsman was attempting to be stoic, but she could see the worry on his face. She looked up at Reggie’s towering son. His cheeks were blazing, and his hands were fisted. A dark rage clouded around him like a sudden storm, and Gillian wondered if she should be afraid. She wasn’t. Not really. Instead, she felt her heart starting to ache. One thing had become suddenly and painfully obvious to her. This battle wasn’t about money to Hawk. No. The man wanted his father’s home, and it hurt him to think of surrendering it to anyone. Her throat tightened as she fished for words, for something to say to soothe him, to let him know she understood and to bring up the possibility of compromise. Before she could speak, however, Hawk held up the sheet from Gillian’s pad and tore it into bits. Hawk wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but anger was definitely a part of it. Tearing the paper gave him a moment’s peace, but then he wanted to shred the whole damned pad. “Easy, there,” Jarrod whispered, but Hawk cut him off with a glare before turning his eyes to Gillian. Her expression surprised him. She looked sad. Even a little frightened. Her eyes were misty, and she seemed close to tears. “I think we’re finished here.” Hawk cleared his throat to stem his fury. “I’ll expect a more reasonable discussion in our next meeting. I believe that by our signed agreement, we’re on for Sunday, unless that’s inconvenient.” Jarrod got to his feet, as did Gillian. “You don’t have to leave,” she said. “We can work this out.” “Not today.” Hawk focused his gaze on the table. He didn’t even want to look at Gillian or see her pleading eyes. He felt like his loyalties were straining in two directions, shredding him somewhere in the middle. If he looked at her, he might give

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in and let down his mother’s—his—family of Wanderers. There was too much at stake for him to risk emotion getting the better of logic. Jarrod coughed, and the Scotsman’s ruddy cheeks only lent conviction to Hawk’s need to win this battle with a woman he was beginning to like a bit too much. “Let’s go,” he grumbled to Jarrod. Gillian didn’t protest as he left the library, and for once, Jarrod had no smart remarks. Hawk’s footsteps echoed against the stone floors of Blackmoor Downs. He could see the greyhounds, curious, peering around the hall corner at him, and he battled back a wave of rage. Why did the dogs get to live in his father’s castle unchallenged? No one fought about their rights to inheritance. And no one seemed to think it odd that Reggie ran around rescuing dogs and stray women when he had a son to be concerned with. The soft clack of claws caught Hawk’s attention, and he glanced over his shoulder. Old Sir had emerged from the pack, walking with a stiff, elderly grace. Hawk didn’t slow down, but he became ultra-conscious of the dog. Arthur appeared to have designs on following him, and for some reason, Hawk felt a fierce satisfaction because of that. At least something at Blackmoor Downs was on his side. With a harsh jerk, Hawk opened the front door of the castle and stormed outside— crashing straight into a man who had his hand raised to knock. “Whoa!” Jarrod grabbed the man. Silver gleamed in his black beard, and he was wearing a brown tweed suit. “My apologies.” Hawk drew himself up, taking the man’s measure. He was tall, maybe an inch taller than Hawk, and powerfully built. Might do well at jousting. James Bond kept popping into Hawk’s thoughts, but of course, that was ridiculous. Who was he? Hawk cut his eyes back toward the library. And what was a James Bond look-alike doing here? The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Steven Cathcart. I work at John’s River in the History department. I’m the chairman.” Hawk returned the handshake, still sizing up the newcomer. “Hawk Blackmoor. Have you come to see Dr. Markham?” “Yes, I have.” The man broke into a likable smile, though Hawk’s first urge was to punch him hard enough to send him reeling down the castle steps. “I have a few more things to go over with her before her next tenure meeting, and I was hoping she might be in the mood to accept a dinner invitation.” “She’s in the library,” Jarrod offered, and Hawk thought about punching Jarrod instead. “Thanks.” Cathcart turned his gaze to Hawk. “So, you’re Reggie’s son. I can see the resemblance now. And I can’t tell you how much we miss him. Great man.” 76

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“Yes, well.” Hawk nodded. “We need to be getting back to camp.” Cathcart’s eyebrows arched, but he said nothing. “See you around,” Jarrod called as they turned away from Gillian’s visitor and headed toward the Wanderers’ enclosure. Hawk clenched and unclenched his fists as he walked down the sloping lawn toward the more permanent encampment the Wanderers were building. Of course Gillian would have a boyfriend. A woman that beautiful was bound to have men interested in her all the time. But why hadn’t she said anything? And why had she agreed to kiss him? To go to dinner tomorrow night? Thursday nights for college chums, Friday nights for stray gypsy dogs? Was that the game? I still get my dinner, even if you get angry, she had told him. Well, he was angry. And damn the dinner. “Are you all right?” Jarrod asked. Hawk kept his mouth closed even though they were a safe distance from the castle, because nothing he had to say would have been pleasant. His mind was consumed of thoughts of Gillian, living happily ever after in his father’s home, with Steven Cathcart sharing her bed. Jarrod wisely found his own duties to attend to once they got back to camp, and Hawk busied himself with kicking hay bales and rearranging tilting targets on the course. Around sunset, he saddled Galahad for a ride. Cathcart’s white sports car was still in Blackmoor’s driveway. This sight of it galled Hawk, but he turned the horse and headed back through the camp. Everywhere around him, Wanderer families were settling in for the evening. He watched parents gather children, couples call for each other and fall laughing into warm embraces—hell, even Jarrod had conned someone into a date. Every now and then, he could hear the big Scotsman laugh, and see the flicker of a lantern in the woods. Hawk’s belly clenched. This night, like so many, he was acutely aware of being left out of life’s mainstream. Thanks, Mother. He guided Galahad along the camp’s perimeter, trying not to think about what it would have been like to have a mother and a father, and a stable home. Would he have married in college? Would he have children by now? In the distance, he saw Sara pursuing one of her twins, flapping her skirt to chase the boy into her tent. “Who am I kidding?” Hawk pulled Galahad up short in the twilight. “What kind of father would I be, after the non-example I had?”

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The sound of an engine ground through the cool September evening. Hawk glanced over his shoulder to see Gillian get into her university gentleman’s white sports car before it slowly pulled away. “Perfect,” he muttered. His mood darkened beyond measure, and he was about to guide Galahad back toward the barn when the horse nickered. “What is it?” Hawk grumbled. The horse whickered again and bobbed his head. Hawk looked down. Old Sir was seated on the ground, panting with the effort of his trek from Blackmoor Downs. “I’ll be damned. You did follow me, after all.” Cursing himself for not paying more attention and noticing the poor dog sooner, Hawk dismounted and picked up Old Sir. Arthur offered no resistance, and in fact, his tail flopped in the air. Cradling the dog, Hawk walked carefully to the stables and dropped off Galahad with the grooms. Then, after allowing himself to nuzzle the dog’s soft ear, Hawk carried Old Sir to his tent and retired for the evening.

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Chapter Nine Gillian tried her best to remain calm in class on Friday, but she felt like she had birds fluttering in her chest. Students asked her questions she didn’t process, and at lunch, Steven Cathcart had to touch her hand twice to get her attention. That wasn’t a good thing. Gillian definitely didn’t want her Department Chair getting ideas. Well, more ideas than he already had, after she was foolish enough to drive back to campus with him to pick up some notes he forgot. At least he had given her some additional tips on preparing for her next tenure meeting—but he had tried to kiss her goodnight when he dropped her back at Blackmoor. She had pushed him away. Made some polite excuse. Gillian sighed and put her face in her hands. What if Hawk had seen that? She had a feeling Hawk Blackmoor trusted no one easily. All it would take was one slip, one wrong step, and whatever was growing between them would shatter like so much glass. If it hadn’t already been shattered at that meeting redo. She should have left well enough alone. Damn, but Hawk was a stubborn bastard. Guarded. Hard to read. Dominant. With a sigh, Gillian forced herself to look up at her class. They were studiously working on essays, erasing and scratching and turning pages. What was she trying to grow with Hawk, anyway? She had already established that he was a man with few connections. What did she hope to gain by going out with him? The castle? A compromise? No. Gillian sighed again. Whatever was happening between them was separate from their business negotiations. Or was it? Did Hawk Blackmoor think romancing her would earn him the deed to the land and a share of Reggie’s fortune? Now who has the trust issues?

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And he had been so angry after the meeting yesterday, their dinner date might be cancelled. She didn’t know. He had promised in the garden, but promises were only words. Exercising a significant force of will, Gillian turned her attention back to her students. She managed to keep herself on task the rest of the day, but it wasn’t easy. When afternoon finally arrived, the drive back to Blackmoor Downs was excruciating. Gillian argued with herself repeatedly, trying to convince the air inside the car that she could have dinner with Hawk without taking too many risks. Business was separate from pleasure. She was an adult. She could handle it. Of course she could. And she kept telling herself that until she found herself in her castle room, standing naked in front of her mirror. Gillian hugged herself and shivered. No one had seen her naked in years. “Dear God.” Gillian closed her eyes. “I’m not ready for this.” And when will you be ready? she asked herself. Next year? Ten more years from now? Sooner or later, history and fantasies won’t be enough to feed your heart. Even Stan had never fed her heart, and she had been engaged to him. As much as two ignorant kids could be engaged. Stan was kind and dependable and utterly devoted to her. They had dreamed teenaged dreams of normal lives, careers teaching elementary school—even filling those schools with children of their own. Stan was warmth and comfort. He was kindness and predictability, and in the end, he was, without a doubt, noble in the face of gut-wrenching violence. “Stan was safe.” Gillian forced air into her tightening lungs. “Like my home, my plans and my dreams.” And Hawk Blackmoor was everything Stan wasn’t. Dangerous. Moody. Unpredictable. Anything but safe. His earlier words floated through Gillian’s memory, electrifying her even days later. When you’re sure. And be sure, Gillian, because I don’t think I’ll settle for just a kiss… Her eyes flew open. Chills covered Gillian’s entire body, and her nipples hardened until they hurt. Her clit throbbed. For a few guilty seconds, she allowed herself to imagine Hawk’s powerful hands traveling over her skin. Exploring places no one had touched in a long, long time. Her breath caught in her throat, and she felt the heat of her body’s response. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and tears slipped down her flushing cheeks. For once, a feeling other than sadness or frustration—and that feeling scared Gillian to death. Was it possible that Hawk could unlock her trapped emotions? Could she reach through his wall of pain and touch something within him? Could Hawk Blackmoor possibly heal her heart’s fathomless wounds? “No.” Gillian choked back a sob.

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How could she even think such a foolish thing? “No one can do that.” She shook her head and covered her body with her arms and hands. “Not now, and maybe not ever.” Flooded with embarrassment, Gillian turned her back on her own reflection and managed to calm herself by focusing on the dogs as she dressed. Five of the greyhounds were in her room—girls on the bed, boys on the floor, as usual. All but Arthur, who of course would be in the garden. Where, Gillian realized, Hawk had been feeding the old dog and nursing him back to health. The traitor might even be in Hawk’s tent. In Hawk’s bed. Gillian swallowed hard. Of all the things she had expected from Reggie’s son after their first meeting, such heartfelt kindness to Arthur hadn’t been on the list. Hawk was definitely full of surprises. Gillian took a deep, cleansing breath to steady her thoughts, then picked an offwhite cotton skirt and matching blouse from her closet. It was loose and flowing, and it soothed her tension. Maybe she would even wear her hair down. After all, her lucky clasp was gone. Gillian thought Hawk had the Heron Knot. She thought she remembered him slipping it from her hair in the garage, but she wasn’t sure. She planned to ask him tonight, during dinner, when the moment seemed right. “Wake up, guys.” Gillian smiled at the dogs as she pulled her hair from its bun and smoothed her skirt. “How do I look?” Morgan’s tail thumped against Gillian’s bedspread, and slowly, Guinevere and Elaine picked up the rhythm. Lancelot whined, and Merlyn, as usual, lay sound asleep and without a care. Gillian couldn’t imagine a more perfect response. After she finished dressing, Gillian made it to the Wanderers’ camp a few minutes before six. Since their arrival, the troupe had moved their dwellings to the far side of the castle, in between the creek and the gardens. Gillian could no longer see the troupe’s activities from her window, and ten-foot tent walls effectively blocked any glimpse from the driveway. She found herself curious about how they were making ready for the Wanderer Renaissance Fair—especially when she reached the newly completed entryway. Instead of the tent flaps it had been, the entrance to the Wanderers’ camp now resembled the front of an ancient inn. Red and purple banners flapped lazily against wooden supports, just above a rounded archway. A small sign beside the archway, lettered in Old English script read, Pray enter, humble wanderer, and be at rest. Gillian paused. Pray enter, humble wanderer…and be at rest. She swallowed. Somehow, the simple greeting made the camp more concrete. More…permanent. Gillian suddenly found it harder to cross the threshold. She felt as if

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she were entering someone else’s home, or sneaking into someplace she didn’t really belong. Upon stepping through the archway, however, Gillian decided that she had been wrong. She hadn’t snuck into someplace she didn’t belong. She had stepped back in time. There were people everywhere. Men with thick heavy beards wearing tunics and tights. Women with long skirts and aprons. Shirtless little boys in knee-length breeches. Or were those little girls? Who could tell? They all had long hair and dirty faces—and big, big smiles. Gillian saw kittens and cats and mutts and fires with pots bubbling and steaming above. Meat roasted on spits, and the air smelled of ginger, smoke and ale. The sun hung low like a sultry torch, blazing against two neatly trimmed main roads. The roads crossed at right angles, dividing the encampment into large pie slices. Row upon row of pointed tents bore banners with squares of different colors, and some tents had triangular standards flapping from center poles. Wooden craft booths filled the center of “town”, lining the main roads as though they had always occupied Blackmoor Downs. Farther back, on Gillian’s left, there was an eating area with flatter tents and long tables. On her right, in the distance, she could make out a square tent with a corral that could only be a stable with some sort of single grassy track in front. Despite the fascinating transformation of what was essentially her side yard, Gillian was most captivated by what stood dead center at the opposite end of the road she was standing on. Hawk’s tent. She’d seen it before, but not like this, with the entire camp tableau set up around it. It was bright red, towering above the other tents, and it dominated the scene. Gillian glanced over her shoulder and realized that the main road, if continued, would run directly to the side door of the castle. “He’s set it up like a traditional manor and lands,” she murmured. English Manorism. A castle’s lord lent land to vassals, receiving food and service in exchange for the castle’s protection. A much more equitable system than feudalism, but still, the arrangement bothered Gillian. She was no heartless English land baron. Is that how Hawk sees me? Pain gripped her heart, and Gillian forced herself to shake it off. “This is ridiculous. I’m not in medieval England. I’m in John’s River, Tennessee, and this is the twenty-first century.” As if in answer, the distinct sound of medieval music drifted toward her. A chalumeau, if she wasn’t mistaken. A picture of the small reed pipe flashed through her mind. It was like a clarinet, with only six finger-holes. Strings joined in, and Gillian was 82

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fairly certain the second instrument was a lyre. The tune started and stopped, lilting along, and some of the children danced to it as they ran past. No one took much notice of Gillian, though she caught a few sidelong glances as she made her way toward Hawk’s tent. As she drew closer, she could see his horse off to the side. The horse was saddled and standing still even though his reins were loose on the ground, and beside him, someone was bent over, stuffing saddle packs with a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. Hawk. So, their dinner date was on, after all. He was keeping his word. He was dressed all in black again, but this time, his tight-fitting pants seemed to be made of soft leather. His tunic clung to his perfectly formed chest, and Gillian could see the laces hanging open at the top as he worked. Her throat ran dry. The man is perfect, except that he thinks I’m an evil land baron. Before she could speak or move, Jarrod Dorn rumbled down the crossing road toting two matching boys on his shoulders. The children were redheaded, too, and small, no more than three or four years old. The three of them passed right by Gillian without seeing her, and Jarrod’s bulk blocked Hawk from Gillian’s view as the big Scotsman spoke. “I found these growths on a log near the creek. Think they might be elves?” The boys giggled and jerked at Jarrod’s rangy auburn mane. “Well, now. That’s a mystery.” Hawk’s deep voice made Gillian shiver. “Did they try to cast a spell when you caught them?” “No, no.” Jarrod feigned fear. “God’s teeth—d’ya think they might? Wee bairns like these?” “Elves are a dangerous lot, my man.” Hawk stepped around Jarrod and took one of the boys into his arms. The child, obviously delighted, kicked and squealed as Hawk tickled his belly. “Sara’s asleep against a willow tree,” Jarrod said, hugging the second boy to his huge chest. “Poor lass. She’s exhausted.” Hawk nodded. He kissed the tops of both little red heads. “Have you two done your tests?” The boys nodded. The one in Jarrod’s arms said, “Devon hadda have a shot. I didn’t. Devon eated three sugar cubes outta Jimmy Two-Shanks’ horse bag. I didn’t.” “Good boy, Alvin. I’m proud of you.” Hawk reached out and ruffled Alvin’s hair. Then he lifted the other boy in his own arms until he was nose to nose with the child. “As for you, Master Devon—have you no shame? No sugar, young man. You know it will make you sick.” The little boy giggled and pinched Hawk’s nose.

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Hawk laughed and pretended to bite the boy’s nose in revenge, then handed the child back to Jarrod. “Take them to Mary and ask her to watch them. And have Alice run a blanket out to Sara. That woman could use some extra rest.” Jarrod nodded and hauled the boys away, leaving Gillian exposed on the main road. She realized she was tugging at her loose hair, shocked by the tenderness and affection Hawk had shown the children—and by their obvious affection for him. He would make a good father, she thought, and her cheeks immediately heated up at her own boldness. Of course, Hawk Blackmoor chose that moment to notice her. Gillian swallowed hard and let go of her hair. Hawk’s eyes traveled from her head to her neck, to her chest—all the way to her toes and back to her face. Slowly. Gillian found herself barely able to breathe as he gave her a small bow, then met her gaze. His dark eyes were ablaze with undisguised male appreciation, and she felt her body’s swift and aching response. “Greetings, milady.” Hawk’s smile was devilish, and he winked. “So glad you could join me.” Old Sir nosed out of Hawk’s tent and blinked at Gillian as if to say, You’re a few minutes late, you know. Hawk couldn’t take his eyes off Gillian. Her hair lay about her shoulders like liquid sunshine—and that blouse and skirt, the way they hung against her curves made his hands ache to touch her. And he had so intended to be angry. Courteously cool, but focused on determining why Gillian was so unwilling to surrender the castle—and on the exact nature of her relationship with the John’s River professor with the fancy white car. Damn. This woman must be a witch. There’s no other explanation for how she affects me. “Glad to see we’re still on for dinner.” Gillian’s cheeks flushed a soft red, matching the sunset. “Where are we going?” “To the forest, for an evening picnic.” Hawk gestured behind the camp to Blackmoor’s expansive wooded grounds. “I’ve located a good spot, and I’ve packed suitable fare for our old-style feast. Give me a minute, and I’ll saddle a mount for you.” Gillian’s fingers traveled to her hair. “I—um—I don’t know how to ride a horse. I’ve only done it once before, and that was a pony at a fair. I was seven.” Hawk frowned. What now? Walk the distance and lead Galahad? No. A gentleman would let Gillian ride and walk beside her. Of course, I’ve never considered myself a gentleman.

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The frown slowly became a grin as Hawk patted Galahad’s flank. “I suppose I’ll have to ride with you. Galahad is strong enough for the both of us.” Gillian’s blue eyes darted from the horse to Hawk. “Is that safe?” Hawk folded his arms. “Is safety your main concern?” “Yes. No. I mean—oh, never mind.” Gillian ran her hand through her splendid hair. “I don’t even know how to get on a horse.” A bigger smile tugged at Hawk’s lips, but he didn’t want Gillian to think he was making fun of her fear. She looked flustered, yet natural, and so very beautiful. He almost felt guilty for anticipating the feel of her body against his as they rode Galahad into the woods. Almost. Hawk turned and winked at Old Sir. “Back inside for the night, friend. This is a one-fellow outing, excepting the horse.” The dog complied, fading through the flap like a graceful shadow of leg and tail. “I can’t believe how he’s taken to you,” Gillian commented. Hawk turned back to her, tempted to ask if she might take to him as well. Instead, he held out his hand. “If you’ll come here, I’ll help you mount.” Gillian’s expression changed from frightened to wary. For a moment, Hawk worried that she would refuse, but she surprised him by inching forward until she drew even with Galahad’s flank, a few feet away from Hawk. “You can touch him.” Hawk nodded to the horse. “He’s well-trained and very gentle as long as I’m around.” Gillian narrowed her eyes, as if assessing Hawk’s truthfulness. Her fingers shook, and then slowly, she lifted her hand and rubbed Galahad’s smooth back. The horse’s ears twitched at the unfamiliar touch, but he didn’t move. Hawk watched as Gillian’s graceful fingers enjoyed Galahad’s black coat, and felt a twinge of jealousy. He wanted her hands on him. He wanted her to touch him like that—shy at first, then freely, enjoying what she found. “He feels like a greyhound,” Gillian murmured. “So soft. Was he easy to train?” Hawk shrugged, feeling the now-familiar ache in cock as Gillian’s fresh, enticing scent bloomed around him. “I suppose. With time and patience, most horses are. Can’t be brutal with them, though. Horses require respect, tenderness and a steady hand.” Like women. Perhaps like you, Gillian? Hawk let his eyes ask the question, and when Gillian glanced at him, she blushed an even deeper red. “What about discipline?” she asked quietly. The question nearly floored Hawk. He struggled not to gape at Gillian, certain she could have no idea of what she just implied. Yet, the way she was looking at him, he wondered.

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“Well, yes,” he said, working not to stumble over the simple words. “Some horses have a need for discipline. A firm, masterful hand.” “Greyhounds are the same way,” she said, eyeing Hawk with a little smile on her petal-soft lips. “Well-bred, naturally well-mannered, intelligent—but high-strung and temperamental if they’re handled poorly.” “I see.” Hawk cleared his throat and tried to quell the surge of fire coursing through him. He wanted nothing more than to grab the woman and kiss her, fiercely and deeply, like a knight of old, claiming his prize. Instead, he tore his eyes from the vision of her loose dress clinging to her breasts and hips, and with a mighty tug, tightened Galahad’s cinch one last time. As Gillian continued to stroke the horse, this time twisting her delicate fingers in Galahad’s mane, Hawk strapped on the saddlebags. He couldn’t look at her without wondering what it would feel like to have her hands in his hair, gripping it, tugging it as she cried out in the heat of passion. The ache in Hawk’s cock became a full-fledged throb as he offered Gillian his hand and put on his best knight-of-the-realm voice. “Ready, milady. You have but to mount our charger, and I will serve you a dinner unlike any you’ve ever had.” “No doubt.” Gillian’s voice was low and teasing, surprising Hawk again. Pleasantly. Without hesitation, she took his hand and allowed him to help her place her foot in the stirrup, climb into the English-style saddle, and scoot forward toward Galahad’s withers. Her skirt was a problem, but after a few tugs and readjustments, it billowed down her legs showing just enough of her shapely calves to make Hawk sweat. What had he gotten himself into? “Wrap your hands in his mane,” he instructed as he lifted Galahad’s reins from the ground and brought them back around Gillian’s waist. “Got it.” She nodded, and her hands disappeared into the jet-black hair tumbling off Galahad’s neck. Hawk put his foot in the stirrup and swung up behind Gillian. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Hawk couldn’t even bring himself to take a breath. And then, with a graceful shift of her weight, Gillian settled against him. He heard her sigh of pleasure, and wondered if she felt his erection pressing into her backside. Biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, Hawk slipped his arms around Gillian’s waist, collected the reins and gave Galahad a tug to the left. The horse’s ears flicked forward. Galahad turned to the left and walked toward the boundary of the Wanderers’ camp with slow, deliberate steps.

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Chapter Ten Gillian had her eyes closed. She didn’t want to know if anyone was watching. Surely they would see the heat on her face. They might even hear her heart, because it had to be beating louder than the clop of Galahad’s hooves. Her nose told her they were passing fires with beef roasting slowly above the flames. After that, the stables. Then they were walking on grass, drawing closer to nearby pines and cedars. The gentle flap-flap of the back enclosure walls punctuated the otherwise quiet evening. Hawk’s body melded with hers, moving with the rhythm of the horse’s gait. Up and back. Up and back. His hard cock pressed into her back with each step. She wasn’t offended, though. Far from it. She was thrilled to know he found her attractive, and thrilled to know he felt as aroused as she did. I can’t believe I’m thinking like this. Gillian pulled at Galahad’s mane. I don’t give myself to men I’ve known only a few weeks. For that matter, I haven’t given myself to anyone in a long, long time. The fire between her legs made her feel weak and vulnerable in ways she hadn’t considered. Gillian opened her eyes and tried to ground herself as Hawk steered the horse out of the Wanderers’ camp through an opening in the enclosure walls. Why was she going into the woods with the man? Was she crazy? As if to comfort her, Hawk tightened his embrace. The strength of his arms shattered her resistance. Gillian couldn’t deny what she wanted. The force of her longing drained her strength and resolve. With a sigh of surrender, she rested her head against Hawk’s shoulder, thrilled by his low rumble of approval. Again, Hawk tightened his embrace. He seemed to have the barest control over the horse, yet Galahad plodded faithfully onward, carrying them farther and farther away from civilization. Gillian couldn’t stand the ache in her clit as Hawk’s erection teased her from behind. I want him. I want him to do things he’d probably never do. After a moment of intense silence, Hawk murmured, “What is Steven Cathcart to you?” Gillian considered being flippant or annoyed, but those were fleeting thoughts. When Steven came to the castle—Hawk must have seen him and wondered who he was.

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Now Hawk wanted to know if he was encroaching upon another man’s territory, pushing Gillian in a direction she didn’t want to go—or shouldn’t. How old-fashioned and quaint. Or totally jealous. Maybe all of the above. “He’s a friend,” Gillian said, noting the quake of her voice. “My department chair. We aren’t involved.” She felt Hawk’s intense embrace ease, then slip away. He caressed her arms, letting his hands drop to close over hers. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he trailed his fingers and Galahad’s reins up her forearms, past her elbows, all the way to her shoulders and back down again. Gillian shuddered. The aching need inside became a chasm, screaming for him to fill her, to show her a real man’s passion. Stan had been just a boy, and she a raw girl, too young to know her own tastes. They had loved each other in the fumbling way teens love. Her other few lovers—just distant encounters in the dark. But this… This was something else entirely. Hawk moved in the saddle. His arms slipped back around her waist. He nibbled at her neck, pressing his lips against the tender skin below her ears, beneath her hair. She felt like he was inching inside her, one kiss at a time, coaxing her open with each warm breath that spilled down her collar. A groan escaped her tight throat, and she tilted her head, letting his teeth find her flesh. Shocks of pleasure coursed through her, hot lightning as he bit her softly. Easy. As if he were tasting her. She swayed against him, excited beyond thought, yet embarrassed at her own boldness as she savored the feel of his straining erection against her backside. Hawk caught her as she tried to move away, pulling her into him, matching the beat of Galahad’s walk. He was practically taking her right there in the saddle, with nothing but thin walls of cloth holding him back. All the while, his mouth explored her neck, her ear—even the little hollow between her neck and shoulders. With each nip and kiss, Gillian heard herself moan again, helpless against her yearning, heated to the brink of release with each step the horse took. She didn’t consider fighting Hawk. She knew now the depth of her desire for the man. Still, a part of her mind battled the exquisite thrust of his body against hers. It’s not right… It’s too soon… Seconds later, before she could give a voice to the remnants of her reservations, Galahad slowed to a stop. In the sudden silence, Gillian’s breath sounded far too loud. Both she and Hawk were taking air in ragged gasps. Hawk’s hands were on her shoulders, massaging her, and he was still kissing her neck. The other side now. And her ear, back down to her shoulder. His hands slid to her waist, down to her hips, rocking her gently back and forth against him.

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Or was she the one doing the rocking? Gillian’s thoughts swam as her body ached. Hawk’s hands burned like flames, branding her wherever they traveled. To her thighs, and forward, through the heat in her vagina, and up. As his hands closed over her tender breasts and squeezed the nipples, Gillian moaned. She rubbed against his palms, grabbing his hands and urging his fingers closer, until he pinched her with more force. Gillian moaned again and pressed harder, trembling as Hawk kneaded her nipples. She heard Hawk’s growl of pleasure, felt his lips taste her neck again. Then, just like that, Hawk moved away from her. In one fluid motion, he swung off the horse. Gillian’s body cried out at the wrongness of Hawk’s absence, but before she could say anything, he pulled her from Galahad’s back. Slowly, he lowered her toward the ground, letting his face slide against her belly, her breasts, her chest, her neck and finally her cheek as she touched down, firmly in his powerful embrace. Gillian was shaking, but she didn’t think she was afraid. A flood of emotions threatened to burst out in waves as Hawk kissed the line of her eye and pulled back to look at her. The setting sun cast shadows on his handsome face, but his dark eyes blazed. Blazed for her. “Do you know what you do to me?” His voice was hoarse and almost harsh. “Do you have any idea?” She tried to speak, but Hawk didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth claimed hers with a hunger both frightening and wonderful. Gillian parted her lips, allowed his tongue to push inside, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He kissed her hard, hard. Her feet left the ground as he lifted her against his chest. Too far, that little warning voice whispered in her mind. You’re going too far, too fast. And the wicked thing was, Gillian knew that. She just didn’t care anymore. Gillian’s willing lips fanned Hawk’s flaming desire. Her sweet, minty scent, the soft moisture of her tongue teasing his—it was more than he could stand. His arms tightened around her, sweeping her off the ground, claiming her as his. Completely his. She clung to him, didn’t resist. No. She was far from resisting. The swell of her breasts crushed into his chest. Enough. He had to take her now, now, now. Biting back growls, Hawk knelt and tenderly eased the woman down to a bed of soft leaves and pine needles. As he settled himself between her thighs, the forest fell silent around them, as if to honor this most primitive moment of human bonding. Gillian’s blue eyes smoldered as she gazed up at Hawk, running her fingers from his cheek to his neck. Her hands were shaking. 89

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“Are you afraid?” he murmured. His voice was thick and heavy, and his words echoed in the quiet woods. Sweet perfumes of pine and cedar mingled with Gillian’s delicious mint as the woman who had once given him nothing but ice melted into a slow, liquid shake of the head. No. Leaves rustled as she answered him with her eyes, with the tentative, curious touch of her fingers. No. Not afraid. The look in her eyes spoke of want and wet heat. She was fire beneath him, so soft, so pliant. He had to know exactly what she desired. More than that. He had to know what this woman craved, in those secret recesses of the soul, where true fantasies dwelt. “What you said back at the camp, about horses and dogs needing discipline—a masterful hand—were you teasing me, or have you thought about being with a man who might master you?” Gillian’s intake of breath was answer enough, but to her credit, she met his gaze— ah, the blue fire in her eyes!—and said, “Yes.” Hawk steadied the pound of his heart with a few deep breaths of his own. “Do you know what that means, Gillian?” Again, she didn’t hold back. “Yes.” “How?” He couldn’t help the question. With this woman, he had to know, to be sure. At this, Gillian hesitated. She seemed to be about to rebuke him for asking things that were none of his concern, but she changed her mind. “I saw a couple having sex in a dungeon. I’ve never been able to forget it.” “A dungeon meant for sexual pleasure?” Hawk knew he was pressing, but it had to start here, now, if he was going to give her what he now knew she wanted. “Yes,” she whispered. “For fucking?” Gillian flinched, which made Hawk smile. “Words like that embarrass you, don’t they, love?” She blinked, gave a half-nod, then finally, “Yes.” Hawk shifted his weight against her, pinning her more fully to the ground. “What about words like pussy, like cock? Like come and clit—all of those?” Gillian reached up to grip the sides of his face. Her cheeks turned redder than a spring dawn. “I thought so.” He brushed his lips across hers but wouldn’t allow a kiss. “Are you sure you want to play at dungeon games, proper lady?”

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She started to answer, but before she could, Hawk silenced her with a fierce stare. “Take care. If you tell me yes again, I’m going to proceed. For the time we’re here in this clearing, I’m going to show you what a real Master can do. Do you understand me?” Gillian hesitated for a long, long time. The two of them lay together, him on top of her with his arms braced to either side of her head, legs between her thighs, breathing in time with each other, as soft winds stirred the grass. Hawk realized that if she refused him, he’d be devastated. The realization made him angry, but he contained that like he contained emotions in battles or negotiations. “I—” her voice was softer than the breezes when it caught in her throat. She coughed, then managed a quiet, “Yes. I understand.” Hawk stared into her eyes, making certain of her consent. Instead of fear or weakness, he saw that bright, hidden fire again, sparkling blue out of those calm, reserved depths. “Then you’re mine until I put us back on the horse. Do you agree?” Damn, he sounded as husky as a teenaged boy. “Y-yes.” “If this becomes too much for you, say history. Like you teach. If you speak that word, I’ll stop and take you back to the castle.” Gillian nodded again. Closed her eyes. Opened them. Her heart was beating so hard Hawk could see the pulse in her throat. Unable to help himself, he dipped his head and ran his lips from the line of her jaw to her collarbone and back up again, tracing that pulse. She shuddered and moaned so softly. Like the trees might hear her. Hawk pulled back and stared into those blue-fire eyes one more time. “Trust me,” he said, more instruction than request. “Lie still until I tell you to move, and don’t make a sound. That’s a command. Tell me yes if you understand, and address me as Master.” A flash of white heat from that tantalizing gaze, then, “Yes, Master.” Feeling her go still beneath him, Hawk kissed her so deeply he lost his sense of the trees, the sky, even the water rushing nearby. Everything seemed to vanish. There was nothing but Gillian now, and the urgency of her lips. That fresh, sweet female taste. She was trembling, but otherwise she lay still, just as he had instructed. “That’s a good girl. I think you’ll be the Master’s wench. A wanton wench, ready to do anything she’s told. Would you like that?” He straddled Gillian, then gazed down at her as he stroked her arms, gauging the effect of his words. Gillian looked both confused and nervous, and more than a little excited. But she didn’t move or make a sound past the quick, sharp whisper of her breath. She was such a natural submissive. Hawk sensed that truth, felt it sizzle through his molten blood. 91

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“You have permission to speak when I address you. Tell me—would you like to be my wench?” “Yes,” Gillian said quickly. Hawk cupped her breast and pinched her nipple through her blouse, hard enough to make her gasp. “Yes what, wench?” Before she could answer, he pinched the hard nub of her breast again. “Yes, Master!” she said louder than she meant to. He could tell from the increasing flush in her cheeks. This was a woman accustomed to total control over herself. Over her body. It would be harder than she thought to surrender her will and pleasure to any Master, but Hawk felt confident he could train her. He knew he could satisfy her in ways she had only let herself dream of experiencing. To reward her good behavior, Hawk softened his touch on her excited nipple. He massaged it lovingly as the tender flesh strained against her cotton blouse. “This feels good.” He smiled at her. “I can tell from your eyes. You want to moan, to show me how sweet you are. To prove how wanton you can be, wench. You’re thinking about moving, aren’t you?” Gillian didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Master.” In response, Hawk began a firm massage of her other nipple. Her body tensed, and she clamped her teeth together. Gods. She must have been imagining something like this for a long, long time. Hawk’s cock went from hard to throbbing in seconds. He wanted her so badly he could already feel the silk of her channel clenched around him, hear her cries as she came again and again after a hard, driving fuck. Gillian’s willingness was going to test his resolve more than hers. He tightened his legs against her hips, kept up his fondling of her nipples, and bent down to once more explore the hot velvet of her mouth. She gasped her pleasure as he rolled the stiff nubs between his thumb and forefinger again and again and again. “Would you like to move, wench?” “Yes, Master,” Gillian said against his lips. “Please.” “Then show me how much you want it. Let me hear how shameless you can be.” Gillian arched beneath him, pressing her pussy into his erection. Her breath grew ragged, and he kept kissing her. He turned loose one breast and let his free hand travel down the curve of her hip, rocking her against his throbbing hardness. She groaned again, shifting beneath him—and he was shocked to feel her hands at his waist, pulling at the leather ties of his breeches. Well, he had told her to show him, hadn’t he? He just hadn’t expected such a direct display. Before Hawk could regain himself and react, Gillian loosened the ties and delved inside his breeches until she was holding his cock. Squeezing him, letting her hands run the length of his aching shaft each time he teased her nipple. 92

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Her eyes seemed to ask, Do you like this? Am I pleasing you? “You’re an eager little wench,” was the best he could manage. Gillian’s hands were relentless, stroking him so impatiently he thought he would lose his mind. Focusing his thoughts like an archer sighting a target, Hawk brought himself back under better control. “It’s been a while since you’ve had a man, hasn’t it?” “Yes, Master.” That pleased him unreasonably much. He almost grinned with possessive adolescent satisfaction, but held his sterner expression in place. To tease her, he thrust his cock into her hand, pumping once, twice, to give her a hint of what he might do later. When the time was right. When she shivered from head to foot, Hawk demanded, “Tell me what you’re thinking.” “You’re so big,” Gillian whispered. “I mean, so big, Master. You feel good. Exciting.” “And what do you want?” “To keep touching you. I want to see you, Master.” “Be specific, wench. What do you want to see?” Gillian hesitated. Hawk gave her a warning glance and pinched hard on the nipple he still had trapped. Immediately, Gillian responded, “Your…your cock.” Hawk couldn’t concentrate on anything but the feel of Gillian’s hand leashing him, leading him like one of her greyhounds. It took all of his self-control to ease back and detach his hand from her breast—and her hand from his cock. He held his position, straddled over her hips. It afforded an excellent view. “In time. You need to learn patience, I think. And to increase my pleasure, which will increase yours.” His beautiful wench looked so disappointed he would have relented if he hadn’t been doing this for years, if he hadn’t known that delayed gratification was so much better than impulsive satiation. He studied her for a moment, then said, “I’m going to see you first. Your breasts, then your belly. Unbutton your blouse.” Gillian rewarded him by turning the color of overripe apples. For a moment, a look of true misery crossed her face, causing him pause. The terrible thing she went through—has she been raped? Has someone misused her? No. He didn’t think that was it. But, what? He studied her face as her hands fumbled with her buttons. 93

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Reticence. That misery. Perhaps a little fear? Shame. Yes, that was it. Because he would see her naked? As if struck by a stinging slap, Hawk realized what she might fear. He reached down and stilled her hands with a firm grip. “Are you afraid to show me your body, Gillian? Because you’re larger than what society deems perfect?” Tears formed fast in her eyes, and he felt the definite collapse of her hands beneath his. So, that was it. The woman thought she was unattractive, that he would judge her and… A wave of rage made him squeeze her hips hard between his thighs, made him grip her fingers a bit too hard—not rage with her, but with the world in general, for hammering women with such nonsense. “I have no use for boys with breasts,” he growled through clenched teeth, jerking her hands away from her buttons so hard that he tore one loose. She gasped, eyes wide, but made no attempt to pull away. “If you learn only one thing from me this evening, it will be that many men want what you have to offer. A woman’s body. A woman’s curves. A woman’s full, tender flesh.” Hawk caught himself mid-tirade and once more exerted his battle-tested selfcontrol. “Do you understand me, wench?” A tear spilled from each of Gillian’s eyes, but no more moisture rose to replace what escaped. The color in her face eased a shade, back to the pinkish-red of excitement, of curiosity. After another few moments, she whispered, “Yes, Master.” “Good.” Hawk let go of her hands. “Now unbutton your blouse.” This time, Gillian attacked the task faster and with more motivation. One button, and the next, and the next. She came to the empty place where he had torn the button away, paused, but moved straight ahead. Slowly, she revealed the full swell of her cleavage, the heavy white lace of her bra above an equally cumbersome corset-like camisole, clearly designed to hold her in. To make her more attractive to the bastards who believed women should be androgynous sticks. Hawk ran his eyes up and down what she offered, making certain to demonstrate his complete approval, even if the constriction of her undergarments made him want to take his knights and lay siege to the nearest garment factory. “Put your hands down,” he instructed. Once more, Gillian complied. Hawk slipped a hand in his breeches pocket and brought out a pocket knife, working hard not to smile at Gillian’s shocked expression.

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“You’re to learn patience, wench. I have no such restriction.” With that, Hawk used the ultra-sharp blade to slice through her corset-camisole. When he finished, he put the knife in his teeth, then spread the halves of fabric to allow himself a better view of her soft belly and her bra-clad breasts. She looked ready to slay him, to flay into him for destroying her clothes, but she didn’t speak. She still didn’t move. Damn, he wanted to fuck her. Right now. Hard. Maybe over and over until morning. Gillian’s nipples strained against the fabric of that medieval torture device she probably called a bra. That bra needed to go, definitely. Now and forever. Once more, he used the knife to make a fluid, surgical cut. The bra fell away, at last freeing her large breasts. Hawk drew a sharp breath as he studied the blood-rose of her nipples. A splendid offering, ends puckered into taut buds meant for his mouth, his teeth. “Can you see my opinion on my face?” He barely got the words out. “What do I think of your body thus far?” “I—you look—you look pleased, Master.” Her voice was tight with excitement. “Oh, I’m more than pleased.” Hawk couldn’t suppress a wolf’s hungry grin. “Can you imagine how I’m going to squeeze those magnificent breasts? How I’ll pinch them and suck the nipples—how I’ll bite the tips until you scream for mercy?” Gillian shuddered beneath him like she’d had a small orgasm. Nooooo…it couldn’t be that easy. But the color on her cheeks, the hitch in her breathing… Hawk folded the knife and thrust it back into his pocket. “Did you just come, wench?” Once more, Gillian’s brilliant eyes widened. She nodded. “Without permission,” Hawk clucked. He intended to be severe, but he was too intrigued. “Is it always so easy for you to have an orgasm?” That color was coming back. The I-should-be-ashamed color. The misery, though, seemed to stay at bay. “Yes, Master.” Hawk rocked back, keeping his eyes fixed on her nipples. They responded, growing tighter still. So suggestible. So…controllable. The dream submissive. “I see I was right about you,” he murmured. “Patience is certainly the lesson you need to learn.” Gillian swallowed hard. “What if I tell you not to come, wench? What if I forbid it?” More hesitation, then, “I’ll do my best, Master.” Hawk shot out a hand and gripped one rosebud nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezed and twisted, just enough to make her moan.

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“I forbid you to come without permission. You’ll ask next time, or face punishment. Do you understand?” Gillian nodded, then moaned again as he let her go. “Also, I don’t want you to wear undergarments in my presence again. No matter where we’re going or what we’re doing, no slip, no bra, no panties. When I have time, I’ll give you more appropriate clothes. Laces and silks to pamper such a luscious treat.” A part of his mind realized that he was projecting their relationship beyond this night in the clearing. Had she realized that as well? If so, she didn’t protest. Her eyelids were half-closed. Gooseflesh pebbled her breasts and belly. Damn. If he could make her come just by talking…oh, this would be sweet.

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Chapter Eleven Gillian almost didn’t hear the sounds of the forest over the beating of her heart and the pulse in her ears. Cool air caressed her bare breasts, drawing her nipples tighter and tighter under Hawk’s scrutiny. Tree leaves whispered, birds chattered and the horse whickered. Everything seemed to be watching her, watching Hawk turn her body into a throbbing ache as she lay partially naked beneath him. She felt wild and wanton…Hawk’s greedy wench. Can I really do this? Eyelids still lowered, her gaze rested on his erection. Moisture pooled between her thighs. Images of Hawk flipping her over onto her hands and knees, then driving that incredible cock into her as he spanked her buttocks, nearly made her come again. How it turned her on to be completely under this man’s power! He knifed my clothes. The way he’s looking at me—what he said…I can’t believe he’s a Dom just like I fantasized. And not just a Dom. A Master. He doesn’t want me just to submit. He wants me to be a slave! No undergarments in his presence, no matter where they were going, what they were doing. No slip, no bra, no panties…laces and silks… Surely he didn’t mean to continue this game beyond today. Even the way he had claimed to love her body had to be part of the sensual game. “Gillian…” His warning tone jerked her out of her thoughts. Flicking her tongue over dry lips, she raised her eyes to meet his black gaze and quivered at the anger in his expression. “Yes, Master?” He braced his hands to either side of her shoulders and pressed his hips between her thighs. “When I ask you a question, I expect to be answered immediately.” Question? Gillian fought to remember what he had said, but she’d been too lost in her lust for him. Her cheeks heated and she swallowed. “I—I didn’t hear you.” His scowl darkened. “You’ve earned your first real punishment, wench.” A mixture of fear and anticipation sent flutters through her belly as he pushed himself away from her and stood. He seemed to tower above her, hands on his hips like a medieval knight lording over his chattel. “To your feet. Now.” “Yes, Master.” Gillian bit her lower lip but quickly pushed herself up until she was standing before him. Her blouse gaped and her undergarments hung in tatters. She flushed from head to toe at the thought of the sight she must make, with her large body bared to his gaze in the setting sunlight filtering through pine boughs and pin oak leaves. 97

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“Take off your shoes,” he ordered. She complied, more and more conscious of her torn clothes and the way her large body bulged without confinement. The ground felt cool beneath her feet, making her shiver all the more. Hawk’s cock thrust out through the opening of his breeches while the ties fluttered in the light breeze. While she watched, he slowly tucked himself back into his pants and laced up the gap. Her belly pitched. Was he tired of her already? He gave her a long, hard look, then strode to the horse’s saddlebags. Her heart pounded hard against her chest and her body was surely bright red from her embarrassment. When he turned back to her, her stomach pitched all over again. He was holding two leather ties and a riding crop. The ties he placed in his breeches pocket. The crop he held up for her to see more clearly. “Do you know what I plan to do with this, wench?” he asked as he slowly slid the leather end over one palm. Her entire body trembled as she fought to manage her mixed fear and excitement. “You intend to sp-spank me, Master?” “That would be a suitable punishment, wouldn’t it?” Gillian dropped her gaze to the soft loam beneath her feet. “Y-yes, Master.” “Remove the rest of your clothing.” With a gasp, her eyes shot up to meet Hawk’s intense stare. Tingles pricked her skin as she hesitated. Incredible desire followed her embarrassment as playing the part of the wanton wench went to war with her fear of what he might think when he saw her completely naked. He slapped the crop against his palm hard enough that the crack echoed through the trees. Galahad snorted and whickered. A charge of excitement traveled up Gillian’s spine. Leather on flesh. Soon, it’s going to be on my flesh. She didn’t know whether to moan or scream. “I’ll punish you twice if you don’t follow my instructions. Immediately.” “Yes, Master.” Gillian forced the words out as she began to push her blouse and her ruined undergarments over her shoulders and arms. She tried not to worry about how her body looked, but she couldn’t help it. A part of her feared Hawk would be disappointed. His eyes widened as she moved, but his expression reflected anything but disgust. Surprised, Gillian slowed her motions, going one arm at a time. Her skin warmed all over again as she realized the effect she was having on him, just by stripping a bit

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more slowly. By the time she let her torn upper garments fall to the forest floor, the man was almost panting. It couldn’t be real, his response. But it looked real enough, which was a kindness she wouldn’t forget. Desire burned through her as she tugged down her skirt, going as slowly as she dared, judging her speed by the flare of Hawk’s nostrils, the tension of his fingers on that riding crop. Her panties were next, and she hesitated again, just long enough for him to narrow his eyes. His stern expression made her clit hum. Down went the panties. Gillian stepped out of the fabric, then sucked in a breath. Chills ran up and down her skin, doubling her arousal. She was completely naked in the woods, standing in front of a man holding a riding crop. A gorgeous man who had ordered her to call him Master. Have I lost my mind? Her gaze met Hawk’s and the raging lust she saw in his expression sent thrills of surprise straight to her core. Even faced with all of her, stripped to the bone, every fault and plump curve bared to his sight, he still seemed to want her. She couldn’t believe it. But the proof was in the fire in his eyes, the way he gripped the stem of the riding crop and the incredible outline of his cock against his leather breeches. Gillian felt a rush of power. That she could cause such raw hunger in a man amazed her. Made her even more wet with desire. Hawk’s face settled into a mask of composure. That fast, he became unreadable. The Dom again. In control. Master. He gestured toward a branch of the pin oak, just above her head. “Hold onto it and don’t let go.” “Yes, Master.” Gillian reached up and wrapped her fingers around the branch. She had to stretch a bit and her breasts rose high and full. The scent of her own musk filled her nose. When Hawk joined her in a few purposeful strides, she almost let go of the branch. He took the leather ties from his pocket and easily reached over her head, his height was much greater than her own. The heat of his body warmed hers even as his powerful chest brushed her aching nipples. With a few quick movements, he lashed her wrists and hands securely to the tree. By the time Hawk stepped back, Gillian’s heart was thundering louder than hooves at a horserace. Totally naked in the woods. Tied to a tree branch. Completely at his mercy. She shivered. What was that safe word again? 99

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Hawk moved behind her without comment. Gillian’s shivers became tremors. Her nipples puckered so tight she thought they had to be twice their normal size, just like her swollen, aching clit. Dusk bathed the forest in shades of gray. She felt surreal, dizzy. Miserable and elated all at once. What was he going to do? And when? The flat of the crop brushed her shoulders, making her gasp. “Silence,” Hawk commanded, and Gillian bit her lip. Is this really happening? Did I really agree to this—with him? Reality crashed into surrealism over and over, so fast Gillian couldn’t get her bearings. When Hawk told her to spread her legs, she didn’t hesitate. That position, naked, tied with her arms over her head, legs wide apart—sweet heaven, she didn’t think she could stand much more without an orgasm, but Hawk had forbidden it. If she came, he’d punish her again, and the first torture hadn’t even ended yet. Damn, damn, damn! The crop’s cool leather moved down her spine in a straight line, then brushed over the crack of her ass. Up and down, up and down, from her neck to her ample cheeks. Then around to flick gently at her nipples, increasing her desire to gasp or scream. Somehow she managed to keep quiet. Then leather popped across her ass, a sudden, sharp and stinging blow. “Ow!” she yelled, jerking against her bonds. “Shame, wench,” Hawk purred in her ear. “I told you to be silent.” Gillian jumped and jerked against her ties again. She hadn’t heard him move closer. What was he, a ghost? The phantom was gone as fast as he had arrived. Again and again came the smack of the crop on her ass cheeks, three times, then four, then five. She bit hard into her lip, eyes tearing as her skin burned. The sensation was almost overpowering—but definitely not unpleasant. The fire from the blows kindled quickly, making her wetter and wetter, pushing her faster and faster toward that forbidden orgasm. Mercifully, Hawk paused, then shocked her with two more strikes. The surprise of those pops made her clamp her teeth together. Every muscle shook with the effort of holding back the explosion. Her legs felt rubbery and weak. Her bound wrists throbbed in time with her ass and vagina. “Those last—for making noise when I ordered you to be quiet,” he said with so much force and authority that a spasm rocked Gillian deep in her channel.

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She couldn’t come. She wouldn’t. Her face went as hot as the rest of her body. Would Hawk give up on her if she kept making mistakes? If she allowed that orgasm, if she let him down again… As if reading her mind, Hawk slipped around to her front. He held the riding crop in his hand as he gazed at her face. “What’s the matter? Was that unpleasant?” “No, Master,” Gillian admitted, but she felt her head sagging. “I-I just didn’t mean to make a noise after you told me not to, and I’m trying my best not to come—” She broke off as he lifted her chin with the hard end of the riding crop. “No apologizing.” He traced her cheek with the crop, then her neck, her chest and both nipples. Too much. Sensations traveled her body like electric charges, fanning out from every place the crop touched her. She was going to come, she just knew it. The unyielding tip of the crop felt rough against her breasts, her belly, her mons. Hawk’s low voice added to her frustration as he rumbled, “I’d punish you more, give you an even better taste, but I think this crop needs a little work before it’s right for you.” Gillian strained to understand his words, she was so aroused, so confused—and trying so very hard not to surrender to the wave of pleasure threatening to take her sanity. “Don’t you understand, Gillian? My sweet wench.” Hawk pushed the crop between her lower lips, startling her with the cool, hard length against her clit and the sensitive, swollen length of her wet slit. The bulb tip pressed against her pulsing opening as he bent forward. “It’s better if you aren’t perfect. I hope you’ll disobey—at least a few times.” “May I come, Master?” she asked desperately. Even in the low light of early evening, Gillian could see Hawk’s grin. “You may not,” he replied. Hawk knew Gillian was suffering. The woman was determined to be an overachiever, in control even in a situation like this. His own control was tenuous enough. His cock throbbed against his breeches, begging to find sanctuary in Gillian’s wet pussy. It was all Hawk could do hold himself back. The way she leaned into the bonds, the pretty pink swell of her breasts, her belly, her ass. Every inch of her looked touchable, kissable. The way her body responded— damn, she was incredible. He knew had a lot of work to do to get her to really let down her defenses, to enjoy what she dreamed of enjoying. Unfortunately, just one session—he didn’t think she could trust him enough to turn herself loose. Night was fast claiming the woods. Hawk wasn’t concerned about finding his way back to camp, but he didn’t want Gillian cold or frightened. He hadn’t come prepared

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for what he wanted to give her, and he needed some time to choose the right toys, even make some he thought would please her. But will she give me another night? He would convince her. Slowly, Hawk worked the crop against her clit, making her shudder. When he knew she would come if he gave her one more stroke, he eased back, then let the crop’s knobbed tip slide toward her wet opening, graze the edges—more shudders, more moans. He could smell her heat. He could almost taste it. “Are you enjoying this, wench?” The husk in his voice made his words hardly audible, even to him. “Yes, Master,” Gillian gasped. Her eyes closed and opened, closed and opened. She was trying so hard to obey. He couldn’t help another grin. Once more, he brought her to the brink of orgasm, then moved the crop. Quietly, without ceremony, he dropped it. Gillian’s eyes, now moon-kissed and brighter than bright, reflected disappointment, but Hawk didn’t let that stand for long. He knew he had only minutes left, that her hands and wrists couldn’t stand much more pressure. “Kiss me,” he ordered. “However you want. But make me happy.” Groaning, Gillian leaned into him immediately, pressing her breasts against his chest. He welcomed her lips, once more nearly losing control as her tongue slipped inside his mouth. He hadn’t expected so much desire, such profound willingness. The wilder side of his castle-bound princess was something to behold. Her angel’s hair tumbled over her shoulders as her lips moved from his mouth to his chin, and down his neck, into the thick, curly hairs of his chest. That was as far as she could reach. And it was quite far enough. Hawk knew he was breathing like a well-worked stallion. He didn’t know how long he could stand it before he had to have her, had to thrust inside her and feel her incredible warmth. Yet he knew better than to rush this woman. Deliberate. Careful. If he wanted to tame her, to win her for more than a few heated nights— Do I? I’m being a fool. In the silvery light of the fresh moon, Gillian’s blue eyes burned into him like liquid sapphire. “Tell me what you want, wench.” He grabbed her hair, kissed her hard, then let her go. “Beg me.” “Let me have an orgasm, Master.” Her breath brushed his cheek, his neck. “Do better than that,” he demanded. Another rough kiss. Another handful of seconds, ravaging her lips.

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“Touch me.” Gillian’s pleading whisper stroked him all over. “Make me…come.” “What should I touch?” Hawk kissed her forehead, her nose. He rubbed her shoulders, then her forearms. “Here? What about here?” He moved one hand to her belly. Darkness hid her flush from him, but he had no doubt she was turning red all over. A sweet, delicious red. After a deep, slow breath, she murmured. “Rub my clit, Master. Please, put your fingers in my pussy.” The shame in her voice was unmistakable, but so was the raw desire. Hawk’s heart ached at the sound of both. “Very well, wench. We’ll start slowly tonight. I won’t push you past what you can stand.” Gillian’s bottom lip trembled, and her eyes found his again. She leaned forward and kissed his neck, begging him in a sweeter, quieter way. Hawk felt completely within her spell as she lowered her pretty mouth and kissed the hollow of his throat. Little kisses. Maddening. Excruciating. Hawk grabbed her pussy firmly, cupped her wet curls in his hand. The heat. The slick readiness made him swallow a groan. “May I make noise, Master?” “Yes. And move. But you may not come.” He squeezed her mons, then grinned as she moaned loud and long. She rocked against his grip, pressing her clit against his palm, trying to force his fingers into her waiting channel. Hawk clenched and unclenched his fingers, making her shout. “Are you sure you want this, wench? My hand in your pussy? My fingers inside you?” “Yes, Master.” Her answer was firm. No hint of doubt. Hawk heard his own loud moan as he eased his fingers farther down her slit, feeling her wet, swollen folds as he pushed harder and harder. “Please,” she whispered. “Now, Master. Please.” Gillian’s whole body ached for relief. If Hawk didn’t put his fingers inside her, she knew she would die. Her nipples screamed from his all-consuming pinches and tweaks, from the riding crop, and every place his fingers had traveled burned to feel more of him. “Please,” she heard herself say again as he drove his fingers toward her throbbing opening. Hawk’s dark eyes were like molten ink, darker than the night yet flashing in the moonlight. His gaze seemed to reach into her mind, her essence. She felt a slight

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pressure, and then Hawk slid three fingers deep inside her, filling her but teasing her until her soul ached. Gillian arched against him, forcing him deeper, and deeper still. “Yes, God, yes!” “Gillian…” His voice was so deep it was only a rumble in the still forest air. He hadn’t called her wench. He was using her name. Hawk was fucking her with his fingers—her, not some fantasy of her, not some wanton wench, but her, the professor. His rival. His nemesis. And damn, she was loving it. Hawk drove into her again and again, and each time, Gillian thrust herself forward to meet him. She couldn’t get enough of how he felt, of his controlled power as he took her with just three fingers, rocking her back and forth. Her arms stretched with each movement, burning, aching, reminding her of how helpless she was. Every inch of her felt electric, on fire. She pressed herself against him, trying to take in every inch, every millimeter. He groaned, hammering into her now, driving her up, up, up against her bonds, lifting her to her toes, bringing her to the top, the very summit. Her cries echoed in her ears, and just when she thought she might fly apart with the sheer pleasure of it, she remembered and screamed, “Please, Master! May I come?” “Yes.” One word. One tiny syllable. The sound of it echoed in her mind. Heat exploded through her, in her, around her, and her body was seized by racking shudders. Hawk pushed his hand against her clit as she convulsed, keeping his fingers in place, hitting home over and over, making her body shake with each motion. She pressed her thighs against his arm, desperate to hold him inside her as long as she could. He seemed to understand, and lingered. Gillian’s head swam. Her heart pounded and her body rattled with aftershocks. At last, Hawk forced her to turn him loose. He quickly unwrapped her bonds and freed her wrists and hands from the tree branch. Then he swept her against him, holding her as he kissed her face. He said nothing, which touched her and scared her all at once. “Don’t let me go,” she whispered, sure she would fall if he stepped away. “I don’t plan to.” Hawk’s arms tightened on her like warm steel bands. “You’re my wench now, until I say otherwise.”

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Chapter Twelve After a satisfying dinner with his naked wench, Hawk guided Galahad through the dark forest, heading up the path toward the Wanderers’ encampment. He kept the horse’s pace slow to give Gillian time to relax, to recover herself—and to give himself a few more moments of touching her. She sagged against him so sweetly, her head rested on his shoulder. Both of his arms pressed against her waist even as he held Galahad’s reins. A light scent of mint and musk swirled through his senses, along with images of her pleasure, her total submission to his commands back in that quiet clearing. Each one added to the prolonged misery of his hard, hungry cock. If I don’t get her home soon, my balls will fall off. But I don’t want to let her go. The thought was warm and troublesome all at once. Back in the woods, he had taken possession of this fascinating creature. He had given her a piece of her dreams, and she, his. Now he was supposed to release her, to let go his claim, just like that. It was right. That’s what he had agreed to do, and Hawk was nothing if not ethical. To hell with ethics. She’s mine. I’ll convince her. When the night’s chill had come creeping over the loam and leaves, he had given her his tunic, which was large enough to cover her to just above her knees. Then he had instructed Gillian to mount the horse. She had climbed up without argument, though exhaustion made her slump forward until he mounted and gave her some support. Even though the cold was biting into his bare back and shoulders, Hawk disliked the thought of reaching the encampment. He figured the sight of other people, of civilization, would wake Gillian from her dreamlike compliance. She would become Dr. Markham again, professor, landowner at war with him and a wary, distant woman. He should have made a formal ending to the scene by now. He should have “brought her back to earth” properly, but damn, he didn’t want to surrender the moment. It wasn’t until he reached the edge of the tent line that guilt and responsibility got the better of him. Hawk reined the horse to slow, then halt. He allowed himself one more kiss of Gillian’s head, enjoying the silky feel of hair on his lips and the deep draft of her fresh, sexy scent. “Sit up.” He nudged her neck with a kiss. “You need to focus for a few minutes. It’s time to return to real life, as much as I’d rather not.” Gillian stirred and straightened against his arms, her warmth exquisite against his bare flesh. “We’ve left the forest.” Hawk heard the distance in her voice—was it anger or sadness? He rested the reins on Galahad’s neck and rubbed her arms, pushing up the soft fabric of the tunic he had loaned her. Her skin, pebbled with gooseflesh, felt textured and soft all at once. He

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knew her nipples would be hard and sensitive. She’d probably let him cup her breasts, squeeze those hot marble nubs… No. He had a duty not to take advantage. His jaw clenched as he brought himself back under firm control. “Our agreement in the clearing—the scene is over now. We’re back to equals, you and I.” He paused. “Unless you’d like to continue for another period of time we specify.” She tensed against him, her body fitting against his as the horse stood patiently in the chilly darkness. “I’m not sure what I want,” she admitted. “I need time to think.” Despite a surge of disappointment, Hawk felt grateful. She was honest, no emotional games—good, good. And she wasn’t rushing in, which was also good, for her and ultimately for him, too. He couldn’t help his next question. “Did you enjoy our time together?” A pause. Then she leaned into him with a soft, “Yes. It was wonderful. You were— are—very strong, very powerful. But…” She was killing him, this woman. Every muscle in Hawk’s body tightened, waiting for the rest of her sentence. “If we were to do this again…” Once more, she broke off, and Hawk felt like he stood on the edge of some cliff. She seemed to be waiting for something, but he wasn’t sure what. She doesn’t know me that well. She hasn’t done this before. “I hope you will do it again,” he said into her ear. “That I’ll have the chance to show you more.” Hawk was rewarded by her shiver of excitement. She was already half-trained to his voice, to trusting him to see to their mutual pleasure. Her reticence was normal. Of course it was. Any sane submissive would feel it, getting to know her first Dom. Her first real Master. “I’m not sure I can be submissive outside of the sex, Hawk.” Gillian lowered her head. “I’ve read about the lifestyle, and I don’t think I’m the lifestyle type.” She said this like an apology, and Hawk almost laughed. He kissed her head again, holding her tight by the arms. “Just the sex is fine by me, Gillian.” “Really?” “So, we’re agreed that we can have more sex? On my terms?” This time, Gillian took at least a full minute to answer. Hawk had to work not to hold his breath, to maintain the control he was so accustomed to enjoying as a matter of course. “I’d like to be with you again,” Gillian said at last, her words quiet and shy, just the right balance of desire and innocence. “Experience…more.” Yes. He grinned, but quickly felt the expression turn carnal.

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To ease his own intensity, Hawk kissed Gillian’s ear. He needed to give her a night to think, to adjust. He had done this long enough to know that, but his desires battled hard against his instincts. “I wouldn’t like you submissive all the time,” he said, reassuring her as much as he thought wise. He enjoyed the satin of her arms as he stroked her from wrist to elbow and back down again. “You are a brilliant, educated, forceful woman. Your spark—I’ll admit your independence is a pain in my ass in some areas, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” She went stiff again. “I’m a pain in your ass? Excuse me, but you’ve been a perfect bastard in both meetings we’ve had.” “I know.” Hawk sighed. “It’s just—so much is riding on our ability to work out this mess.” He imagined the magnitude of her frown. He could feel it radiating a darkness even blacker than the night. “Look, Hawk, I think we need a rule here, that our…play…is separate from our business negotiations.” Hawk shook his head. Brilliant, educated, forceful. He had said that aloud, right? “Agreed. There will be more rules as we go along, but only in bed, separate from our business negotiations—those are a good start.” “Oh, God.” She shivered again, this time not from pleasure. “I’m nearly naked. You cut off my clothes, and now I have to ride back into the encampment like this.” “The tunic covers you.” He eased his hand from her arm to her leg, then slid it slowly upward to the curve of her hip. “Unless I rip it off. What if I stripped you naked, bound your hands, then walked you through the camp for everyone to see your beauty?” Before Gillian could answer, he cupped her pussy, pressing his fingers into her clit so hard that she gasped and rolled forward against the pressure. She barely caught Galahad’s neck in time to avoid going face-first into the horse’s mane. “Sex on my terms.” Hawk didn’t let her go. “It’s late. All the children are sleeping— no tender eyes would see you. Only greedy, appreciative eyes. Male and female.” He rubbed her swelling button back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. “I could take you to the pleasure tent and make you come for an audience.” “I—no, Master, please.” Gillian gasped, rocking helplessly, spreading her legs as much as she could. “I can’t imagine—” “You’re lying, wench.” Hawk tried to make his voice firm, but it came out teasing. Teasing. That’s what I’m doing, teasing myself to death. He let go of Gillian’s other arm and quickly found her full breast, with the nipple as hard as he had imagined earlier. He tweaked it without mercy. “You can imagine that scene just fine. It excites you. It makes you wet. Tell me the truth.”

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Gillian moaned as he eased up on her clit and pulled her ass against his hard cock. It was so easy to slide his fingers into her soaked channel, so easy to control her every move with that trapped nipple. More pressure and she whimpered and arched against his finger-thrusts. Less and she leaned forward, begged for more with every twitch and gasp. In seconds, she climaxed, shaking until the horse snorted and pawed at the ground. Hawk stopped all activity save for his grip on her nipple and pressed his lips against Gillian’s ear. “Did you just come without my permission, wench?” Gillian whimpered, then whispered, “Yes, Master.” “You know there’s a price for disobedience.” He pulled his hand from her pussy and let go her nipple. “Answer me, wench.” “Yes! I know there’s a price, Master.” He lifted the tunic up until her breasts were bared to the cool night air. She trembled, started to speak, but thought better of it. “Are you cold?” “Yes, Master.” “Are you worried someone will come through the back tents and see you sitting here, naked, aroused, with my hands on you? “Yes, Master.” That particular thought made Hawk tighten every muscle in his body. His cock pulsed against his breeches. How he’d like to claim this one in some public way, showing the world what he had achieved—what they could achieve together. They’d bring down the pleasure tent. “Bend forward, until you’re lying on Galahad’s neck. He’s trained. He won’t spill you.” Gillian complied, shaking ever harder. Both cold and excitement, he knew from his own waist-up bare skin. Hawk scooted back a little, just enough to get the right angle. First, he reached forward and squeezed both of her ass cheeks firmly. She looked so beautiful, hunched forward like that, her big breasts hanging down, moonlight spilling across her back. If only she were ready, he’d slam his cock into her, rough and hard, until she screamed. Until he could think straight again. Not yet. Control. You know she needs time. “Keep your hands down on the horse’s neck, wench. Don’t speak or move, except to nod that you understand.” He waited until she nodded three times, to be sure. Then he slipped three fingers into her pussy even as he used his knees to urge the horse to take a step.

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Gillian felt the motion of the horse force her upward, then back down hard on Hawk’s thrusting hand. She bit back a scream of fear and ecstasy. What was he doing? Was he really going to walk the horse into the Wanderer camp with his hand inside her, pumping in and out? Her face burned. Her whole body burned. She couldn’t feel the cold or the dampness in the air or anything past the horse’s soft hair brushing her aching nipples, his mane rubbing between her breasts and down her belly, and Hawk—damn. Hawk! He was so good with his strong, forceful hand. The horse took another step. They were ten steps, tops, from moving through the back tent drapes into the outer ring of the camp. And I’m as good as naked, getting finger-fucked on horseback. Oh, God. “You’ve got a nice ass, wench.” His low, sexy voice stroked her as surely as an extra set of fingers. Her whole body tightened. “You should be proud of it, of your whole body. Fine. Full. Sexy.” Gillian felt heat boiling upward, her orgasm threatening. She bit her lip and pressed her face harder into Galahad’s neck. The horse moved again, and again. Eight steps from the camp. Maybe seven. This is insane. I’m not riding into that camp like this. From deeper in her brain, He mentioned a pleasure tent. What the hell—do these people play sex games all the time? I thought they just got dressed up and went jousting. “Are you about to come, wench?” The rumble of his words nearly pushed the last button. Gillian nodded furiously. “Better not. You don’t have permission.” The safe word bounced around in Gillian’s brain as the horse took another step, and another. Hawk’s hand glided in and out of her channel, thrust and ease, thrust and ease. Deep. Sometimes he spread his fingers wider. She actually started to sweat, trying not to cry out. “Good,” he murmured. “If you make a noise, if you come…well, your next punishment would be very, very public, I assure you.” Gillian felt her walls clench around his hand, trapping the heat until she knew she would explode. In her mind’s eye, she could see herself stretched as wide as Dr. Lambert had been in the dungeon, with Hawk thrusting his cock all the way to her core as a sea of Wanderers stared at her nipples, at her pussy, at the way Hawk was pounding her again and again. I’m no exhibitionist. She clung to rational thought despite her situation. I’m not. But the rational thought made her more hot, impossibly wet. The horse was moving again. Not stopping.

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God, oh, God. The back flaps approached, hanging still in the moonlight. Gillian’s heart hammered. Her body pulsed with each thrust of Hawk’s demanding hand. She had to come. If she didn’t come, she would faint. How could she hold off any longer? We’re almost inside! Her mind blew a fuse. She tried to shout the safe word, but all she could do was gasp and moan. Three steps. Two steps. Hawk shocked her with an even deeper thrust, adding his thumb, pushing it deep into her ass with one motion. Gillian couldn’t help herself. She screamed. Damn! His fingers felt like hammers, pounding her, ramming her pussy and ass all at once. Thick. Filling. Almost like two cocks. “Turn loose, wench! Come now.” Gillian did just that, bucking and slamming against his fingers as her body spasmed. She held on to the horse’s neck to keep from pitching to the ground as wave after wave of molten pleasure claimed her. They were at the camp entrance. “Remember this,” Hawk whispered, thrusting in and out of her ass and pussy one more time. “Remember that your body belongs to me.” The horse was plodding through the camp entrance. Hawk drew out his hand and sat her up smoothly against his bare chest, letting her borrowed tunic fall back to her knees. By the time they cleared the draping panels, they were both upright on the horse, with his arms around her, holding the horse’s reins. Hawk laughed softly, for her ears only, giving her new shivers of excitement. “Very good, wench. We’re finished for now—but we may revisit this idea again, of public fucking. You seem to like it more than you’re ready to admit.” Gillian realized it had been a while since she took a full breath. She let the night’s air fill her lungs, then realized she was getting profoundly cold from the coating of perspiration her punishment had created. Groups of people lounged around campfires outside tents, talking, strumming instruments, singing. A few looked up and waved or nodded. Most ignored them. “What now?” she ventured to ask, leaving off the “Master” since he had ended the…the session…already. “I thought I’d take you to my tent and get you some warmer clothes. After that, you need to go home tonight. Now that you’ve had a little taste, be sure you want a bigger helping before you come back to see me.”

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Gillian’s heart fluttered. I am so in trouble here. Yes, I need to go back to the castle tonight. I need to go straight to my room and hide under the bed. But only if I’ve got a vibrator there… Her mind was already moving forward, wondering what Hawk would do if she attacked him in the tent. She could cut off his clothes, easier since he was only wearing pants, and see what that cock felt like in her mouth. If only she had a good dagger. And a set of chains. And maybe a gun to keep him still while she, er, overpowered him. As if reading her mind, Hawk kissed her neck. “Whatever you’re plotting, leave it go. Not tonight. Trust me. You need some time to let this settle in your mind.” What about my body? My heart? She chewed her already sore lip and reminded herself that they were playing sexual games. That was all. Play. Sessions and scenes, according to the books. This wasn’t about emotions, at least emotions deeper than desire and pleasure. Hawk’s tent loomed before them all too soon, its brilliant reds turning deepest black under the moon’s softening touch. Gillian’s teeth chattered as Hawk helped her dismount. He kissed her softly on the lips, then licked his own fingers, obviously enjoying the taste and scent of her juices. She felt herself flushing as red-black as the tent. “Warm clothes,” she mumbled, trying to keep herself in reality. With a devilish smile, Hawk took her hand and led her to his lair. Like a courtly gentleman sans shirt, he pulled the flap open for her and gestured her inside. Gillian rolled her eyes, but she went inside—and stopped fast. A low rumble met her ears. Candlelight flickered from several locations, bathing the inner chamber in golden light. The light revealed Old Sir draped across the foot of an antique iron bed. His hackles were raised, and he was growling at a naked woman kneeling on Hawk’s tent floor. A woman with her hands tied behind her back. Gillian’s eyes widened. The bound woman was well past beautiful, with night-black hair hanging straight down her slender shoulders, brushing the tops of upswept breasts with small, hard berries for nipples. Her flat stomach had a muscular, cut look to it, as did what Gillian could see of the woman’s long arms and legs. The beauty was clearly not pleased to see Gillian. She glared upward, her furious gaze sliding from Gillian’s face all the way down Hawk’s tunic to Gillian’s bare knees. My knees are bigger than her waist, I bet. Shame and pain were Gillian’s initial reactions. She clenched her hands together, squeezing, trying to ground herself, to figure out what she was supposed to do next.

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He just made me come. Okay, several times, but we didn’t have any sort of exclusive arrangement. Tears crept from her eyes anyway. She felt cheap and used and stupid, all wrapped into one stomach-cramping inner collapse. Old Sir’s growls grew louder, more ominous. The sounds thundered from his ancient body as he bared his teeth at the naked women, seemingly in Gillian’s defense. Obviously sensing something amiss, Hawk edged past Gillian to enter the tent. His eyes fell first on the dog, then on the treasure on his floor. His mouth opened and closed two or three times before he managed, “What the hell are you doing, Emerald?” “Waiting for you,” the woman, Emerald, snapped. She gave Gillian another scathing look before adding, “Master.” At that, Gillian wanted to throw up. Instead, she turned to leave. Hawk grabbed her shoulders in a hurry, and Old Sir issued a menacing whine. “This isn’t what you think,” Hawk said too fast, reminding Gillian of one hundred bad television shows. Did men ever come up with more original lines? “I didn’t ask her to be here.” “I’m yours to command, Master,” Emerald insisted, drawing another loud growl from Old Sir. Her voice was silk filled with stinging wasps. “I’ve waited here all evening to prove myself. What’s she done?” “Made a fool of myself,” Gillian answered dryly. “You be quiet,” Hawk instructed Emerald through clenched teeth. “You, too, Old Sir. Gillian, this woman is not my lover. She never has been.” “Master!” the woman in the floor shouted. Old Sir barked loudly. Gillian’s brain buzzed. She pulled free of Hawk’s grip. “You two obviously have some things to work out. Don’t let me stop you.” She was backing away, to the tent door, out of the flaps. “Please, wait.” Hawk sounded genuinely distressed. But he did scenes and sessions all the time, no doubt an accomplished role-player and actor. And the phony bastard was here to take her castle, after all. What kind of idiot had she been, to give her fantasies to this man of all men? “I need a therapist,” she muttered. Hawk reached for her again, but she moved before he could touch her. Then she was running, running and crying, out of the camp, to her home, to her only safety from lying, swindling assholes like Hawk Blackmoor.

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Chapter Thirteen The walk from camp to the front door of Blackmoor Downs seemed to take twice as long as Hawk remembered. He had wasted only enough time to get a fresh shirt and cloak, but Old Sir still left without him, seeming to understand their destination. The dog was like a shadow drifting slowly toward the castle. Regulating his fury as best he could, Hawk had left Jarrod in charge of Emerald, fearing his own temper if he tried to manage the woman. She needed to go. She had to go. He clenched his fists. His mother never would have asked anyone to leave the Wanderers, but he wasn’t his mother. Leave it alone. Jarrod will handle her. I’ve got bigger problems. Like how to make Gillian open the door and talk to him and how to convince her that she hadn’t made a mistake by putting her trust in him. He would not let their first night of intimacy end like this. Cool air rushed in and out of his lungs as he plowed through the darkness, passing up Old Sir with a curt nod of acknowledgement. The fire in his blood made him immune to night’s chill. All he could think about was Gillian’s misty eyes, blank with pain and betrayal when she fled his tent. He would have liked to pretend it didn’t matter, that Gillian was nothing to him past a short-term pleasure, but he knew better. Something about the woman stirred him in ways he hadn’t expected. He wanted more time with her. He needed more time. If he had to build a trebuchet and tear down the damned walls of Blackmoor stone by imported stone, he’d have that time. The outer gate rattled as Hawk virtually tore it open. It took huge mental effort to calm himself before he raised his fist to pound on the door. It opened before he made contact. If Jamie Hart hadn’t shifted to the left, Hawk would have struck her square in the face. He lowered his hand just about the time he noticed the skillet. Before Hawk could say a word in his own defense, the maniacal woman nearly whacked his forehead with a heavy piece of black iron. Hawk had to drop to his knees to dodge the blow. “I don’t know what you said or did, you arrogant son of a bitch, but she’s been hurt enough.” Jamie’s brown hair whirled around her head as she charged out of the castle and spun to swing again. “Get on out of here before I call the law!” For a few seconds, Hawk thought he was fighting an Amazon. He ducked and rolled and parried, barely coming away with his skull and all his fingers unbroken. I should have remembered my armor… 113

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A trebuchet might have been wiser after all. “Gods, woman! I came to apologize!” He was on the entry steps now, backing toward the door as the damnable harpy advanced again, skillet at the ready. “We had a misunderstanding.” “My ass.” The skillet thunked into the heavy wooden door, right beside Hawk’s ear. He felt splinters raining into his collar as he reeled away. “You want to steal her home, and oh, no, that’s not good enough. You have to monkey with her heart, too. Well, not on my watch!” Hawk managed to stumble into the castle, right into a waiting circle of snarling, drooling greyhounds. One of the beasts let off a soprano screech, matching Jamie’s war cry as she charged. Hawk grabbed the door to steady himself as a shadow slipped around Jamie. It slowed her just enough for Hawk to slam the door in her face. He turned the locks, wondering madly how many other doors and windows he needed to bar. The woman was hammering on the door and shouting. From behind him came growling. The dogs! Hawk wheeled around, already imagining five sets of teeth headed straight for his ass. To his surprise, the dogs weren’t advancing. In fact, the two males had plopped down on the stone floor, and the three females were wagging their tails and seeming slightly cowed. Old Sir had finally arrived, and none too soon. He stood between Hawk and the rest of the pack, as still and serious as any true guardian. The formidable senior greyhound didn’t seem feeble in the least as his steady, firm growl reminded the younger pups who was the canine master at Blackmoor. Too bad the wise dog had no effect on the crazy being outside the front door. Hawk figured any second now, she’d move to the windows, or head for a back entrance. “That’s a good fellow.” Hawk brushed slivers of wood out of his collar. “But I don’t think we’re out of the woods yet.” “Indeed,” said a calm, cold voice from across the entryway. When Hawk looked up, he saw Osmond Burns standing in the main arch. His late father’s butler was dressed in black sweats and a black muscle-shirt. His clothes were so neat and clean they might have been pressed before he put them on. The attire didn’t quite match the rough cut of the man’s obviously toned muscles—or the wickedlooking sawed-off shotgun leveled at Hawk’s chest. “New York was safer than this godforsaken place,” Hawk muttered as he slowly raised his hands. “Are you going to shoot me, Oz?” “That depends on your intentions toward Gillian,” the butler replied quietly, without moving the gun. “Are they honorable?”

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“Yes.” Hawk lowered his hands as the greyhounds dispersed, led by Old Sir. “Thanks for asking.” He jerked a thumb toward the door, which was still rattling from Jamie’s assaults. “That’s more courtesy than she gave me.” “And perhaps more than you deserve.” Oz’s artic expression hadn’t changed, and he still hadn’t moved the gun. “Let me make something perfectly clear. Gillian is like a younger sister to me. If you take her, you had best plan to keep her.” Hawk bit back a groan. Did everyone but Old Sir want to kill him tonight? He could almost feel his father’s ghost hovering beside Osmond Burns, radiating disapproval along with all the living creatures in the castle save for one elderly greyhound. He cleared his throat, trying to recover some balance. “Beg pardon?” he asked, mostly to buy time to hunt down his sanity and force it to return. “I believe my communication was quite clear.” Osmond narrowed his eyes. “If this is some game or angle or plan, some scheme—if you’re toying with Gillian, using her, harming her in any way—well, I wouldn’t want to be you, trying to sleep safely under this roof.” He’s serious. Hawk realized this with shock, then an odd sort of gratitude. Gillian had protectors. Of course she would. Reggie had been one of them, and the dogs, and the two people who had shared the castle with her. Who wouldn’t love a woman like her? And why did Reggie put her in a fortress and build an army around her? “We had a misunderstanding.” Hawk met the man’s scathing gaze. “One I deeply regret. I’m very glad she has you to look after her, but I would like very much to make peace with her, to take care of her, too. To make her happy.” The front door stopped rattling. Hawk found the silence jarring, and more than a little menacing. Where would the woman get in? From which direction would she strike next? He eyed the dark hallway behind Osmond. “She is more fragile than you know.” Osmond kept up his unrelenting gaze. “Man to man, do I have your word that you will do all in your power to stop these…misunderstandings? That you will cherish and protect her?” “You have my word.” Hawk didn’t hesitate, even though he felt like he was getting married on the spot, and the bride wasn’t even present—or speaking to him. The butler sighed and at last lowered his weapon. “Go on then. Second floor, middle arch, third door.” A clatter and cursing rose from down the long hallway, coming from the general direction of the back gardens and the kitchen. Osmond lifted an eyebrow. “Were I you, I’d take the main stairs. With due haste. I’ll do what I can.”

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Hawk took the man at his word and left the entryway in a hurry. He found the stairs easily enough and followed the butler’s directions to Gillian’s door. Ignoring the shouting and swearing from the lower floor, he knocked. To his surprise, Gillian opened the door, and she wasn’t armed—yet. Quite the contrary. She wore a black satin gown and robe, and her unruly blonde hair had been brushed into fine, silken obedience. Her beautiful eyes were red from crying, and they widened as she realized who had come to her bedchamber. She tried to slam the heavy wooden portal, but Hawk grabbed the edge. “I’ve braved an insane housekeeper with a skillet, a pack of rabid hounds and a murderous butler. I think I’ve earned five minutes to plead my case.” “Did they hurt you?” she asked quietly. “No.” “Pity.” She tried to slam the door again. This time Hawk put his shoulder in harm’s way. He wanted to charge into the room, grab her and make her listen, but he knew better—shotgun-toting butler notwithstanding. “This is difficult, Gillian.” He felt encouraged by the fact that she hadn’t stepped back from him, that he was almost close enough to touch her. “It’s my nature to be forceful, but I don’t want to upset you. Five minutes—and if you still want me to leave, I’ll throw myself to the lions below.” As if on cue, the shouting downstairs grew louder, accompanied by the distinct ring of iron skillet on stone. Gillian winced. When she met his gaze, her eyes mirrored mistrust. “A few ground rules.” “That makes sense.” Hawk felt more hopeful by the second. “Okay.” Gillian’s fingers dug into the door. “First, don’t touch me unless I tell you it’s okay.” “Agreed.” Hawk forced his expression to stay neutral even though the thought of gaining that consent made him half-mad with desire. “Second, don’t try to seduce me, or slip back into a scene, or anything like that.” She looked so nervous, so vulnerable. “I would never take you without your consent.” Hawk reminded himself that Gillian knew about domination and submission only from books and a brief few hours with him. She had a right to be wary, and he had no cause to be offended. “No tricks, no manipulation.” She took her hand off the door and ran it through her hair. “Finally, if I tell you to get out, you’ll leave.” Hawk stood up and nodded once, like a soldier accepting an order. “I have no doubt your guards will be ready to attack on your call. You’re safe.” She frowned sharply and turned her back on him. “Safety’s not that simple.” 116

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He stepped inside, wondering at her meaning. The door closed behind him. He was tempted to bar it against Jamie, but thought better of it. His security was less important than Gillian’s. After a few seconds, Gillian turned back and studied his face with the fervor he imagined she studied her subject matter at school. What was she reading? His hope? His worries? His desires? Probably all of them. Normally, Hawk would have felt angry and disadvantaged, but this was no longer a competition. He had lost the game between them good and proper, and to the victor went the spoils—if she would have them. The castle. The land. The Wanderers. Some leader I am. She’s already got my heart on a string, this witch. Hawk realized he had given no thought to what he would say, or how he would say it. It wasn’t like him to come to a meeting unprepared. Oblivious to his worries, Gillian moved to the edge of her bed and sat down. “The clock is ticking, Hawk Blackmoor.” She braced her hands beside her, treating him to a tempting view of her cleavage. “I’m listening.” Hawk felt suddenly weary and overcome by the sight of her. His cock distracted him by swelling uncomfortably in his breeches. What were those rules? Damn, damn, damn. “The woman you saw in my tent—I’m not one to tell tales on others, but I’ll tell you enough to understand. By now you’re aware that I know something of bondage. Of domination and the training of slaves and submissives.” Gillian’s cheeks flushed. The blush crept down her neck to the top of her breasts and Hawk thought he might go insane on the spot, looking at her, sitting there like that…already on the bed. An eternity later, she nodded for him to continue. “People interested in experimenting with the lifestyle often ask someone more experienced to train them. That might sound odd, but—” “It doesn’t sound odd.” Her voice shook when she interrupted him, but her expression was less guarded. Hawk swallowed to lessen the husk in his voice. “You’ve read about that?” “I’ve seen it.” Gillian glanced down at the rumpled covers by her hand, then seemed to come to a decision. “Once, a long time ago. That couple I saw having sex in a dungeon, they were being trained.” Hawk wanted to know more, but he was aware that his time was fast running out. “I agreed to train that woman in my tent, along with her partner, but she couldn’t see me as only a trainer. It’s been a problem since—but I swear on my honor, I’ve never had sex with her.” Gillian shifted on the bed. She was looking at the floor now. “You don’t have to swear. It was naïve of me to think that you wouldn’t have other submissives—”

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“I don’t.” Hawk took a step toward the bed, reminded himself of his agreements, and halted. “You’re trying to tell me what, you’ve been celibate?” Gillian lifted her head and gazed at him. She smiled—only a twitch of the lips, but it pleased him. “For how long?” Hawk smiled in spite of himself. “No. Not celibate. I’ve taken my turns in the pleasure tent, but I haven’t had a relationship in some time. I haven’t been interested in one.” He paused, then gathered his will for the next two words. “Until now.” Gillian froze. She remained immobile for several long seconds, blinked, smiled, blinked again and frowned. “That’s—you—how can I believe you aren’t just using me? That this isn’t some means of besting me and taking what you want?” “I want you, Gillian.” It took everything Hawk had to stop himself from striding to the bed, snatching her up and carrying her back to his tent. “Give me a chance to prove myself.” This had to be a joke or a ploy. Gillian couldn’t quit staring at the man. He was a medieval vision in his tight black breeches and boots. The unlaced black tunic added to the effect, as did his shoulderlength hair and the untamed blaze in his dark, dark eyes. A knight, straight from fantasy—and he was saying he wanted her. Her heart thumped against her ribs. It was hard to breathe. The cool stone room seemed suddenly hot, and she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Hawk’s face tensed. Gillian knew he was waiting for a response. If only she had a clue what to say. “I—look. Earlier tonight was intense. Intensely wonderful.” Her heart wouldn’t slow down. She was starting to sweat. “And I believe you about the woman. At least I think I do.” Only Hawk’s eyes moved. They traveled from the bed to her body, slowly across every line of her damp face, making her heartbeat speed up and up. Damn. She didn’t even think he was breaking their agreement on purpose. The man was seductive even when he wasn’t trying. His aggressive stance—enticing. The way he seemed to be holding himself back—noble. His eyes—hypnotic. She remembered the rumble of his voice, the way he mastered her body as if he knew her every secret desire. Oh, God. He has an erection. Gillian closed her eyes, remembering the hard, hot feel of his cock in her hand. So what if he’s using me? I could at least fuck him once—no! Am I crazy? I’m not cold and manipulative. She rubbed a hand across her eyelids as if to banish the thought. But is he? How can I be sure? The answer was simple enough. She couldn’t be sure. If she wanted to spend more time with this man, she’d have to do something against her nature. She’d have to take a risk.

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A little heat and spice. Wasn’t that what Dr. Lambert and the entire college thought she lacked? “A little heat,” she mumbled. Hawk cleared his throat as if to remind her he was in the room. His tactic had the desired effect. Willing herself not to pull at her hair, Gillian opened her eyes and faced the throwback knight. “You could have tried any number of tactics,” she admitted. “Humility and honesty are disarming, especially from a man like you.” He didn’t challenge that remark. The bastard. He knew exactly what kind of man he was—arrogant, self-assured, in control and so friggin’ handsome he made it hard to think. “I want some time alone with you.” Hawk’s voice came out in that sexy rumble. Gillian almost groaned. She knew he wasn’t pressing an advantage, just being himself. “We can do it here, or if that’s too loaded, we can go elsewhere. To the mountains, maybe, or the ocean.” Gillian shook her head. “I can’t leave right now. I’m going through a tenure process at the university, and without Reggie’s influence—well, I can’t miss any time.” Why did I tell him that? He called me a witch once. Maybe he’s a wizard casting his own spells. “I see.” Hawk gave a courtly nod. “Here, then?” He made it a question, but Gillian knew he wanted to make it a demand. More noble restraint on his part. Damn. Even that was so sexy it made her wet. She wanted to protest, bring up her tenure meetings and their estate negotiations, but what came out of her mouth was, “The rest of the weekend, but can it start tomorrow? I’m so tired.” Did you know your father had a dungeon, Hawk? It probably puts your pleasure tent to shame… Hawk walked toward her and stopped a few inches from her bedside. “Agreed. Permission to touch you, my lady?” Gillian looked up sharply, then took a breath. He was so close she thought she could smell the salt and leather of his skin, the fresh-washed cotton of his tunic, even the forest scents of pine and cedar and sex clinging to his breeches. His height and his powerful build made her nervous and excited her. “You’re tired.” His voice was as good as any caress, the way it warmed her. She found herself nodding, giving him permission to touch, to do whatever he wanted. “I heard you, Gillian. I won’t press.” She offered him the best smile her energy would allow. “What if I want you to press?”

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“I made some agreements when you let me in.” Hawk cupped her cheek with one hand. “I intend to keep them. Besides, this looks like a bed. In bed, it’s my terms, remember?” What about in the dungeon, Master? Thoughts and emotions spinning, Gillian nodded. What have I done to myself? What have I agreed to? Without saying another word, Hawk pulled her up from the bed. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, then folded down the covers. He motioned Gillian to him and carefully slipped her robe off her shoulders. His hands trailed down her arms as he removed the silk, leaving shivers everywhere he made contact with her skin. He folded the robe, tossed it on a chair, then gestured for Gillian to climb into the bed. She complied, wondering what would happen next. Hawk left her alone long enough to turn off the lamps, leaving only moonlight to reveal him removing his boots and tunic. Every second that passed increased her anticipation. He took his sweet time, too, damn him. By the time he slipped into the bed beside her, she was ready to scream, wondering, worrying…wanting. She waited for an instruction, or for him to flip her to her back and take her however he wanted. Tired or not, she was intrigued, not to mention way past ready. To her great frustration, he didn’t speak and he didn’t jump her instantly. Instead, he covered them both with her sheets and took her firmly in his arms. Her head fit under his chin as if it belonged in the spot. Hawk still didn’t make a move to put her on her back. What was he waiting for? She realized she was shaking again. The man had that effect on her no matter how she wished she could act otherwise. Every nuance of his body against hers caught her attention. He felt like pliable rock, both in form and disposition. Powerful. Unmovable. He ran his lips across her forehead. “Sleep now. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” Sleep? How will I ever sleep? Is he nuts? She was still convinced she couldn’t relax even as she surrendered to his embrace— and to her fatigue.

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Chapter Fourteen When Hawk walked into the kitchen with Gillian the following morning, Jamie was using her dangerous frying pan to prepare a feast of eggs, bacon and link sausage. Another pan bubbled with sawmill gravy, and the smell of biscuits and fresh coffee added to the tantalizing aroma of the warm, hospitable space. Unfortunately, Jamie’s expression upon seeing Hawk subtracted from the ambience. Substantially. Hawk did his best to be gallant in the face of such withering fury. He gave the harpy a courtly bow, then seated himself next to Gillian, who seemed oblivious to the housekeeper’s dagger-stare. Gillian’s beautiful, sleepy eyes were fixed on the Saturday paper. Renaissance Troupe Visits Blackmoor Downs, read the headline. Underneath was a glossy photo of the encampment, followed by an explanation of the October Fair, scheduled to open in a little less than two weeks. Hawk tensed, thinking of everything that needed to be done. He ran through the usual list of prayers. Don’t let anyone get hurt building or practicing. Don’t let anyone get sick. Don’t let the cooks get drunk. Don’t let it rain. To this he added, Don’t let the harpy kill me in my sleep, don’t let the butler shoot me and don’t let Gillian get away from me. For her part, Gillian seemed peaceful enough about the article, except that she wasn’t smiling. “You realized we’d need to publicize?” he asked quietly. She reacted with a startle, but covered fast. “Yes. Of course you would.” She managed a friendly enough smile, but Hawk could tell she was working hard to keep a lid on her distress. A private person, this woman. The crowds would be hard on her. Jamie delivered a brimming plate of eggs, bacon, sausage and buttered biscuits with gravy to Gillian. “Here, dear. And your morning cup.” The coffee didn’t slosh when she placed it on the table. “Thank you,” Gillian said absently, returning to the article. Hawk’s belly rumbled as he stared at her food. A few minutes later, Jamie rewarded him with a full plate, too. He smiled at her, pleasantly surprised. She smiled back. Nastily. Hot coffee sloshed on his hand when she plopped the cup down. Well, that’s more what I expected, though not as bad as it could be. Hawk sighed and picked up his fork to dig in to his ample fare. He pulled up short when he realized his plate was full of overdone pepper-coated eggs laced with jalapeño peppers, burned biscuits, barely cooked bacon, and raw sausage. 121

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By the time he looked up, the housekeeper had made a judicious exit. Hawk let out a longer sigh. He put down his fork and knife, figuring he’d get breakfast in the camp. For now, coffee. At least the automatic percolator wouldn’t allow the harpy to burn that. The hot liquid felt smooth and soothing in his dry mouth—until the grounds washed into his throat and choked him. “Gods,” he muttered. He poked his finger over the cup’s edge, immediately touching solid wet grains. The damnable woman must have emptied half the basket into his cup. Gillian glanced up from her paper. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” Hawk offered a placating shrug as his stomach growled fiercely. When her attention was once more diverted to the paper, he gave the lurking greyhounds a feast. As soon as the dogs finished making his disaster-breakfast vanish, Hawk rose quietly, rinsed his plate, and left it for Jamie to do what she wished—likely sharpen the edges and hurl it at him at her first opportunity. He also rinsed out his coffee cup, and was gratified to find a half-cup of unspoiled dark roast still simmering in the pot. He returned to the table, studying Gillian. She was still absorbed in the newspaper, still lost in the article about the Renaissance Fair. Hawk sat down directly across from her this time. He took a sip of his coffee, then gently placed his hand over the picture of the Wanderer encampment. Gillian looked up. “I’ll see to it you aren’t disturbed,” Hawk assured her. “I’ll post knights around the fence—no one will cross into the castle. I know the crowds and noise will be difficult, but at least you can retreat if you wish.” “Thank you.” Gillian placed her hand on top of his. Her fingers were warm from her cup of coffee, and the sensation of her soft, hot skin against his made his cock swell. Damn her, for being able to excite him with a simple caress. “We need to talk now.” Hawk cleared his throat, trying to dispel some of the instant huskiness. “About where we go from here.” Gillian’s creamy cheeks flushed, but she nodded. “I’ve got something I want to— well, maybe show you later. I think you’ll like it.” Hawk lifted his eyebrows. “No doubt I will. But first I have something to show you. Would you come to my tent in two hours?” A frown touched her pretty lips. “Will there be any naked women waiting for me?” “No. Absolutely not.” “All right. Two hours. I’ll be there.” The telephone rang, but Gillian made no move to answer it. In fact, no one answered it. Hawk wondered briefly what Oz and Jamie were doing. He had to battle

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himself to keep from looking over his shoulder to be sure the housekeeper wasn’t sneaking up to brain him. Regaining his composure measure by measure, Hawk took a slow breath. “Don’t forget my instructions,” he said in a low voice, privately, just for her. “Leave your body free beneath whatever dress you choose—and choose one to please me. Make it short and tight, with cleavage.” This made Gillian shiver. Her fingers twitched atop his hands. He captured them, lifted them to his lips and kissed them one at a time. Then he turned her hand over and kissed the palm, letting his tongue trace the delicate etched lines—life, head, heart, spirit. What would the Wanderer fortune teller make of this woman? Of his chances to win her trust, her heart? Gillian trembled again, and this time she moaned. Hawk eased her hand back to the table and stood. “Two hours,” he said firmly. “Follow my instructions and don’t be late.” The morning passed in a blur. Gillian took two baths and fixed her hair at least three different times. He wouldn’t want makeup, Hawk. And no underwear. What the hell was she supposed to wear to please him? Nothing? A shortie bathrobe? She had nothing short or tight with cleavage. “Damn,” she said to the dogs, who covered her bed with tails thumping. Arthur was not among them, and Gillian knew the old hound had departed with Hawk. Gillian went back to staring at her closet. “What have I agreed to?” Her anxiety climbed. What would Hawk do to her if she didn’t pick something he liked? Instantly, she thought of his dark, disapproving look, the way he would cluck and shake his head. She even imagined him smacking his palm with that riding crop. Her ass actually tingled. Her clit tingled even more. “Nuts. Totally insane.” She squeezed her legs together. Completely at a loss, she pulled out a shell she usually wore underneath suit jackets. Light blue, sleeves to her elbows—and it fit skintight when she tried it on. The neck even plunged a little. Farther back in the closet she found a harvest-yellow broom skirt with a matching light blue thread and a tapered waist that clung to her ass, but widened at her thighs. It wasn’t elegant, but it would have to do. It felt so strange, getting dressed like that and combing her hair, but leaving off underwear. When Gillian looked at herself in the mirror, her nipples were the first thing she saw. They jutted against the silky fabric, and just looking at them made them harder. Unable to stop herself, Gillian brushed her palms across the taut nubs, gasping at the brush of fabric on the tender flesh. She felt herself getting wet, felt the moisture on her thighs with nothing to catch it. How could she leave the castle like this? Walk through the Wanderer encampment? Her belly, her ass—everything looked so large to her—and her nipples were huge and she might damn well drip on the ground if she didn’t calm down. 123

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Stop it. No negative thinking. Hawk had given her instructions, and she wanted to comply. Besides, she was dying to know what he wanted to show her. Gillian fervently hoped it was his cock, or how well he could hammer into her, or some acrobatic position for perfect fucking. She couldn’t take much more of this teasing. “Training,” she reminded herself as she pried herself out of her room, snuck down the steps, and dashed out of the castle before she could run into Oz or Jamie and die of embarrassment. Arms folded over her chest, she walked quickly, out of the yard, across to the encampment, and into that other place, that striking, quaint world of long ago. Just as before, she caught interesting scents—roasting meat, spices, hay, animal—all in all, very alive, very natural. People were everywhere, building, playing instruments, painting, working over fires, making meals and wares and even clothing on looms. They were getting ready for the Fair. And I’m walking right through the middle of them with tight clothes, no bra and no panties. My nipples stand out like moon rocks. Gillian knew her face had to be on fire. She heard the swish-swish of her legs pressing together, lubricated from her flowing juices. She had never felt so humiliated— and so excited. This was almost over the edge for her. It was just so naughty. Hawk’s tent loomed ahead. Gillian’s heart hammered harder as she got closer and closer. What would he have her do? Would he finally fuck her? The thought of his dark eyes, of his forceful commands, even the moments of absolute tenderness made her nipples larger still. Her clit was so swollen she was making herself miserable just by walking. When she at last reached the tent, she slowed and looked around. This area was fairly deserted. “Hawk?” No answer. Gillian got closer to the entrance. “Hello? Hawk? I’m on time.” “Indeed you are,” said a boisterous voice from behind her. Gasping from the startle, Gillian turned quickly to find Jarrod Dorn beaming at her. His usually rangy hair had been tamed and combed, and he was dressed in clean, wellcut breeches and a tunic large enough to give his muscles room. Gillian blinked. She hadn’t thought of him as handsome before, but now she could see it. He was appealing in that big-bear man sort of way. The way he was looking at her, it was clear he found her appealing as well. This turned Gillian’s skin new shades of red. “I was looking for Hawk,” she managed to whisper, folding her arms tighter across her chest. “He sent me to fetch you. Come with me.” Jarrod bowed with a flourish, then offered his arm for escort.

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Gillian didn’t want to turn loose of herself, but she didn’t want to offend the big Scotsman either. After a few seconds, she made herself relax enough to slide her arm through his and let him lead her away. “Where—” she began, but Jarrod cut her off. “In due time, milady. Lord Blackmoor has arranged a special afternoon just for your…ah, enjoyment.” “Oh.” Gillian swallowed. “I see.” I’m half-naked and letting a big bear lead me through a Renaissance camp in broad daylight. He can see most all of me and imagine the rest. Jeez. I’m insane. And unbelievably horny. The area of camp toward the rear was even less populated—fewer tents, no people at all. Jarrod led her straight toward a large tent with thick walls, and she noticed that the ends had been carefully tacked into the earth. There was only one entrance, actually a wooden door on a portable frame, laced tightly to the canvas. Jarrod stopped before the door and let go of Gillian’s arm. “Enter, milady. I shall stand guard to protect your privacy—unless Lord Blackmoor commands me otherwise.” This time, Gillian tried to swallow but couldn’t. What did he mean—unless Lord Blackmoor commands him otherwise? Did she even want to know? As Jarrod opened the door, Gillian realized she was shaking. Repeating her safe word over and over, she eased across the threshold. Immediately, Jarrod shut the door behind her. History, history, history… The change from the light of day to the darker environment of the tent made Gillian blink. As her vision adjusted, she blinked again to be sure she wasn’t imagining things. How had they gotten Reggie’s dungeon out of the castle and put it in a tent? But, no. The wooden tables, the carefully quartered stalls, the fresh smell of hay and oiled leather and outside air—this was something entirely new. The stalls on her left were curtained, as were many on her right. One stall was not only open, but lit. Gillian processed a large leather-covered table with straps in several places, a row of dildos and whips on the wall, other leather and metal items she couldn’t identify— And Hawk, dressed all in formfitting black right down to his leather boots, arms folded, expression stern, waiting. Waiting for her. He looked her up and down, eyes lingering on the jut of her nipples and again where the skirt pulled tight around her hips. Gillian felt like he was taking her with his eyes, planning, considering and oh, damn, that table. Those dildos. The whips. Safe word. Safe word. Don’t forget the safe word. “Oh.” Her knees actually felt weak.

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What was that in his hand? A riding crop? But wait. No. It had such a wide head… “You’re three minutes late,” Hawk observed. “I was on time! I went to your—” “Are you arguing with me, wench?” Hawk shook his head. “That doubles your punishment. Come here unless you want it tripled.” Gillian found herself hurrying toward the man, into the large stall. He stopped her with a nod, then studied her again, head to toe. “Did Jarrod look at you like I’m looking at you?” His tone was low and fierce, daring her to lie. “I—he—he looked, yes, but I don’t think—” Hawk caught her chin with his right hand and held her still as he gazed into her eyes. “Did you like it? Did you like a strange man seeing you dressed like that?” “I—I—” Gillian gave up and fell silent. Her face was so hot she thought she had to be sweating. “You liked it, didn’t you?” Hawk pulled her forward and kissed her without letting his body touch hers. His lips were hard, so firm, and his tongue probed quick, quick against hers until she moaned, wanting his mouth in other places. When he let her go, he kept up his intense scrutiny. He was still holding something in his left hand, but she couldn’t tell what it was. “What would you do if I called him in here and told him to fuck you? He’d like that, I’m sure. Bending you over and ramming into you from behind. That’s how he likes it, Jarrod. Rough and fast.” Rough and fast. Gillian was really shaking now. Hawk wouldn’t really give her to another man, would he? No. She couldn’t imagine that. Damn her body for reacting to the thought. She couldn’t help the shivers, the chills, the way her clit ached. “No, Master.” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “Maybe you’d just like him to stand by as I strip you naked, as I tie you to this table and suck your nipples until you scream?” Hawk’s expression was unreadable. “He’d enjoy seeing me fuck you with a dildo, watching you buck and moan. Would you like him to see you come, Gillian?” The man was trying to kill her. She was sure of it. She shook her head, then forced out, “No, Master. Please.” “No? Then what would you like?” The lines of Hawk’s face seemed to relax a fraction. “Tell me, professor.” “You.” Gillian said immediately. “To be…yours. Just yours. I mean, just yours, Master.” The corners of his mouth curved upward. Almost a smile. Not quite, but Gillian could tell she had pleased him. A rush of relief, then a rush of excitement claimed her.

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Hawk nodded. “Pull up your shirt,” he commanded. Hawk forced himself to remain still, to keep his expression unreadable. But the moment Gillian grasped the bottom of her shirt and began to pull it up, he almost let out a groan. She looked both nervous and excited, a combination that made him even wilder with lust for the woman. Slowly, too damn slowly, she eased the shell of a blouse higher. He could just see the lower swells of her breasts. He was ready to tear the damn thing off her when she pulled the blouse over her breasts, fully revealing her taut nipples and the beautiful pale globes. “Hurry, wench. Finish taking it off before you earn another punishment.” Gillian’s cheeks turned a brighter shade of pink, and she pulled the blouse over her head then clung to it like a lifejacket. Hawk stepped forward and used one hand to snatch the offending material away from her fingers, carefully keeping his little surprise to himself. She looked up at him, all golden hair and blue eyes—eyes filled with apprehension and excitement. Her excitement caused his own to mount. God, but he wanted to throw her facedown on the table, jerk up that skirt and pound his cock into her until she screamed and begged him to let her come. No, no. He intended to make her wait, to drive her desire to the point she would cry and plead to be allowed to climax. Hawk tossed the blouse aside, not caring where it landed. At the same time, he placed his surprise on the table, just out of her line of sight. “You forget yourself, woman. Eyes down unless I give you leave.” “Sorry, Master.” Gillian quickly lowered her head and he immediately missed seeing the blue of her eyes. But they were distracting him, making him want her even more. Too soon. Too fast. He reached up and cupped her breasts with both hands. His thumbs went to her nipples and she gave a soft moan of pleasure. “Don’t speak or make any sounds unless I allow you to,” he ordered her. “Silence. Do you understand my instructions?” “Y—”Gillian started, then bit off the rest and nodded, keeping her eyes downcast. He felt her trembling as he continued to circle her nipples with his thumbs. “Your breasts please me. So large, so full. But I’ll bet you’ve always thought of them as too large.” Only the slightest flinch in her posture let him know he was right. Well, then. Work to be done. With a wicked smile, Hawk gave the nipples one last pinch before he dropped his hands to his sides. “It’s time you learn better, wench. Touch your own breasts just like I touched them. Both hands.”

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Immediately she flushed a pretty shade of pink from her cheeks to her belly. If she didn’t have the damnable skirt on, he knew he’d be able to see that red all the way to her toes. Gillian’s hands slowly moved up to her breasts and he saw her bite her lower lip as she cupped them as he had, and circled her nipples with her thumbs. “I want to see you suck your nipples,” he growled. This time Gillian’s gaze shot to his as she turned an even brighter pink. “You should be punished for looking at me.” Hawk took her chin in his hand. “But I want to see your eyes as you lick your own nipples. You’re a wench. My wench. There’s nothing you won’t do for pleasure—and you’ll love every second of it. Suck your own nipples, my sweet wench. Do it now, and do it right. Show me you enjoy it.” Gillian thought she would die on the spot. His wanton, sex-craving wench, ordered to suck her own nipples. Her mind divided into two pieces, one raving and humiliated, and the other too turned on for words. Is this enough spice? she wondered, then shivered at the thought of anyone on her tenure committee seeing her like this. Hawk’s stare darkened, and the two pieces of Gillian slammed together. Professor and wench alike were way past excited. No matter how she felt about her body, if she wanted this to continue, she had no choice to obey the man. Keeping her eyes fixed on Hawk, she pushed one of her large breasts up and lowered her head, but kept her eyes focused on his intense black eyes. Tentatively she flicked her tongue out across her own nipple and to her surprise she almost moaned at the rough, naughty feel of it. “The other one,” he said in a voice so low and husky she knew he was aroused by the sight. “Now, wench.” Gillian brought her other breast up so that they were both cupped high. They were so large she could easily reach her nipples just by lowering her head a little, but she had to press them together tight. Tighter. It almost hurt, but not in a bad way. She circled her other nipple with her tongue, giving herself new chills, and she grew even wetter between her thighs. “More,” he commanded. She moved her mouth from one nipple to the other, her eyes focused on her Master. My Master. I’m doing this. I’m really doing it. “Halt.” Hawk’s order made her freeze in place, nipples pressed against her own lips. Slowly, she eased her breasts back into place. He moved away from her and grabbed something off the table from behind her. Oh, damn.

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It was a riding crop—but not the one he had used on her in the woods. Oh, no. New currents of excitement rippled up and down her skin. This one was more of a riding bat with a wide strip of leather affixed to the end—much wider than usual. And the grip… A dildo. A big dildo. Her heart raced faster. What is he going to do with that wooden cock? It was smooth-looking, dark brown and curved, with a prominent head. “Raise your skirt and show me what’s mine, wench.” Hawk’s voice made her jump. She hesitated and he snapped the crop against his leather-clad thigh. The loud pop made her want to run. “You’re adding up punishments.” Gillian lowered her gaze and gathered her skirt up in a rush. She was so embarrassed, and so excited by what he was doing to her, that she could hardly stand a minute more. One touch to her clit and no doubt she would come on the spot. She kept her eyes downcast, but her cheeks burned like crazy as she held her skirt around her waist, completely baring her mons and her slick thighs to him. Pussy, she reminded herself. He likes me to call it a pussy. “You’re wet for me. I can see it. I can smell it.” His voice was controlled, yet she heard a hint of vibration in his tone. He wasn’t as unaffected as he acted. That thought gave her a feeling of control that surprised her. She did have some control here, even if she’d lost her mind. She had the power to please him simply by submitting to him in every way. By doing exactly what he wanted—or not, and forcing his hand on the punishments. Hawk held the amazing cock-crop in one hand and reached out with the other, stroking the inside of her thigh. His fingers slid over the wetness, so near her pussy that she almost screamed. “So wet,” he murmured and stroked the inside of her other thigh. “Do you want me to fuck you, wench?” She nodded, but he said, “Out loud, Gillian. I want to hear you say it.” “Yes…Master.” Her thighs trembled as he continued to stroke her without touching the one point she wanted him to. “I want you to f-fuck me.” “With this cock?” He held up the dildo. “Or this one?” He thrust his erection forward, almost brushing the hairs of her bush. “Your cock, Master. Please.” “Oh, I will,” he said. “When I’m ready. When you’ve earned it. I’ll drive my cock into your sweet pussy so hard you’ll scream. You’ll beg me to let you come. But first…” He stepped back and snapped the cock-crop on his palm. “First you have some things to answer for, wench.” Gillian’s body tingled with both nerves and anticipation. At the last second, she remembered to lower her eyes, but that only made Hawk chuckle again. “Too late. I’m counting infractions. Are you?” Sweat broke out between Gillian’s breasts. She was sure her clit would explode. 129

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Seemingly oblivious, Hawk gestured within her line of sight. “Bend over that table, and keep your skirt around your waist. I want to see your fine ass—and then I’m going to make you pay.” Gillian swallowed, hard. She clenched her skirt in her hands as she moved away from Hawk to the table, so that her back was to him. The table seemed to have straps everywhere. He could tie her down any way he wanted. History, history… She paused for a moment, wondering how she was going to bend over it without bracing her hands, and still keep a hold on her skirts. The next thing she felt was Hawk’s palm on her back, pushing her down, and his other hand gripping her skirt above her ass. He forced her down all the way so that her breasts were flattened against the cool, rounded wooden edges, rubbed on either side by leather straps. Her cheek pressed the leather surface, and her arms met leather and wood as he stretched them over her head. Deftly, Hawk secured her wrists, leaving her bent and stretched. She could move her feet a little, and her wrists—but not much. Roughly, he pushed her skirt higher so it rested partially on her back, but still over her hips. “Widen your stance. Spread those thighs, wench.” Gillian was sure her ass was as pink as her face must be. She moved her feet farther apart until she was completely exposed to him. Her folds, the soft hair on her pussy lips. I can’t believe I’m doing this. But then she felt his coarse palm over her naked buttocks and she could only think of his touch. “Perfect,” he murmured. The cock-crop’s soft leather triangle caressed her ass and she shivered at the sensual feeling, and at the thought of what he was going to do to her. Would it hurt? Would she be able to take his punishment? The triangle eased down, teased her pussy lips, then eased back up again. It felt like lips, barely kissing. “I have another instruction for you.” Hawk continued to trail the crop’s leather across her cheeks. “Don’t have an orgasm without my permission.” Gillian almost groaned aloud. “Do you understand?” Hawk asked in that Master’s voice, the tone that dared her to object. “Answer me.” “Yes, Master,” Gillian said. Hawk moved away, and the soft kiss of the leather triangle moved with him. She could barely see his left side, dipping in and out of her field of vision. There was no way she could lift her head, free her arms, do anything to defend herself. Before she could wonder what he was doing, the first pop of the crop’s wide tip struck her full on the ass. The sting was incredible, but the pleasure that followed in its 130

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wake heightened her excitement. No wonder he’d had one made for her. No wonder! It felt so much better than before. Broader. Right for her—and completely terrifying. Oh, God, how was she going to keep from climaxing? Hawk struck her again, harder. The crop snapped against her like a lash. She had to bite her lip to keep from shouting. Just like before, the pain quickly shifted to heat. Wetness. Incredible pleasure. Her ass felt like it was catching fire. With a low rumble of pleasure, Hawk lashed her again and again, and she couldn’t help a cry from escaping through her lips. The pain! The pleasure! It was almost too much to stand. “I told you to be quiet.” He paused, just when she thought another blow would fall, doubling the liquid heat again. Disappointment mingled through her as she felt him move away. Was he angry with her? Again she felt his warmth, but this time at her side. “Be still,” he instructed. She obeyed and immediately felt pressure and tugging on her head, then lower. Hawk slipped a ball between her lips, effectively gagging her, and giving her something to bite on at the same time. Gillian had never felt so helpless, or more aroused than she did at that moment. More of her juices flooded her pussy and she caught the strong musky scent of herself. Hawk leaned close to her ear, his breath warm upon her skin as he murmured, “If at any point you want me to stop, make three short, loud shouts against the gag. Understand? I’ll hear you.” Gillian nodded. The crop stung her ass again, harder this time, and she shouted around the ball. He lashed her thighs, her buttocks, never hitting the same place twice in a row. She found herself screaming in time with every lash. Her cries were muffled. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Her ass flamed and stung, but the pleasure that followed each snap of that crop on her flesh was bringing her closer and closer to orgasm. How was she going to hold back? She felt herself writhing on the table, fighting her bonds, moving her ass back and forth to change the pressure just a little, just enough. “Very good, wench.” Hawk stopped cropping her abruptly. He rubbed his palm over her now sensitized buttocks, making her scream again—half moan, half pleading, all muffled by the gag. “That was your first real punishment.” She relaxed against the table, gasping around the gag, clenching and unclenching her teeth. Hawk kept up the massage of her stinging ass, moving lower only to spread her legs wider. A little wider. Gillian could barely think. The gag felt huge, as commanding as Hawk. The fire on her lower cheeks seemed to flow straight to her throbbing clit. She ached to have Hawk inside her. How long would he wait? She was going to go absolutely crazy. She wanted him now, now, now!

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Gillian tugged against the leather straps holding her wrists down, her arms firmly above her head. The leather-covered table was slick under her belly. She hunched forward, and Hawk chose that second to thrust something cool and hard deep into her core. Gillian only thought she had screamed before, as he whipped her. Now she really cut loose. Hawk slid the thing back out, oh-so-slowly. It was long and thick, like she remembered his cock being, but smooth. Unyielding. When he pushed the dildo as deep as he could, she realized he was fucking her with the cock-end of the riding crop. Only not hard. Not fast. Painfully slow. In. Out. The man is killing me! Hawk gave the dildo a firmer thrust, making her buck on the table. “Don’t disappoint me, wench,” came the low rumble of his voice. “Don’t come without my permission.” Gillian’s clit ached to the point of bursting. She couldn’t help squirming and crying out with every thrust. Her eyes watered more, this time from struggling to keep from climaxing. She wouldn’t disappoint Hawk, she wouldn’t. The slow, easy thrusts got harder and faster by the second. The firm wood pounded into her, stretching her, shoving her wide, stripping away any sense of the world past that incredible sensation. The prelude to an orgasm curled in her belly and she shouted against the gag, fighting the dildo. Fighting the perfect pain. “That’s it, baby.” Hawk thrust it again and again, speeding up, slowing down. “You’re so close. But you won’t come. Listen to my voice. Not yet. Not now.” Gillian nodded despite the fact that she didn’t think she could hold it back any longer. She’d always climaxed so easily, and this—this was complete and total torture. “Good girl.” He stopped pounding her, slid the dildo out of her aching channel. Her body sighed with relief and disappointment. If she hadn’t been tied so firmly, she would have gone sliding off the table into one big frustrated puddle at Hawk’s feet. He laid the riding crop close to her face, where she was resting on one cheek. She saw the glistening brown wood of the dildo that had been plowing into her, smelled her warm scent all over it and flushed hot all over again. She startled when Hawk jerked her skirt down, over her hips. It slid down her legs and landed at her feet. Hawk couldn’t get over the fact that he had Gillian before him, completely naked and vulnerable, trusting him with her body… 132

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And perhaps one day with her heart? Damn. He had no room to be thinking about that. Not right now. She was all that mattered. He caressed her pink ass cheeks, drawing more soft groans against the gag. He loved the pink and white markings on her pale thighs and buttocks, shaped roughly like the crop’s soft leather triangle. He had marked her, and she had submitted to every blow. Now, she was halfway in the real world, halfway in that other place, where there was only pleasure. Only one long, heady rush through space. Hawk leaned over Gillian and freed her wrists, massaging them for a few seconds before he stood up and took stock. Her breathing had gone from short bursts around the gag to a longer, easier intake of breath. The eye he could see was open and focused. Sweat covered every flushed inch of her, and that made him smile. With a tenderness he barely remembered possessing, he helped her to stand up from the table and face him. Immediately, she remembered to lower her eyes, but not before he caught sight of her tears. The image almost undid him. Had she wanted him to stop? Had he missed the signal? The thought of getting too caught up, of letting Gillian down made him almost physically ill. He pulled off the ball gag and tossed it on the table. “Look at me.” Gillian obeyed immediately. Hawk studied her, waiting, giving her a chance to warn him off, to stop him. She seemed immersed, lost in the role. “Do you want to continue?” he asked, aware of the hoarseness in his voice—and his fervent hope she didn’t want to stop. Gillian’s answer was immediate. “Yes, Master. Please.” Relieved, Hawk let out a long breath, then regained himself. “Stance wide,” he ordered, reminding himself that she had chosen this. She wanted it, and she wanted him to show her things she had barely allowed herself to imagine. His professor wanted—needed—to be a wench. To find something she had never been able to grasp, or maybe recover something she lost long ago. He was just the man to help her. Hawk’s cock swelled even tighter against his leather breeches as she stood, legs spread wide, arms at her sides. If he told her to walk across the tent on all fours, she would do it. “You did very well on the table. We’re nearly even—but not quite.” This announcement made her shiver, made him want to grab her and kiss her for an hour or two. “Are you ready for your next punishment? Gillian gulped, but she nodded.

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“Good.” He moved her out from the table, walked all the way around her, then stopped when he was facing her again. God, how her breasts called out for his touch, her nipples for his teeth, her pussy for his tongue. When he took her, he was going to make it a moment she would never forget. Hawk reached into the pocket of his breeches and pulled out a blue silk scarf he had chosen for this occasion. It matched her beautiful eyes. Gillian let out a sigh, but didn’t say a word. He took her wrists and bound them again, this time in front of her. She remained quiet when he pulled a second blue scarf out of his other pocket. “I’m going to blindfold you, Gillian. Do you trust me for that?” She nodded and he felt another burst of satisfaction. She was definitely a born submissive. But the mere thought of her being submissive to anyone but him nearly drove him into a rage. She was his, damn it. And only his. He bound the scarf over her eyes and led her across the tent to where he had positioned a hook, just the right height for what he wanted to do with Gillian. She moved obediently, her nipples still taut, and her thighs gleaming with her desire. When they reached the hook he carefully raised her hands over her head. “Spread your legs wide and stand on your toes,” he ordered her. She obeyed and he slid the scarf over the hook. Now she was completely stretched out for him, his to view and touch in any way he chose. She was blindfolded, bound and helpless, and his. He tweaked her nipples and she let out a soft moan. “If you want me to stop, say your safe word, professor. Do you understand?” “Yes, Master.” Her words came out rough, as if hoarse from screaming behind the ball gag. “Very good.” He left her long enough to retrieve a flogger from the rack behind the pleasure table they had just used. This one had a leather handle and hundreds of long, silken strands coming from the end of it. He slowly walked back to her, then around her, caressing her with the soft threads. “Now, professor, would you like me to allow Jarrod into the tent to view your beautiful body? Perhaps several of my troupe. I know they would enjoy seeing you, touching you. Running their hands over the marks I left on your ass. Would you enjoy that, wench?” Gillian hesitated too long as far as he was concerned. She licked her lips and then murmured, “No, Master.” Hawk knew she was a closet exhibitionist, and that the thought aroused her even more. He could tell by the way she shivered. By the low tenor of her voice. But even as he had said the words, Hawk knew he’d have to kill any man who even tried to touch her. The thought of being watched and stroked by others while she was tied up nearly made Gillian pass out. Then her reaction made her dizzy.

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How could she want such a thing? Why did it make her pussy even wetter, her nipples even tighter? She was so stretched out she could barely touch her toes to the floor and she was blindfolded so that her world was entirely dark. How could she feel so vulnerable, yet so free at the same time? But strangely enough she did. She loved the feel of her breasts forced to rise high, her body elongated for Hawk’s view—and for his pleasure. For other people to see? To touch? Oh, God. But damn, she was so horny, and she needed to climax so badly. He was torturing her, and it was obvious he knew exactly what he was doing. He’d brought her to the point of completion, took her there again, sending her almost spiraling into a climax, then drew back. And now he was caressing her with something wispy and soft. She could barely keep her brain on the planet. His touch, the heat of his body so close to hers… Every now and then his coarse leather breeches would abrade her soft skin, and she moaned at the contact when his soft leather tunic brushed against her nipples. “You lied to me about what you want,” Hawk murmured so close to her ear that she trembled with want for him, need for him. “You want to be watched. You want to be seen naked and tied up like this.” Before she could tell him no, he said, “What if I told you I’ve already let other people into the tent? That men and women you don’t even know are right here, right now, lusting after your body like I am? What if I let them watch me fuck you until you scream? Does that turn you on?” Her body heated so thoroughly that she knew she must be bright pink from head to toe. He was kidding, right? But, what if it was true and there were other people in the tent looking at her? What if Hawk made good on his threat to take her in front of them? “Answer me.” Hawk’s voice grew firmer, more commanding, and he swatted her ass with the wispy thing. Surprisingly it stung. “Tell me the truth. Those thoughts turn you on.” “Yes,” she whispered, wriggling from the feel of what she’d been swatted with. “But I don’t really—” Hawk swatted her harder, this time on the front of her naked thighs. “You didn’t refer to me as Master, wench.” His next swat on her thighs was so hard she cried out. “And you started to lie. I know inside you’re an exhibitionist. You want people to watch me fuck you. You want people to see you spread out, helpless, out of control.” Gillian’s face burned, but before she had a chance to answer, he grabbed her by the back of her head and forced his lips down on hers. His kiss was brutal, demanding. He

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took her, pillaging her mouth like a knight storming a castle. Her head spun from the kiss and she felt herself skidding toward another plane of existence. He clenched his fist in her hair so tight she groaned at the pain and the rush of pleasure that followed it. She heard a thunk on the floor and then his other hand grasped her ass and forced her naked body against his. He rubbed his leather-clad cock against her belly and she felt his mighty erection at the same time his breeches chafed her skin and his shirt teased her nipples. Oh, God, she was going to come just from his kiss! He roughly jerked her head back by her hair at the same time he tore his mouth from hers. “You may want to be watched, Gillian, but I’m not ready to share you…yet.” The forcefulness and promise in his tone sent goose bumps across her skin. “Yes, Master,” she said, hardly able to speak. Hawk released her, his boots loud against the floor as he moved away from her. She heard something slam…and then…nothing. Gillian’s heart pounded in her ears. Complete silence in the tent, with only the sound of her breathing. And with her sight taken away from her, she didn’t know if she was alone, or being watched by Hawk or many eyes. She became aware of sounds outside the tent that she hadn’t had the presence of mind to notice before. The clip-clop of hooves and the whinny of a horse passing by. The chatter of distant voices, the ring of metal against metal at the blacksmith’s. Likely it was near noon by now, and the rich smells of fire-roasted corn on the cob, green peppers and chicken met her nose. If she hadn’t been so aware of her body, and so ready to come, her stomach would have rumbled. But right now all she wanted was Hawk. She wanted him to fill her in every way imaginable. Had he been angry with her for admitting her secret desires to be watched? Or was this just another punishment? She relaxed into her position, waiting for Hawk, waiting for him to end her torture. Gradually she found herself slipping away, neither here nor there. Hawk gritted his teeth and rubbed his erection through his breeches as he leaned back against a stall wall and watched Gillian. Damn but he wanted to take her now, right now. But she needed to be taught a lesson, that she was his to command. That she was his to do with as he chose. So long as she didn’t say that damn safe word. The mere thought was enough to make him want to rush over to her, cut her bonds and make her his before she had a chance to change her mind. But he forced himself to watch her, forced his own raging desires to wait…wait…wait until the right moment. When Gillian’s body went limp, her head drooped to one shoulder and her lips parted, he knew it was time. Without a doubt she had completely entered sub-space,

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and when he brought her out of it, the pleasure she would experience would be beyond her imagination. Hawk started to tear his own clothes off on the way to her, but stopped at taking off his tunic and tossing it aside. When he reached her, he wrapped one arm around her waist and pressed her body close to his. All she did was murmur incoherently. He stuffed his other hand into his pocket and whipped out his pocketknife. With a flick of his wrist, he opened the blade, then reached up and sliced through the scarf binding Gillian’s wrists. She slumped against him, and he held her tight. God, how good her naked breasts felt against his bare chest, and her body pressed tight to his. His erection raged painfully against his breeches. Damn it all, he wasn’t going to last long. After putting away the pocketknife, he scooped Gillian up in his arms and carried her to yet another one of the pleasure-stalls. She murmured against his chest, but he knew she was still lost somewhere, flying, flying. When he reached the cushioned leather-covered stirrup table, he set her gently on it, then removed her blindfold. He moved his mouth to hers, to slowly wake up the princess with a deep and passionate kiss. When he drew away, Gillian blinked, looking disoriented and confused. “How did I get here, Hawk—I mean, Master?” “You went for a little flying time in what we call sub-space.” He placed his palms over her naked breasts and felt the hardness of her nipples beneath his palms. “To get there so easily, now, that’s the mark of a true submissive.” Gillian blushed and squirmed as his hands moved down from her breasts to her belly and to her hips. Her head was still reeling from wherever she’d been, and she’d never felt so ready to submit to her Master, to be taken and taken again and again. Hawk stopped his descent just when he reached her mons, and she almost screamed her frustration. Instead of touching her where she wanted him to, he reached along the side of the padded bench she was on and unfolded a wooden arm. “Grasp the handle,” he ordered. Still somewhat in that stage of being half aware of herself, and of him, she let him stretch her arm over her head and fasten a manacle around her wrist. In moments he had done the same with her other arm. The cuffs were comfortable enough, and she felt herself growing hotter for him by the moment. When he moved to her knees, he pressed her thighs apart, his tanned hands dark against her pale flesh. “What do you want, Gillian?” he said softly. “I—I want you to fuck me, Master.” She swallowed, remembering that being his submissive was all about his pleasure, not hers. “Um, if it would please you.” “Hmmm.” He looked as if he was weighing the matter, determining if he should do as she begged, or torture her more. He reached to the side of the bench and brought out another arm, only this one was a wood and leather stirrup. Gillian’s heart rate picked up as he lifted her leg and

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strapped in one foot, manacle around her ankle. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her skin as he proceeded to do the same with her other foot, and manacled her ankle. The entire time, he seemed to make a point of brushing his leather-clad hips against her pussy, stimulating her even more. God, would this torture ever end? What had she gotten herself into? He moved the arms holding the stirrups, stretching her wider and wider, so that her knees were bent and her thighs against her chest. She was completely manacled, completely wide open, and totally at this man’s mercy. What was he going to do to her? Hawk pressed himself against her pussy and braced his hands to either side of her waist. “I think you’re a wanton woman, professor. I think you’ve dreamed of having a man take control of you, to dominate you like I’m doing, thoroughly and completely. Haven’t you,” he said, a statement more than a question. She bit her lip and nodded, then whispered, “Yes, Master.” He raised an eyebrow, “Yes, Master—what?” With her mind still coming out of sub-space, she could barely focus on what he wanted her to respond to, but it clicked into place. “I’ve dreamed of being dominated, controlled. Ever since…” He stroked the inside of her thighs with his fingers, down to the lips of her pussy, and back to her knees. “Since that time you watched a Master train a Dom and his sub?” Gillian flushed at the memory, and at the fact Hawk had remembered what she’d told him. “Yes, Master.” “Where did you see the training?” He slid one finger inside her channel and she gasped and raised her hips, savoring the feel of even that tiny release. “In the dungeon, Master.” In her blurry state, the words came easier now. “I saw the Master ordering the Dom to fuck the submissive. I wasn’t supposed to be there, or to see the man take the woman, but I did.” Hawk rammed his knuckles hard against her pussy as he thrust two fingers into her core this time. It felt so good. Not enough, but so, so good. “Did you wish it was you being fucked? Have you imagined it was you?” She cried out as he thrust his fingers inside her again, his knuckles meeting her clit with each plunge. “Yes!” His features looked almost ferocious as he pounded at her pussy with his hand. He reached up with his other and pinched one of her nipples, hard, causing Gillian to cry out again. “And this dungeon where you did your spying—where was it?” Gillian was in such a state of want and need and that partial sub-space that she couldn’t help the words that spilled out. “In the castle, Master. There’s a dungeon in the castle.” Hawk paused, his fingers buried inside her. “A dungeon like this one?”

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Helpless to stop herself, Gillian nodded. “Bigger even. With more…um, toys, Master. And music, and special lights.” “You’ll show me the dungeon later, wench.” Hawk eased his fingers out of her pussy and brought them to his mouth. “And I might fuck you there, too.” He inhaled, then slipped his fingers through his lips. “Delicious.” She squirmed, needing his touch, needing him deep inside her. “Please, Master. Please fuck me now!” He pinched her nipples with his thumbs and forefingers, so hard that it brought tears to Gillian’s eyes. “What if I simply leave you here? You’re speaking without permission—that’s enough for another punishment.” No! No! I’ll kill you in your sleep, you bastard! “Leave me if it pleases you, Master,” she forced herself to say. “Whatever pleases you.” He moved his hands down her belly to her pussy and flicked her clit with his thumb. Sparks shot through her entire body. She bucked and cried out. Damn. So close to coming, so close. He brought his hands to the fastening of his breeches and began to unlace them…much too slow. When his cock was in his hand, he stroked it up and down, his eyes never leaving hers. “Perhaps what pleases me is to bring myself to climax and come all over your beautiful pussy.” Gillian nearly called him a bastard out loud then. It was all she could do to say, “Your pleasure, Master.” Hawk paused long enough to sheath himself, then brought his erection to her folds and began moving back and forth through the slickness of her heat, covering himself in her juices. He would bring the thick head to the opening of her pussy, then slip it past the entrance and over her clit again and again. Even though she was trembling, Gillian forced herself to be still. God, she was so close to coming. If he kept that up, she would, no doubt about it. “Right now,” he said, “it pleases me to fuck you.” Gillian didn’t even have time to process what he said before he drove his cock deep, deep into her wet, waiting channel. She screamed at the intense pleasure and the fact that he was finally taking her. His cock was so hot, so hard, so right inside her. Like a long, custom-made fist, plunging to the core of her body. She jerked against the cuffs and manacles, feeling her own helplessness, his absolute control. She was splayed open. Her mind swam in and out of sub-space, barely able to grasp the most intense pleasure she’d ever felt.

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Hawk pounded in and out of her, driving her to the brink of orgasm, then pulled himself out. “Don’t come without my permission.” He placed the head of his cock at her opening again. “Do you understand, wench?” Gillian almost cried then. “Yes, Master.” “It’s all about my pleasure.” He thrust deep inside her, causing her to scream over and over. She had no control over her reactions, but somehow, she was holding off the orgasm. Hawk held himself completely still. “What pleases me is to hear you scream, to bring you so close to orgasm that you can barely hold back. It pleases me to know that you want me so badly that you’ll beg me to fuck you.” “Yes. Fuck me. Please, Master.” Gillian couldn’t help struggling against her bonds, but she was trapped. His prisoner. His wench. “If it pleases you, fuck me!” “It does.” Hawk gripped her thighs in his hands so tight she was certain he had bruised the soft flesh. But she didn’t care. All that mattered was his cock inside her, the feel of his enormous girth driving in and out, in and out. His hips slammed against hers, and his balls slapped her ass. The sound of flesh smacking flesh rang throughout the tent, and the smell of their sex, their desire, made Gillian even more crazy. When she came close to the brink of climax yet again, she squirmed and fought, trying to drive the feelings away. But he only fucked her harder and pushed her closer and closer to the edge. When he released her thighs, reached up, and pinched her nipples hard, Gillian flew right over the pinnacle. She screamed and bucked. Stars literally flashed behind her eyes and her orgasm rocked her and rocked her over and over again. He continued to drive in and out of her, drawing out countless aftershocks. When Gillian didn’t think she could take another orgasm, Hawk gave a hoarse shout and grasped her thighs again. She felt the throb of his cock inside her as he pumped in and out, in and out, until every last drop of his come was spent. Still buried deep inside her, Hawk braced his hands to either side of her waist. His eyes met hers, his bare chest rising and falling with every breath he took. “Naughty, naughty wench.” Hawk said in between breaths, his accent seemingly doubled by his exhaustion. “You came without permission. I do believe I’ll have to punish you the rest of the day—and maybe all night, as well.”

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Chapter Fifteen The rain started as Hawk tucked a naked, sleeping Gillian into bed in his private tent. Soft droplets pattered against the tent’s tight roof, causing him to glance up and swear silently. At the foot of the bed, Old Sir flip-flopped his wiry tail on the covers, as if to offer comfort. “Don’t panic,” he told the dog. “We’ve got twelve days. Even if it pours, there’s time for everything to dry out.” He gazed back down at Gillian as he folded the robe he had loaned her for the walk from the pleasure tent. Her own clothes, which had been an admirable attempt to meet his demands, he had folded and placed under the bed. Hawk hoped she would forget them, especially when Sara brought her the outfits she was finishing. It was high time Gillian learned to appreciate what she had to offer, to glory in the beauty that was uniquely her own. If anyone could highlight that beauty, Sara could. For now, though, no clothes were necessary. Hawk let himself smile in spite of the ever-increasing rain. He could look at his princess, his professor with her hair down, for as long as liked. He could trace the outline of her curves through the cotton sheets over and over, until he had his fill. If he ever had his fill. Damn. What had he gotten himself into? At last, Hawk managed to turn away from his personal version of Sleeping Beauty. He stretched and flexed his arms, realizing he could use a nap himself. That was one hell of a session in the pleasure tent, without a doubt the best he had ever enjoyed. And now he knew there was a dungeon somewhere in the castle—well-stocked. With more toys. That’s what Gillian said. So, was my father the trainer or the trainee? he wondered, actually amused by the thought. His own pops. The honorable Reginald Blackmoor. Just one of the kink crowd, after all. One more time, he realized the breadth and depth of what he didn’t know about Reggie—and even about Gillian. Though he had come to know her far better, as of today. The tent darkened as the fall storm moved in with a vengeance. Thunder sounded, distant at first, but moving closer. The floodgates of heaven opened, and the patter on the tent became an explosive barrage. Thankfully, Gillian kept right on sleeping. In turn, Hawk kept right on guarding. His tent flap rattled, and a drenched Jarrod stepped inside. Hawk put his finger to his lips and gestured toward Gillian’s sleeping form. Jarrod nodded, but let his eyes

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linger on Gillian until Hawk stiffened and clenched his fist. Without seeming to notice Hawk’s reaction, Jarrod turned his back on Gillian and settled on the floor across from the bed. “This rain is bad fortune, bucko,” he said, worry dragging through the lilt of his brogue. “Don’t be a pessimist, Jarrod.” Hawk sat down cross-legged in front of his friend. “It’s a squall. It’ll pass.” The big man sighed. “I’ve been talking to people who grew up in these parts. They say this time of year, it could rain forever. Jimmy Two-Shanks has a bad feeling about the creek behind the castle.” “There’s nothing in the legal papers or surveys about this being a floodplain.” Hawk worked to keep his voice quiet and calm. “Not in all of Reggie’s tenure here— that’s really alarmist, don’t you think?” Jarrod answered him with a grin. “It’s the American South, Blackmoor. The entire region is a floodplain—whatever’s not mountains, that is.” “The creek runs under a small bluff.” Hawk shrugged. “It’ll hold.” “And if it doesn’t? Or if it rains out our setup and opening?” Not wanting to admit his lack of contingency plans, Hawk answered too quickly. “We’ll strike and move to higher ground.” “Which would be—?” “Damn it, Jarrod.” Hawk started off loud, then dialed himself back, checking Gillian to be sure she was still sleeping. “We’ll take care of things, whatever comes. I’ll take care of things. I say when the rain slacks up, we just get on with preparations, whatever parts we can.” This seemed to reassure Jarrod, who gave his own shrug. “Want me to fetch you two some lunch? There’s still a little roast chicken and vegetables left, if I go now.” “That would be great. I’m sure she’ll be hungry when she wakes up.” “Gave her a good ride, did you?” Jarrod waggled his eyebrows as he stood up. “Wouldn’t mind giving that one a hard turn myself.” Hawk was on his feet so fast he didn’t even think. He was at Jarrod, in the big man’s face, pointing his finger. “Hands off. I don’t like the joke.” “Touchy, touchy.” Jarrod backed toward the tent door, hands raised. “A knight and his lady. I see how it is, slicksleeve. No need to get your shorts in a twist.” Before Hawk could think of one good comeback to being called the equivalent of a buck private, Jarrod took off. “Squab,” was the best he could do. Damn that man. At least when Jarrod came back with the meal, he was on good behavior—just dropped off the food and left. Hawk covered Gillian’s and placed it on the chair beside

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the bed, then ate his chicken, corn and green beans while listening to the now-sheeting rain. It washed the tent in loud waves, punctuated by the occasional thunder. I should be out there, helping whoever is still working. But I should be here. This is a delicate time for Gillian. When she wakes… He sighed, cleaning his plate into a catch-bag he had in the room. The scraps would go to animal chow or compost, depending. The tin plate would of course be reused. The Wanderers were nothing if not efficient, and they tried never to be wasteful. Settling on a compromise, Hawk slipped out and fetched Sara, who agreed to do her sewing in his tent, and to come and get him after Gillian woke up and ate. “Get out of this tent.” The voice was female and cold, as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. It was underscored by the growling of Old Sir, who lay stiff and on alert across her feat. “Are you going to make me go?” This voice was familiar, silky, mocking. The dog growled louder. Gillian’s eyelids felt like free weights as she forced them upward. Her muscles were rubbery as she shifted under the soft sheet, and other parts of her anatomy were so sweetly sore. Well-used. Satisfied. Her ass stung a little, and the sensation made her smile. Then she thought about the voices again, just as the cold one lashed out. “I swear to God, woman, I will hurt you.” This time, Old Sir barked. Gillian’s eyes popped open wide. The first thing she saw was Sara, strawberryblonde hair out of its braid and loosed around her shoulders like a lion’s mane. She had a pair of scissors lifted like a dagger, pointing them at a dark-haired fashion model. Emerald. The naked slave Gillian had seen in this very tent just the night before. Old Sir’s continued unhappy rumbling expressed her sentiments exactly. This time, the woman was dressed in a black peasant skirt and tight-fitting bodice. She had her hands on her hips, and the profile of her face cut at sharp angles. She was clearly furious. “I just want to talk to him,” she said in clipped, sarcastic fashion. “We have something to resolve.” “You have nothing to resolve.” Sara didn’t lower her scissors. “Hawk doesn’t want to throw you out of the troupe, but if you force his hand, he will. He’s not as soft as his mother on that point.” Gillian sat up slowly, keeping the sheet folded over her breasts. She also kept one hand on Old Sir, to stop the warrior-dog from lunging off the bed to defend his turf.

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The minute Gillian moved, Emerald’s full wrath focused on her. Her green eyes narrowed to slits, and her high cheekbones held a tinge of fire-red. She pointed. “Is it because of her?” she roared at Sara. “He’s throwing me over for that fat, ugly bitch just so he can get control of his daddy’s estate?” Old Sir yipped. The scissors flashed. Gillian gasped, but the only thing that connected with Emerald’s face was Sara’s open palm. She had used her free hand to do the slapping. “Get out.” Sara’s voice was deadly cool. She swapped her grip on the scissors and prepared for another slap. “And for God’s sake, get some help.” Emerald held her cheek, now an even brighter red than before. She glared first at Sara, then at Gillian. “This isn’t over,” she snarled. Then she left before Sara could whack the other side of her face. The tent flap no sooner closed than Sara wheeled toward Gillian, dropped the scissors, and hurried to her bedside. “I’m so sorry. I tried to get her out before she woke you—” “It’s okay,” Gillian said automatically, not feeling okay at all, but she could see the distress in Sara’s desperate expression. Old Sir lay back down with a whine. “What she said—Hawk explained her demented bullshit already, didn’t he?” Hawk. Indeed. And where was the lord of the pleasure tent? Why had he left her here alone? Aloud, she answered simply, “Yes, he explained about Emerald.” Sara touched Gillian’s cheek tenderly. “I’m so glad. Sometimes he’s so damned stubborn about saying what’s on his mind, but I was hoping he’d met his match with you. The way he looks at you, the way he acts—I can tell how important you are to him. Hawk needs somebody like you.” Gillian felt her color rising. “Hawk needs me?” “Yes. He’s struggled since he left New York. The life he was used to, the intellectual stimulation—well, I’m afraid none of us keep up with him.” Sara’s smile was infectious. Gillian felt it catching on her own lips, and she had to work not to cover her mouth. In the sudden silence, she realized it was raining—hard. The rhythmic drumming on the tent tempted her to flop back on the pillow, but that wasn’t an option. She needed to do something. Get up. Go back to the castle. Find Hawk and stomp his toes for leaving her here without him? Now that was a thought. “Where is he, by the way?” Gillian tried to sound casual, but figured she didn’t. “He had to go out to help with the arena construction.” Sara sat back, picking up her sewing again. “The rain makes it hell, and we’ve only got twelve days. He keeps everybody organized and charged up, even in the mud.” That made sense, though it still felt odd to wake up naked under a sheet with other people in the tent.

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“Hawk asked me to sit with you and come get him when you woke.” Sara added quickly, as if reading Gillian’s mind. “Oh, and I’ve got some food for you, though it might be a little cold.” She lowered the soft-looking blue fabric she was stitching and looked toward a cloth-covered plate, clearly fretting. “I’m—I’m not really hungry yet.” Gillian’s eyes flicked toward the tent flap. She wished it would open, that Hawk would come striding in, but at the same time, she understood. He couldn’t very well leave his troupe slaving in the rain while he shacked up warm and dry in his tent. Why am I automatically giving the man the benefit of the doubt—every time? Sara had started talking again, but Gillian only caught the end of what she was saying. “…for Emerald. She’s a lot like Hawk. Too smart for her own good. It’s going to take a fast-thinking man to tame that bitch and keep her in line. Somebody really strong inside—but not Hawk. He was never interested in her.” Sara looked up and beamed. “But you already know that. I think you’re the first woman he’s really wanted to spend time with since he came back to the Wanderers.” It was all Gillian could do to rein her surprise and disbelief. “I would have thought Hawk was a busy man in that respect.” “Yeah. He seems the type, doesn’t he? But really, he’s mostly business, taking care of the troupe. Doesn’t leave him a lot of time.” This new information turned over in Gillian’s mind, giving her a bad case of butterflies. She had been assuming the play between them was casual on Hawk’s part, despite his gentle words. Sara’s observations knocked her sideways inside. She didn’t know if she was excited or completely terrified. She wasn’t even sure the two emotions were different. “Why did Hawk’s mother keep him away from Reggie so completely?” Gillian asked impulsively, changing the subject. “Do you know?” “Yeah, sure. That’s easy.” Sara’s gaze went back to her sewing. “Diane was a bigger bitch than Emerald ever thought about being. A real free spirit, but totally controlling. It was her way or no way at all.” She shook her head, sending red-blonde strands in every direction. “She was only toying with Reggie. Never had any intention of making it longterm.” Gillian opened her mouth to say something, but Sara kept right on stitching and spilling out words. “Diane thought if she raised Hawk in the troupe, away from real civilization, he’d be his own man, never trapped by convention, you know? But he joined the army and—” She looked up once again. “I’m talking too much. Damn it. I always do that.” “Not at all.” Gillian found the woman endearing, even though she didn’t want to. At the rate she was going, she’d be moving all of “the enemy” into the castle before negotiations ended. Some mistress of the manor she was turning out to be.

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Carefully, keeping the sheet wrapped tightly, she slipped her legs out from under Old Sir, then scooted to the edge of the bed. The pressure on her tender ass brought tears to her eyes—but they weren’t at all bad tears. More like delicious secret tears. Keep your mind on the present, sex-fiend… Where were her clothes? Had the bastard left her here naked so she couldn’t escape? She didn’t know if she had ever felt so off-balance and disoriented, like a stranger in strange lands. Only Hawk couldn’t be called a stranger anymore, now could he? It was all she could do to hold back a rash of giggles. Sara, with the innocent face and sad eyes of a woman with too many worries, started sewing again. “I don’t mean to be rude, but that tent Hawk took me to—do you all use it?” Gillian couldn’t believe she was asking that, but she couldn’t help herself. If she wasn’t much mistaken, Sara blushed. “Those who want to. The adults. We keep it in the back in the off-limits section, so the kids can’t get into it. And we never ever let the townies get a look. I mean, the customers.” More blushing. Then, “I haven’t been in but a few times. My boys keep me busy. Their dad ran off when they were little, so it’s mostly been on me. The troupe helps out. They’re my family.” For a time, Gillian and Sara settled into a conversation about the upcoming Fair. Gillian learned that there would be jugglers and dancers, singing, minstrels, old-style food and drink—even pony rides and a jousting tournament. In turn, Sara asked a lot of questions about the college, Gillian’s job and tenure process, and admissions and classes. Sara admitted she always wanted to study literature. “I love to read. I just don’t know if I’m up to the workload. Listen, can you stand up for a second? I need to check this for length.” Sara held up a dress, and Gillian stared, shocked. “You’ve been sewing that for me?” “Of course.” Sara offered that contagious smile again. “Hawk gave me quite an order list for you. I’ve got some other stuff well along, but this one was the closest to done. Besides, it’s the most practical, and I wanted you to have something now. For the start of the Fair and all, in case you wanted to come.” Still stunned, Gillian stood. She held the sheet around her, all too aware that her ass probably still had triangle stripes. Sara stood with her and unfurled a peasant-style renaissance gown. Gillian could tell it was cotton, well-dyed and sewn, and it was so…feminine. So pretty. The sleeves and bodice had the slightest hint of ruffle, light blue giving way to navy at the bodice. “I’ve set the colors,” Sara said as she measured, stopping to adjust here and mutter to herself there. “Just give me a sec and I’ll finish it up. You can try it on.” 146

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A few minutes later, Gillian found herself wearing the beautiful creation—with no underwear, of course. The whisper of the soft fabric on her sensitive ass made her feel naughty—and it made her wet. “Clings in all the right places,” Sara pronounced, straightening the sleeves and pulling them down around Gillian’s shoulders. “Not too tight across the bosom?” “Not at all.” Gillian ran her hands from her chest to her hips. The gown lifted her breasts upward in a swell, then flattened at the middle without being uncomfortable. Plenty of hip room, a generous spill of fabric over her legs. She could tell it would be comfortable in most temperatures, light but warm. “It’s amazing,” she whispered. She couldn’t stop tracing her own outline with her hands, so happy with the fit, the feel of it. Sara produced what looked like a bone comb from one of her pockets and ran it through Gillian’s hair. She let the tresses fall loose across Gillian’s bare shoulders, then pronounced her a vision. Gillian flushed madly, making Sara laugh outright. “Are you self-conscious because you’re a full-sized lady?” Turning even more red, Gillian nodded. “Well, you can let that go right now, milady. Welcome to the old world. Don’t you know that you’re the standard of beauty here? Renaissance men do not like walking sticks like our poor Emerald.” “You’re making more of these?” Gillian whispered, still not believing her good fortune. “A couple, yes. And some skirts and blouses, and some—ah—other things Hawk wanted. Those are a surprise, so don’t ask. God knows I’d probably blab it.” Gillian smiled. “You remind me of Jamie Hart. You two are a lot alike.” “She’s the housekeeper, right?” “Housemaster, more like.” Sara’s giggle was as contagious as her smile. “Yeah, I kind of got that. I’ve been afraid she and Hawk might kill each other. If I locked them both in a room to see which one would get out alive, my money would be on your Miss Jamie. But don’t tell Hawk I said that.” With a gesture she hadn’t made since high school, Gillian locked her lips. After a last tug on the bodice laces, Sara settled herself back on her knees, picking up her sewing supplies. “May I ask you a personal question?” “More personal than how bad I’m stinking at my tenure interviews? Or more personal than seeing me naked while I changed clothes?” It was Sara’s turn to flush a little. “Well, maybe.”

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Gillian steeled herself, expecting an inquiry into what happened in the pleasure tent. Just the thought of it, of Hawk’s voice, the way he gripped her hips, the feel of his cock ramming in and out of her wide open pussy… I was out of control. Completely gone, totally wild. It was…it was wonderful. But what did it mean? Once more, Sara had started talking as she gathered her supplies. Gillian tuned in to the middle of what she was saying. “…maybe you were with Reggie, like a mistress. But after we met you, and with how the butler and the maid treat you, it’s more like you were his daughter. But you couldn’t be his real daughter, or you and Hawk wouldn’t have hooked up. So, spill. Why did Reggie take you in?” Gillian sucked in her breath. Her hand trembled on the bodice of her dress, and she almost sat back down on the bed. God, that caught her by surprise. She wanted to cry all of a sudden. Damn it. She was crying. Why were her emotions so near the surface? She was calmer than this. She had always been calmer than this. “I’m sorry.” Sara’s voice had changed completely. She moved in a flash, standing and grabbing Gillian’s hands with genuine tenderness. “You don’t have to tell me. I didn’t mean to upset you.” With a sniff, Gillian shook her head. She intended to tell Sara to relax, that it was just a long time ago, and a bad memory, and everything she always told anyone who asked. Instead, she opened her mouth and sobbed, then closed it again. Sara leaned forward and held her with no hesitation at all. “I’ve got such a big mouth. Please forgive me.” She rocked Gillian back and forth like a mother, even though Gillian figured the woman for younger than herself. It was just something that came natural from Sara, the mothering. It felt soothing and right, if a little embarrassing. When Gillian finally got hold of herself, she pushed back from Sara and surprised herself by saying, “I suppose it does seem odd to people who aren’t from John’s River.” She took a deep breath and continued, trying to keep her voice from faltering. “Everyone here knows. It—it’s the biggest thing that ever happened in this town.” Her voice grew quieter. “And the worst.” “I was clumsy to ask. I didn’t realize it was something that would hurt you so much.” Sara used the sleeve of her white and peach cotton dress to wipe Gillian’s cheeks. “You’ve had a lot thrown at you since we got here. Since Reggie died, I imagine.” Gillian glanced at the woman, wondering in a fleeting way if all of this was some ploy to win the end-game, to get Reggie’s estate. Sara’s open, worried look banished those concerns as quickly as they rose. “It’s been a lot, yes.” Gillian centered herself with a slow breath. Sara once more eased back down to the floor, pulling Gillian with her. She didn’t move away, and she didn’t get too close. Something about her made everything ridiculously easy—or as easy as it ever would be. 148

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“When I was in high school, I was sort of a history star.” Gillian snorted, covered her mouth, then lowered her hand. “What a dork. But, I was. Reggie and the professors at John’s River took an interest in me and in a few of my friends. They helped us host a contest—anyway, it was a big night, but my parents couldn’t come because Dad and my brother were sick with the flu. So, they stayed home. My boyfriend Stan, he had to work, but he was supposed to meet me at the house afterwards.” Sara’s attention was intense, but not intrusive. She kept one comforting hand on Gillian’s knee. The touch gave Gillian somewhere to focus as she continued. “After we won the competition, I kept waiting for my mom to come and get me, but she didn’t show up. Reggie offered to drive me home.” The tears started back then. Gillian wiped them away with her hand, then found a strip of cloth thrust into her palm. Sara didn’t miss a beat. Soft blue cotton, as gentle as any tissue. “They must have thought my family would all be out of the house. It was a crime ring, nobody who knew us. Professional thieves. Thugs. The police figured they broke in right about the time Mom was coming out to get into the car—and right when Stan pulled up. Stan must have seen something.” At that point, Gillian couldn’t look at Sara anymore. She stared at the blue cloth instead, watching it blur through her tears. “When Reggie and I pulled up, the whole house was pitch-black. I suppose I knew then something was wrong. But I never thought—I never imagined—” Sara’s reassuring grip on her hand tightened right along with her chest, but Gillian plowed ahead. “Stan and my mother were in the garage. Their heads…it was…I couldn’t see anything but them. And in the hallway, when Reggie turned on the light, my Dad and brother were both there, dead…they must have heard the commotion when Stan and my Mom were attacked, and come running.” That was as far as she could go, talking about her family, her house. After a few quiet minutes, minutes Sara seemed to know better than to interrupt, Gillian finished with, “Reggie took me home with him when the police were finished. I didn’t have any family left, since I was a late-in-life baby—and the police and social services were more than happy somebody spoke up for me. So Reggie became my father, my mentor, my best friend. And Jamie and Oz, too—all my family.” Gillian ran out of breath. Out of words. “What the two of you saw that night, you and Reggie,” Sara said quietly. “That must have forged one hell of a bond.” The only response Gillian could offer was a nod. The tent flap rustled, and in stepped a very wet Jarrod Dorn. “Get out,” Sara snapped with more authority than Gillian imagined possible. “And take Hawk with you. Don’t come back for a while.”

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Jarrod’s eyes widened at the two crying women, but he was already backing up fast. The sound of male voices rose and fell outside the tent, then went away. “Thank you,” Gillian murmured. “I wasn’t ready for that. I’m not sure I’m ready for any of this.” “I know.” Sara had become motherly again. “Come on. I’ve got a rain cloak we’ll both fit under. I’ll take you back to the castle so you can rest. And think.” “But, Hawk—” “I’ll handle him. Don’t you worry. And I won’t tell him what you told me, unless that’s what you want.” “No. Please don’t.” The thought made Gillian feel ill. “The way most people react, I just can’t stand it.” Sara nodded. “Then how about you just tell me when you want to see him again? He’ll be there, and he won’t be acting an ass or anything. I promise.”

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Chapter Sixteen The minute Hawk pushed past Jarrod into his tent, Sara slapped him so hard his face turned right without his body. “That’s for thinking awful things about Gillian,” she growled. He straightened up just in time for her to slap him again, just as hard. “And that’s because you’re a goddamned day-trader, and you didn’t even research the stock. Her past. Her history. Did you? No! You read Reggie’s will and just got mad and ass-umed.” “There, lass.” Jarrod managed to get hold of her from behind before she could sock him again. Unbelievable. Why did so many women want to punch his lights out? He rubbed his jaw, not wanting to think there might be a lesson there. “What did she—?” “Oh, no!” Sara struggled in Jarrod’s grasp, and the big man nearly lost her. Hawk ducked, then rose when Jarrod managed to control her again. “I’m not going to tell you what she said. Don’t you know anything about women yet? They have libraries here. Remember libraries? Those places people used to go before the internet? If you want to understand Gillian’s history, you just go look it up.” “Is she angry with me?” Hawk was too confused by now to have a clue what to do. “Did I do something wrong?” This seemed to take the head off some of Sara’s steam. She slowed down a little, and her color eased from volcanic to merely crimson. Jarrod was no fool, though. He kept her tight against him, holding her by both wrists. “No, of course she’s not mad, you huge male idiot. She’s just…overwhelmed. By everything. Reggie’s death, our invading her space, her job problems, meeting you, Emerald running her damn mouth again, falling in love with you—don’t you think that’s a lot?” The sting from Sara’s slaps left Hawk’s mind entirely. “In—in love with me? Did she say that?” Sara relaxed all the way in Jarrod’s grip. “No. Not exactly. But I could tell. And I could see how close to the edge she was. Her time with you in the tent—it brought up some things she didn’t expect.” The world settled back into some sort of normal orbit for Hawk. He knew Gillian had some pain from her past—and it made sense that submitting so totally to anyone would dig up some of that pain. He only wished he had been here when she woke, to help her through it. Damn the rain, anyway.

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Had he made the wrong choice? But he couldn’t leave the men out working alone in such a mess. He had to lead, didn’t he? And leaving Gillian with a woman—and a woman like Sara—that might have been the best thing. He found himself clenching his jaw against the uncertainty. He’d never been so uncertain before. Damn. “Give her some time, Hawk,” Sara said as Jarrod finally let her go. “If you go up there now, she’ll let you in. She can’t stay away from you any more than you can stay away from her. But if you’ve ever trusted me, trust me on this. If you want to keep this woman, give her the time. Let her be sure.” Even before he asked, he knew how juvenile it would sound. Still, he couldn’t help himself. “How much time?” Sara shrugged. “Get together with her after our next meeting.” “What do you mean, after the next meeting? That’s a week from now!” Hawk rubbed his cheek, which had started stinging again. “We could use the time, too,” Jarrod put in carefully. “If you spend it working, then you can be with her for a few days running before the Fair starts. Really have some quality time.” “Yeah.” Sara folded her arms. “And you can deal with Emerald before I cut that bitch with my pinking shears.” Early Sunday morning, after being absolutely certain Gillian wanted time away from him via an exchange handled by Sara, Hawk borrowed one of Reggie’s cars from Osmond. He ferried Emerald Nathans to the John’s River bus station himself, and gave her enough money to get started, even rent an apartment. Hell, she could put a downpayment on a house if she chose well enough—whatever. She just couldn’t stay with the Wanderers anymore. Even she seemed to know that. She didn’t say much, didn’t cry and didn’t wave when the bus pulled out. As Hawk watched the taillights disappear into still-falling rain, he tried to believe he’d seen the last of her. That was probably a dream, but he was allowed a few of those, after all. He drove back without incident, handed over the car, then stared at the castle for a full five minutes, until the rain got so heavy it made the endeavor pointless. The walk back to the Wanderer camp seemed ridiculously long. Give her time. Yes. As if patience were one of his strengths. But he believed Sara, and finally word from Gillian herself. If he wanted to keep Gillian, by this new agreement he’d give her this week. A week. Because he did want to keep her.

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As for what the two women had discussed, Sara remained tight-lipped. She did, however, remind him of the concept of libraries three times on Monday. It was still raining though, an off-and-on drizzle, and the construction crew was having a hell of a time setting the poles for the craft tents. So it went. Each day, Hawk expected the weather to break, and each day, it didn’t. Jimmy Two-Shanks checked the creek on a regular basis, making dire predictions. People labored in the cold, seeping drizzle and the harsh downpours, too. Half the camp caught colds. The other half spent their evenings bathing in homemade liniments and ointments until almost every tent smelled vaguely like eucalyptus oil. Hawk and the other knights didn’t even get to tilt at straw, much less each other. Jarrod started grousing that his armor was rusting. By Friday, despair had settled in with the endless weather. Hawk’s foot was sore from kicking way too many inanimate objects, and there was an increasingly large lake forming where the benches and bleachers needed to be built. “Seven days,” Hawk muttered to the sky, as if some god of drought might hear him. The god, it seemed, wasn’t in the mood for an audience. Despite the increasing disaster and his many worries, Hawk’s chief concern remained with Gillian. He wanted to see her so badly he felt like he was curling up inside. At night, thoughts of touching her tortured him—and his cock—until he barely slept. Especially if he let his mind stray to the pleasure tent, much less the mysterious dungeon in the castle. He thought about going to the pleasure tent once, for about three seconds. But he knew he couldn’t. He had no interest in anything other than being with Gillian again. Holding her. Feeling her lips on his. He wanted to dive into her wet heat and make her moan. He wanted to send her flying, take her farther, higher—if she’d let him. If she wanted him the same way when this week was up. Damn it. If I live through it. On Sunday morning, as he dressed for the meeting, Hawk decided that having patience sucked rotten eggs. He was through with patience. He couldn’t believe he was looking forward to the meeting so damned much. He didn’t even care what happened during the negotiation, so long as he could negotiate with Gillian privately afterwards. Jarrod and Sara got to his tent at the same time, but as they stepped inside, Hawk shook his head. “Not this time. I’m going alone.” Jarrod coughed. “You sure that’s a good idea? You didn’t—uh, do so well on the first try. Or the redo of the first try.” “I’ll do better today.”

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“Hawk, don’t be stubborn.” Sara folded her arms, looking the picture of stubbornness herself. “I won’t be stubborn.” Hawk smoothed his tunic, then his hair, not that it would matter in the accursed, never-ending damned rain. “I’ll be charming.” “And compromising?” Sara prompted. Hawk felt a bitter fire flare in his gut. He cleared his throat, then muttered, “Not sure about that one.” Sara threw up her hands. “Oh, for God’s sake. At least take her the package I’ve got ready. And don’t piss her off and hurt her feelings.” “That you can stop worrying about.” Hawk stooped and picked up the bundle at Sara’s feet. It was loosely wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Clothes, by the feel of it. “I won’t hurt her, even if I have to take out my tongue.” For a few seconds, all Hawk heard was the blasted rain. Then Jarrod mumbled, “Don’t be extreme. Tongues can be useful.” Hawk shook his head, tucked the package under his arm, and left them behind. Cold, miserable rain greeted him as he strode toward the castle he still didn’t have a key to enter—though he felt much closer to that goal, if nothing else. Gillian guessed, second-guessed and triple-guessed herself as she sat alone in the library, waiting for Hawk. She’d chosen a chair alongside the big conference table, not a position of power—but not submission, either. Power. Submission. God, I need to get a grip. Banishing the hot thoughts as best she could, Gillian went back to worrying about the meeting. She had nearly had to bind and gag Oz and Jamie, but they finally agreed to keep the dogs and stay out of this one—and keep out of whatever happened next. Which she hoped would be something. In fact, a lot of something. She was so horny she felt like she would die soon if she didn’t get satisfaction, and there was only one man for that job, without a doubt. What if I piss him off in this meeting and he leaves? “Well, that’s simple enough. I’ll follow him and attack him.” The week of rest and getting work caught up had cleared her mind. Her lesson plans were ahead of schedule. Her papers were graded. She was even almost ready for the second of her tenure committee appearances in ten days. The rush of emotion she had felt with Sara—that had eased into something manageable, and now, she felt ready. For the risk. For the excitement. For Hawk’s cock, pounding her senseless.

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Her face heated to forest fire proportions. She fidgeted, feeling the ruffle of Sara’s dress press against the edges of her breasts. She had on a navy cloak to hide her choice of clothing, because she didn’t want to mix business and pleasure. All the same, she had on no underwear. Just the thought made her squirm in her chair. As if from a great distance, the front door opened, then closed. There was a pause, the sound of water meeting stone floor, and a soft curse. Footsteps echoed in quiet hall—and then Hawk was there in the doorway. Oh, was he ever there. Dampness literally flowed between Gillian’s legs as she pinched them together. His long black hair had been pulled back, and rain glistened against the midnight strands. The edges of his black tunic were soaked, just like the legs of thigh-hugging black breeches. The only thing that seemed totally dry was the large brown package under his arm. This he carried into the library and placed on a wing chair before turning back to Gillian. “I’m sorry, but I think my rain slicker flooded your main hall.” Gillian smiled as his proper British accent flowed through her, giving her tingles. “That’s okay. Jamie hates you already.” He smiled back at her, though she saw his eyebrows lift at the sight of her cape. “Yes. That I knew.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “She isn’t anywhere near with a frying pan, is she?” “Not that I know of.” “Splendid.” Hawk closed the library doors without comment. He turned and started for the table, seemed to remember something, and went back and locked the doors. Even rattled them a bit as if to be sure they wouldn’t open. When he came back to the table, Gillian gestured to the package. “What is that?” “That’s for later.” Hawk’s black eyes sparked as he took a chair beside hers and faced her, knees touching knees. “What’s under your cape?” “That’s for later, too.” He has an erection. Damn, damn, damn. I want him now! “Well, then, milady. I have just one question. Are you prepared to hand over your portion of the estate for sufficient coin?” Gillian stiffened. “No. Are you prepared to hand over your portion for a fair price?” “No.” Hawk grinned. Then the grin became fiercely carnal, and the sparks in his eyes became flames. “Meeting over. Business finished. Might we move to pleasure now?”

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The ache in Hawk’s groin doubled as he heard Gillian’s breathing hitch up a notch, saw the heightened color in her cheeks. He swore he could smell her arousal mingled with her unique mint and ginger scent. He imagined the taste of her mouth, the soft, moist inviting depths of her kiss, and how it would feel to have those beautiful lips over his cock. Her eyes glittered in the library’s soft lighting and her hair shone like sunlight on still water. “Pleasure,” she whispered in response to his question. “Yes. Let’s do that.” She lowered her gaze. “I’m your wench to command, Master.” Ah, god. Hawk nearly groaned aloud at how quickly she agreed to submit to him. It took his complete force of will to hold back, to stand up and stoically assume his role of Master, with Gillian as his very willing wench. “Well, my wench. If I agree to this, I’ll expect the entire day and night.” She nodded. “Yes, Master. And I have Monday and Tuesday off.” Perhaps fate and the universe like me after all… “Very good. You’re mine to use in any fashion, to treat however I will, for three days.” He could barely keep his hands to himself and clenched his fists at his sides. “I can do anything I want with you, unless I hear that safe word.” Gillian shifted in her chair, and he was certain she was as turned on by the thought as he was. “Yes, Master.” “You do remember that you’re due a punishment for climaxing without my permission, wench?” She visibly swallowed. “Yes, Master.” The ache in his cock was almost more than he could stand. “Take off your cloak,” he demanded. Her fingers trembled as she unfastened it and carefully set the cloak aside. Hawk fought off another urge to groan. She was wearing one of Sara’s creations, a simple blue peasant dress with gold trim, pulled and tucked in all the right places. The colors, the cut showed off Gillian’s undeniable feminine beauty, the curves, the swells—he didn’t know if he could wait to start touching, squeezing, stroking—but he had to wait, damn it. The way that dress pushed up her luscious breasts…oh, how he would feast on them, how he would suck and pinch those beautiful nipples. “Stand, wench.” “Yes, Master.” Gillian quickly rose and stood before him, her head still bowed in submission. Hawk couldn’t keep his hands off her any longer. He reached up to the bodice of her dress and yanked it down, letting her wondrous breasts spill over the top of the gold and white lace. The weight of them filled his hands at once, and he rubbed his thumbs over her nipples. Gillian moaned, then moaned louder when he pinched her nipples hard between his thumbs and forefingers. 156

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“Will you wear my sign of ownership this weekend?” For a heartbeat she paused, then nodded. “If it pleases you, Master.” He nearly bit his tongue. God, how her submissiveness turned him on. He released her nipples to slip his hand into the pocket of his still damp breeches. He withdrew a white jeweler’s box and opened it for her to see the delicate three-strand gold link choker, interspersed with sapphires the color of her incredible eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice filled with awe and surprise. “Master, I mean.” He removed the choker and tossed the box upon the library’s conference table. “Turn around,” he ordered. She quickly obeyed and lifted her hair out of the way when he told her to. When the collar was fastened snuggly around her neck, he grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Now look at me.” Gillian raised her gaze, and looked as though she was about to speak when she caught her breath as their eyes locked. He caught his breath, too. Ordering and buying the damned collar, that had been impulse. A deep need to keep some connection to her while they were apart. Giving it to her, though—he had planned to wait for that. Even when he thought he was in control, his desire to possess her surprised him. She had accepted the collar. For now, at least. That was something. He wrapped his hand around her delicate throat, just below the glittering jewels. The sapphires matched her eyes to perfection, the gold sparkling like her hair in the soft lighting. “This signifies you’re mine,” he murmured, unable to keep the hoarse rasp out of his words. “Wear it for the next three days. Don’t take it off.” She nodded. “I’m yours, Master.” Hawk moved his hand from her throat down to the breasts still trapped and pushed up over her gown’s lace. She shivered as he skimmed his knuckles across each hard nipple. “It’ll please me greatly, to see you with my collar around your neck. And for you to wear a few more signs of my ownership.” He dug into his other pocket and pulled out another box. From it he withdrew nipple rings he’d had specially made for Gillian after the first time she had submitted to him. Without waiting for her to react or comment, he slid the soft rubber hoop of one ring over her left nipple and tightened it. A small sapphire rune, shaped like an offbalance letter X, swung from a single gold chain. Gillian gave a soft cry, and then a moan as he slid the other one on the opposite nipple and tightened it. This ring was tipped by the same rune. Both of her nipples stood out prominently now, waiting for his tongue, his teeth. Gillian was biting her lower lip when he looked at her. He tugged at the sapphire runes dangling from her nipple rings. “Does it hurt, wench?” Gillian nodded, still biting her lower lip. 157

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“Do you feel pleasure, too?” Again Gillian nodded, but this time she said in a husky voice, “Yes, Master.” Hawk gave both nipples a firm tug making her gasp. “Do you recognize these runes?” Gillian glanced down, cheeks coloring, to study the shapes. “Gebo?” “Very good.” He tugged again, relishing her involuntary twitch and groan. “And what does it mean?” “I—I think it symbolizes a sacrifice, or an offering. A gift, Master.” “Exactly. To honor the gift of your submission.” Hawk bent his head and flicked his tongue across the sensitive ringed nubs. Gillian shuddered. “Be very still,” Hawk commanded. “And very quiet.” He pulled hard on the sapphire charms. As Gillian’s face colored an even brighter red, tears springing to her eyes even as a look of ecstasy crossed her face. Hawk shoved her breasts together, then bit both nipples at the same time, easing his teeth into the tender flesh until he sensed Gillian couldn’t take another second. When he released her and looked up, he realized she was already inches from flying. So easy. So fast. “Good girl,” he said quietly. “You can let me hear your pleasure now.” She sighed as he let go of her breasts and braced his hands on her shoulders. Carefully but firmly, he pushed her to her knees. The entire time his eyes were on her breasts, the sapphires charms, and the choker around her neck. Signs that he owned her. Signs that she had willingly accepted. This was his woman. His wench. “Unfasten my breeches.” Gillian quickly brought her trembling fingers to where his cock throbbed so painfully that one brush of her fingers through the leather had him biting back a groan. Her eyes were fixed on him, and when his erection burst free from its confines, she grasped it in her long, sexy fingers. “No. Hands behind your back.” Wide-eyed, Gillian obeyed. “Keep your mouth closed.” Hawk nudged his cock against her lips, moving it back and forth, back and forth, loving the soft, wet sensation. “When I tell you to take me, I expect you to swallow me deep. I’m going to fuck your mouth just like I’d fuck your pussy. Do you understand?” “Yes, Master,” she whispered against his throbbing head. “Is—is this my punishment?” “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, professor? You’d like to know everything for sure, be able to predict what I’ll choose.” He gripped his hard cock and spanked her cheeks

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with it. “I’m the Master here. Another question like that, and you’ll earn a second punishment.” Gillian gave a quick nod as Hawk moved his cock back to her mouth. “This is for my pleasure, wench. I’ll punish you when I’m damned good and ready. Open your mouth.” Her sweet lips parted, and Hawk thrust inside her moist depths as far as he could, as far as her body language said she could stand. For a moment, he had to remain completely still, afraid he would climax with a single movement. She flicked her tongue over the thick head of his shaft and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to cool his raging lust. Hawk grasped her hair at the back of her head, pulling it tight, then forcing her down on him. Gillian gave a soft sigh of surrender, of pleasure, he was certain. He did what he threatened then, fucking her mouth, slow at first, watching his cock move in and out of those full lips, seeing his sapphires dangling from her nipples, seeing them shine from her collar. “You like this, don’t you?” He pumped harder as Gillian moaned her answer. Sweet Jesus, she felt so damn good around him. He picked up his tempo, forcing her head back and forth, gradually going deeper, deeper. She didn’t fight him. On the contrary, he felt her give in, relax, work harder to suck and pull, moaning. Faster, faster. And harder. His hand fisted in her hair. Her moans blended with gasps. The charms on her nipples virtually leapt up and down, jerking and tweaking with each bounce. And she took it. She took the pain, she took his length, she took it all. “Look at me,” he ordered. Gillian’s misty blue eyes shot upward, fixing on his. It was too much. With a roar, Hawk came in a thunderous climax. His hips bucked against Gillian’s face and his fluid pumped into her mouth. She took him impossibly deeper, swallowing his come. Powerful aftershocks rocked his body until he was spent, almost shoved into a flight of his own. Grinding his teeth, Hawk pulled her head back and forced her to remove her mouth from around his cock. But the moment he saw her look of desire, her sweet face, lips bright red and twice as full from her hard work, he went hard again in a rush.

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Chapter Seventeen Gillian gazed up at Hawk, still tasting the salty-sweet flavor of his cream in her mouth. She had wanted him to come, had felt a rush of pleasure when she’d taken him beyond the limits of his control—and she was certain she had. Bad girl. Will he punish me for that, too? It felt so naughty, so wanton to be on her knees in front of his freshly sucked cock, her hands behind her back, her breasts jutting above the golden lace trim of her dress. While she watched him, his cock hardened again and the moisture between her thighs flowed even hotter. God, she was so wet already she might wash away. Her nipples ached from the nipple rings, but the ache only made her hornier, made her need him more than ever. And the collar he had put around her throat, the beautiful gold and sapphire collar. She couldn’t believe the pleasure it gave her to know that she would be wearing it for three days, to show anyone who looked that she belonged to him. Three days. Three days. What would happen after the three days were over? Stop it. Stay in the present. Gillian pushed away any self-doubt and looked up at him, careful to keep her hands behind her back. He seemed to be having a hard time breathing, much less speaking, and she had to hold back a smile. “What would you like me to do now, Master?” “Stand.” His command came out in a husky growl. Her knees wobbled as she got to her feet. She felt another rush of delicious wickedness with her breasts so fully exposed, the dangling sapphires, and the slickness of her thighs from the lack of underwear. When she stood before him, he gave a light yank on each of the dangling nipple rings and she couldn’t hold back a soft cry. “These are not too tight, are they?” he asked, concern lacing his voice. She shook her head. “No, Master.” “Good.” Hawk gave her a wolfish smile. “Now I’ve taken my pleasure. It’s time for your punishment.” Gillian gulped in spite of herself, but she said, “Yes, Master.” “Turn around and place your upper body flat on the conference table.” He gestured toward the heavy wood table. “Show me your fine ass, and stand with your feet wide apart.” Her heart pounded wildly as she obeyed, laying herself across the library’s big oak table. Small sensations caught her attention. The cool wood against her cheek, her

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nipples. The way the nipple rings pressed into her breasts, heightening the pain and pleasure. The collar seemed to grow tighter around her throat, giving her a feeling of complete loss of control to her Master as she spread her legs. Hawk raised her arms high over her head as he pushed her skirt up over her hips, completely exposing her ass, her pussy. She felt helpless and thrilled all at once. “Exactly how I pictured you.” His voice took on a rich throb of lust as he rubbed his calloused palm over one ass cheek, then the other. “The first time we met in the library, and you were sitting here so prim and proper, all I could think about was laying you across this table, spanking you until you begged for mercy, and then fucking the hell out of you.” That bit of information shocked Gillian—and made her all the more wet. Hawk’s fingers trailed down to tease the swollen lips of her pussy, stroking, tugging at the soft hair. “Would you have liked that, wench?” “Yes, Master.” Her words came out in a moan as he slid one finger into her waiting channel. Laughing softly, he pumped once, twice. Then he used two fingers, three, four, splaying them, spreading her wide. She ached for him to push harder, deeper. She wanted a hard ride. Hand or cock, it didn’t matter. Something. Relief. As if sensing how much she wanted it, Hawk stopped suddenly and withdrew his hand. Gillian wanted to scream, but she knew better. He leaned over her body so that she felt the press of his leather clothing against her naked backside, his cock against her ass, his warm breath caressing her ear. “Is that what you would like me to do to you now?” Gillian could only moan her assent. She couldn’t believe he had fantasized about fucking her right on this very table the first time they’d met for negotiations. “Take me,” she begged. “Take me now.” He moved away from her then, leaving her feeling helpless and empty. Thoughts of moving her hands, of turning over to see what he was doing, crossed her mind. But she couldn’t. She felt glued to the table, like his will tied her to the spot. She heard the sound of leather sliding through leather, like he was taking off his belt. She swallowed. Her heart thumped harder. He wouldn’t, would he? The stinging slap of leather against her ass answered her in a hurry. She cried out loud enough to raise alarm in the household, if the walls weren’t made of stone so thick that all sound was muffled in the library. Her eyes burned with tears from the pain. All along the sting, she felt warm wetness—and realized Hawk was running his tongue run along the lash mark. Gillian’s head started to spin. Her ass felt cool, yet burned all the sharper, when his tongue left her. “You’re being punished for coming without permission in the pleasure tent.” She heard the snap of leather against his palm. “Do you understand?”

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Gillian nodded against the tabletop. She couldn’t speak at all. “If you want this weekend to end, say your safe word,” he reminded her. “Otherwise you’re mine.” He lashed her again, harder, on her opposite ass cheek. Her shout was even louder this time. Tears moistened her eyes and she bit her lip to hold back another cry. Unbelievably she was even more turned on. Her pussy throbbed so badly that she had to struggle not to come. She couldn’t come this time without his permission. She wouldn’t. Again Hawk ran his tongue along the welt that was surely rising from the leather strap. And again she felt such intense pleasure from the combination of the sting and the erotic feel of his wet mouth following the path. “You’re mine,” he said again. She could almost imagine a leash fastened to her gold and sapphire collar, reining her in when he smacked her ass with the belt again in a different location. This time he spanked her with it one time after another, against her butt cheeks, her thighs, close to her pussy. Dangerously close. Oh, God. If that leather hit her inner lips, if it grazed across the opening to her wet, pulsing channel… Her cries became moans and she grew more lightheaded from the fear, the risk, the stinging pleasure of the lash. The press of the wood against her face, her nipples, her belly, the sound of his ragged breathing—everything went into high focus. This man knew exactly what he was doing. Knew exactly how to deal out her punishment without abusing her. This was a sweet torture that made her want his cock so badly she had to keep from begging him again to take her. “Mine,” he declared as the lash fell. “Mine, mine, mine.” When the whipping stopped, she almost slid off the table and onto her knees, but Hawk caught her around the waist. He proceeded to turn her over onto her back and push her up on the table so that the polished wood rubbed against her stinging ass. Comforting, exciting. Perfect. She could barely catch her breath. Her bodice was down below her breasts, and the skirt of her dress lay bunched around her waist. The admiration in Hawk’s gaze had her blushing and feeling elated all at once. “God, you’re beautiful, Gillian.” He took her legs and raised them up so that his arms were hooked under her knee. Her thighs widened as he leaned forward, his eyes intently on her. He was still wearing his leather breeches and she could feel them against her ass, as well as his cock brushing the soft curls of her mound. “Do you want me to fuck you, wench?” he said, reverting back to his role as Master. Instead of screaming “Yes, damn it!” she forced herself to whisper, “If it pleases you, Master.” Hawk looked thoughtful as he brought her ankles up to rest around his neck so that he could play with her nipple rings. She gasped as he flicked them, massaged them,

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pinched at the nubs. “I don’t know, wench. You were very bad the last time I fucked you. You came without my permission.” Gillian ground her teeth. “I won’t fail you again, Master.” He teased her curls by rubbing his cock against her, pumping his hips in a slow, rhythmic motion. “You climax so easily, professor. All I would have to do is suck your clit and you’d come so hard you’d blow these stone walls to bits with the screaming.” Her breathing grew heavier, labored. She had to climax. God, she needed it so bad. “I won’t come without your permission, Master.” So fuck me now, damn you! Taking his cock in hand, Hawk sheathed it quickly, then rubbed it over her clit and then down to her hole and back. He kept taking her to the brink of explosion, and bringing her back down. But she didn’t want to come just yet. She wanted to feel him inside her again. All the while there was a taunting light in his dark eyes. Mischief. Affection. Total dominant control. Finally he placed the head of his cock at the entrance to her core and slid inside— only a fraction. Gillian whimpered when he pulled back away. Again and again he teased her until tears once more streamed from the corners of her eyes. “I believe you’ve been punished almost enough.” He entered her perhaps an inch, then drew back again. She wanted to kill him where he stood. Could nipple jewelry choke a man if stuffed far enough down his throat? “But perhaps you’ve learned your lesson. Have you, wench?” “Yes, Master!” Maybe she’d hold up on the choking. “Is your ass still stinging?” Gillian nodded. “Yes, Master.” “Let that help you remember not to come until I command it.” She felt her mind separating from her body. If he didn’t fuck her soon, she’d turn into a puddle and flow into a crack in the stone floor. “Yes, Master. Please, Master. I’ll remember.” “Good.” Another few seconds of unbearable teasing ensued. Each time he pressed against her opening, she hoped this would be it. This would be the moment he took her. “Tell me what you want, professor. Tell me how you want me to take you, here on this table in the library of your castle.” “I want it so much, Master!” Gillian’s voice gained in volume even though she didn’t mean for it to. “You want what? Tell me. You’ll get only what you beg for.” His voice felt like warm silk, sliding all over her. “Fuck me, Master. Fuck me hard and fast. Please! Take me. Don’t wait anymore!”

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He thrust deep inside her, so powerfully she felt it in the pit of her stomach. Her scream arched through the room, hurting her own ears, but she couldn’t stop it. She was so high she might have been sailing around a mountaintop as he held her ankles up around his neck. Just like she begged him to do, he fucked her hard and fast, slamming his hips against her pussy without mercy. Ohgodohgodohgod! It felt so incredible. She wanted him deeper, deeper. Harder and harder. She felt her orgasm building and building, but she fought it with everything she had. She twisted and turned beneath Hawk, her skin slick with perspiration, her breathing so heavy she wondered if she was dying. The smell of sex and lemon oil from the tabletop mixed with Hawk’s heady masculine scent. He was gritting his teeth now, sweat dripping from his forehead. Her breasts bounced with every thrust and the nipple rings jerked and pinched her hard enough to bring her closer to that edge. “Please, Master!” She couldn’t hold back her pleading any longer. “Please let me come!” “No.” His voice was a growl, and she knew his own control was tenuous. He wouldn’t climax again and leave her hanging, would he? As part of her punishment? No, no, no…yes, yes, yes! He fucked her impossibly harder, his flesh smacking against hers, his heat radiating through her. She thrashed beneath him, fighting him, fighting the rush of climax that was about to claim her. Desperately, she met his smoky gaze, saw that he knew, saw the curl of his lips as he decided whether to drive her insane or at last let her have release. Her body felt completely under his sway. It was terrifying. And amazing. And so, so, so hot. The room had to be two thousand degrees. An inferno. All the while, he was hammering her, hammering her, possessing her, collaring her in ways the jeweled choker couldn’t begin to symbolize. “Come, wench!” Hawk suddenly shouted. Gillian screamed so loud and long that it made her chest hurt. Her whole world exploded in an orgasm so incredible, so violent, that she felt fractured, into countless pieces that couldn’t ever be bound together again. Blood throbbed in her ears. Her body bucked against Hawk’s. He plunged in and out of her pussy, his teeth bared, his muscles bulging beneath his tunic with the power it was taking him to control himself. He milked her then, just as she had milked him before, drawing out each shudder, each racking spasm of her countless orgasms. She started to see spots, then darkness at the edges of her vision. The entire castle could have caved in around her, and she wouldn’t have cared. Hawk shouted almost as loud as Gillian had screamed, his cock throbbing with the power of his orgasm. He thrust in and out several times more, then released her legs and sprawled over her, his weight partially on, partially off her. Like a shield. Like a 164

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wall between her and the world and anything that might have hurt her—or might want to hurt her in the future. She had never felt so cradled, so protected and appreciated. Neither of them spoke. Their harsh breathing came in tandem bursts, and Gillian swore his heartbeat was her own. The endless tremors of her orgasm went on and on as he held her, letting her cry, kissing her face, her eyes, her forehead. Seconds, minutes…time drifted in circles. The raging heat in Gillian’s brain was just beginning to subside when someone pounded on the library doors. Hawk and Gillian both startled. Despite the fact that her head felt like it weighed a ton, Gillian managed to lift up enough to watch the doors rattle as the pounding came again. “Gillian?” Jamie’s muffled, enraged voice punched into the musk-drenched space. “Is that bastard giving you trouble? Let me in! I’ll give that son of a bitch a piece of my rolling pin!”

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Chapter Eighteen The pressure of Gillian’s hands against his chest prompted Hawk to come back to earth long enough to realize his ass, his skull and maybe his life might shortly be on the line. He groaned as he rolled off his soft, sex-drenched woman, wishing he had thought to bring Jarrod and five or ten other knights up from camp to guard the doors. “May I speak to her, Master?” Gillian’s sapphire collar sparkled along with her eyes. The doors rattled yet again. Hawk took off his condom, wrapped it in a tissue, and threw it away. And he took his time, noticing Gillian getting more nervous as she watched the door. When he finished taking care of necessities, he returned to her, reached down and slowly removed her nipple rings. Gillian gasped, and gasped again as he kissed her swollen nipples. If it weren’t for the horror-show entitled Return of the Harpy, he might take his wench again, before she had a chance to recover. Nothing like well-warmed seconds. “Gillian?” Jamie’s pounding grew more frantic. “Yes, by all means.” Hawk sighed. “See if you can soothe the beast.” Gillian nodded and stood slowly, rubbing the pink belt-marks on her ass. Hawk felt his cock stir, and he moved before her dress had a chance to steal the sight from his eager eyes. As Gillian called, “I’m fine, Jamie,” Hawk reached her and grabbed her by the hips, keeping the dress up. She whooped with surprise, and that only set the harpy to pounding harder. “I’m worried!” Jamie insisted. “On your knees,” Hawk whispered into Gillian’s ear. To his great delight, she shivered, then immediately did as he said. She was quite a sight, too, with her ass bare and her beautiful breasts hanging down over the bodice of her dress, almost brushing the small rug cushioning her from the stone floor. He knelt beside her, gripped her collar with one hand to hold her head up, and rubbed his other hand up and down her full, rounded cheeks. That would bring a little sting back to those belt-marks. “Convince her,” Hawk ordered, giving the collar a rough but careful tug. “Keep your head high and don’t falter, or you’ll regret it.” Gillian wiggled her sweet ass against his hand. “Yes, Master.” To the harpy, she said, “Jamie, I’m fine! You promised—”

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She took a sharp breath as Hawk pulled again on the collar at the same time he thrust all five of his fingers into her wet pussy, sending them as deep as he could. God, but she was wide and ready. If she could stay this relaxed and open, he could giver her one amazing ride. Gently. Slowly. Yes. He’d double her pleasure. To her credit, she cleared her throat and kept going, almost at the same volume. “You promised you’d stay out of this.” Hawk pumped his hand in and out, slowly shaping his fingers into a fist. He felt her wet channel expand and contract, sampling the almost painful fullness. “God. Your fist.” Gillian moaned softly and tested again, pushing back, raising her ass to let him move deeper. When he moved his fist, she gasped and wriggled against him. He could see her muscles quivering as she struggled for control, and her pussy clenched around his fingers and knuckles. She liked the sensation. No question. But she feared it, too. Holding his fist steady, moving his arm slowly, Hawk worked to quell her nerves and drive her completely crazy. In and out, in and out went his fist, slowly, slowly, opening her even more, leaving her wide and aching and totally at his mercy. Gillian moaned again. “It sounds like he’s killing you,” Jamie said petulantly. Hawk moved his fist faster, picking up force. The sight of his hand buried deep in her pussy made him ache all over. He wanted his cock inside her, but this—this was almost as good. What a view. Gillian’s still-swollen nipples scraped the carpet beneath her. Fresh perspiration rose along her back. Her pussy clenched and unclenched against his thrusts, and when she purred, he felt the rumble up to his elbow. “Gillian, talk to me,” Jamie insisted. That only made Hawk fuck Gillian harder, plunging his fist home time and again. Her head started to droop, and he gave the collar a nudge to remind her of his instructions to keep her head high. Immediately, her head flew back up. She rocked hard against his wrist, purring again, this time low in her throat as her face flamed a brilliant, embarrassed red. “Better talk fast,” he murmured, “Unless you want her to see you like this. I won’t stop. She’ll burst through those doors with Oz and God knows who else, and they’ll all see you on your knees. They’ll see your nipples dragging the floor, your strapped ass, your pussy wide open and me fist-fucking you until you come and scream and beg me to stop.” Her whole body shuddered, but not from disgust. “Stop worrying, Jamie! Everything’s under control.” “What a lying wench,” Hawk whispered as he fisted her harder, as hard as he dared. She wasn’t afraid anymore, but she was almost in a frenzy. Each time he moved, she rocked back against him and jerked away at the same time, loving that fullness,

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craving the stretch, but barely standing it. “You’re completely out of control. You’re letting me fuck you silly, and you’re loving every second of it. I’ll have to punish you for that untruth, no question.” Gillian started a loud moan, but Hawk gave her collar a tug. “Are you sure you don’t need help?” Jamie asked, her tone reflecting tremendous doubt. Half twisting, half bucking, Gillian shouted, “I’m su-uuure! God! I’m sure!” Hawk loved the feel of her wet silk all around his hand. So hot. So sweet. He let go of her collar and she kept her head up. Good girl. Grinning like a fool, he reached down and flicked one of her nipples. She gave another throaty purr. “You want to come, don’t you?” he muttered against her ear. She shook her head no, eyes on the door, but she said, “Yes, Master.” Voices rose suddenly. Jamie and a male. Oz, no doubt. Hawk slowed his fisting, then speeded it, slowed, then speeded it, feeling Gillian begin to collapse into his thrusts. She was flying as he fucked her, no doubt about it. No way she could say anything else to the harpy. She was swallowing screams, her entire body that delicious light strawberry hue. It would mortify her to come, to let Oz and Jamie hear her so far over the edge. He wanted to push her limits, but he knew that was too far, so he teased, he tortured as Jamie and Oz fought it out. Thankfully, a few moments later, he heard the housekeeper’s exclamation of frustration, followed by hard stomping on the stone as she stormed off. Oz’s softer footsteps joined her staccato march. Hawk leaned down once more, kissing Gillian’s ear. “They’re gone. Do you want to come now?” “Yes!” The word exploded. Heat fairly rose from her body, warming him outsidein, inside-out. “Don’t.” He slammed his fist deeper into her pussy, plumbing her, pushing her as wide as he thought she could go. She screamed, mingling rage with need and pleasure. “Wait for it,” he commanded, then once more picked up speed, frenzied pistonaction, pumping, pumping his fist. She was getting nearly limp, but somehow, her head was up. Her ass was still thrusting back to meet him, take him, take whatever he gave her. “Now!” he ordered, letting the rough firmness of his voice ram her over the top. Her high-pitched cry came from somewhere deep inside as her pussy gripped his fist. The spasms shook her, shook him with her. He let up on pressure, but not on speed, stretching out his fingers, make her fight for air, fight for center, fight for every ounce of shivering pleasure he could give her. Before he could slide his hand from the depths of her passion, she pitched forward, eyes closed. 168

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Hawk barely caught her before she fell against the unforgiving stone. He sat back, cradling her against him, cursing himself for not being more careful, for not realizing he’d push her to blackout and she might crack her head on the rock floor. “Sorry,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. Her even, relaxed breathing communicated total unconcern and an absolute trust that forced Hawk’s heart into total submission. Gillian woke to the sensations of her firm collar, soft cotton on her naked skin, a softer mattress under her slightly sore ass cheeks, and Hawk’s fingers brushing across her tender nipples. She opened her eyes, surprised to find herself tucked into her own bed, with her throwback knight right beside her. He was reclining atop the covers, dressed in only his tight, sexy black breeches, and his hand was underneath the sheet, caressing her. He moved his rough palms over her belly, lower to her hips, her mound, her thighs, then back again to her belly, her breasts, across her hard nipples. “You’re beautiful,” he said in that low, spine-shivering voice of his. “When you sleep, all the worries leave your face. What are your worries, Gillian?” She felt sluggish, almost drugged. Memories of his fist pounding into her pussy flashed like photographs. Her muscles tightened, and she felt the sweet soreness between her legs. God, she was wet already. “Focus on me,” Hawk instructed gently. “Keep your eyes on mine. Think about my words, the way my hand feels on your body.” That hand slid between her legs to cup her pussy, as if holding her tethered to the present, to earth, to her bed and the man beside her. Gillian blinked at him, coming back to herself. “I was asking—aside from the obvious things we shouldn’t discuss—what are your worries?” He moved upward again, stroking her belly, possessing her completely even with that simple action, and the fierce grip of his midnight-black eyes. His hair was loose around his shoulders, giving him a relaxed, satisfied look. Because of me? Did I satisfy him? She tested her throat by clearing it, then spoke in a whisper. “How did I get here? From the library?” “I carried you.” He smiled as he rubbed her arm from elbow to hand. “Naked over my shoulder.” Gillian felt heat rise in her face at that image. Her big ass, wagging through the air, her breasts flopped down his back. Some caveman prize she would have made. Sheesh. “You’re wondering if anyone saw?” Hawk’s teasing tone was unmistakable. “Only a few. I invited some of the camp up to watch, and—” 169

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She nudged him with her elbow. “I know better. You said you weren’t ready to share me yet.” “Damn. Can’t get a thing past you. Must be the Ph.D. But you still haven’t answered my question. What are your worries, Gillian?” This brought a sigh from somewhere in her depths. “I worry about everything, Hawk.” “Fair enough.” He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips. Her mouth felt as tender as her nipples and pussy. With his face still close to hers, he murmured, “Start wherever you wish.” “Work. I guess—other than well, you know—work is the most worrisome right now. I’m afraid I won’t get my tenure because two of the professors are against me, and my class evaluations said I was boring. They all think I’m boring, I’m pretty sure.” Hawk lifted an eyebrow, all the while keeping up his tender massage, lingering, then moving before the sensations became too distracting. “Boring is not a word I’d use to describe you, professor.” She surprised herself with a laugh. “Yes, well, none of them have seen me—ah, quite the way you have.” He gave her a fierce grin and wink. “Good.” Another kiss, more stroking, and he drew the poisons out of her, one at a time. He didn’t interrupt, argue, or challenge. He just listened to them all. Her weight, her appearance, her ability to teach, her fear of leaving the college, even the fear of leaving her home. She had been talking for a few minutes about that before she remembered. “I’m sorry.” She broke off quickly as she realized his hand had stopped moving. “That’s off-limits. I didn’t mean to—” “I know, love.” He closed his troubled eyes and stroked her belly again. “As are most of my concerns. Chief amongst them this moment, though—now that you’re grounded—how are you?” Gillian fished through her mind, trying to match her sensations to words. “Satisfied,” came first. Then, “Excited, intrigued. Scared, I guess.” The dark eyes opened in a hurry. “Scared of what?” “I don’t know,” she admitted, feeling wide open in ways she hadn’t imagined possible. “Of everything that could happen, good and bad. Everything I’m feeling. Of getting hurt so badly I’ll never recover.” Hawk leaned down again, this time covering her with the length of his strong, muscled body. “I can’t promise you much, Gillian, but I will guarantee this. While I’m beside you, you have nothing to fear. I would never let anyone or anything hurt you. Including myself.” His kiss was possessive, but so tender. Gillian melted into him, knowing she was already crying, unable to stop. She felt so safe, so protected with this man—this man she knew only a little, who had hated her 170

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until he slept with her, who wanted to take from her only home, her only peace. How could she let that happen? He rolled to his side, pulling her with him, folding her even closer. She didn’t push him away. She couldn’t. He rocked her, kissing the top of her head as she sobbed. Once more, he didn’t challenge, he didn’t push. He just listened to her tears, accepted them, accepted her. That made her cry harder. She cried until she couldn’t cry anymore, until she drifted back toward darkness, all the while feeling his powerful arms wrapped tight around her. When Gillian woke again, Hawk wasn’t in the bed with her. She sat up slowly, glancing at the windows, then scooted to the edge of the bed. Cool stone touched her bare feet. Through a part in the thick curtains, she could tell it was evening—and still raining. In fact, it sounded like it was raining in the bedroom itself. The sound of rushing water cut off just as she looked toward the bathroom. Hawk emerged from the door, this time fully dressed in his tunic, breeches and boots. Her stomach sank. It looked like he was going somewhere. Not that she could blame him, after her little breakdown— Her thoughts came to full stop as she felt his legs press against her knees and his hands cup her face. He turned her gaze to his. “What were you thinking just now? What made you look so sad?” “I—well—you look like you’re dressed to leave.” “I am. I had some things I needed to get from the camp, and—oh.” A deep frown creased his face. “You thought I was leaving, as in going and not coming back.” Gillian swallowed. He actually looked angry. And worried. “Is that what you want? To break our deal?” “No! I just thought maybe I had been too emotional. Pushed you away.” He bent down swiftly and crushed her lips into his. The shock made her try to pull back, but he had her so firmly she couldn’t move. Then her lips were parting, admitting his tongue even as he lifted her to his feet, holding her so tightly she could barely stand it. Her feet weren’t touching the floor. Her heart thumped fast and hard as the kiss went on and on and on. The hard press of his erection was impossible to miss against her wet pussy, then her belly as he slowly set her back on the stone floor. Before she could speak, he grabbed her hand and shoved it down to the hot marble of his cock. “Touch me,” he demanded. Gillian complied, squeezing the delicious firmness. “Do you see what you do to me? How I react to just the sight of you?” His eyes smoldered, seemingly welded to hers. “You’re a beautiful woman, and I’m damn sure going to make sure you believe that.” He moved her hand away from his cock, but didn’t break his heated stare. “I don’t expect you to be perfect, or without feelings. I want a woman. A real, whole woman, 171

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from the tears to the curves to the way you scream when I fuck you. Do you understand me?” Dumbfounded, Gillian could only nod. Hawk’s kiss was tender this time, melting her insides. She loved the feel of his firm lips, his hungry tongue. She loved his hard, muscled chest pressed into hers, his smell of man and leather and still—faintly—raw, wild sex. He had gotten dressed, but he hadn’t washed away the scent of her juices. He means this… Doubt punched hard against her wishes, but this time, the wishes held fast. He really means what he says. He pulled back again, this time gazing at her with a heart-wrenching softness. “I got dressed because I need to go to camp for a few minutes. There are some things I forgot because I left in a hurry.” He grinned. “A bit eager to get here.” Gillian returned his grin. God, his accent was sexy. “In the meantime, I’ve drawn you a bath.” He ran his thumb across her lips before he let her go. “By the time I get back, I expect you to be clean, relaxed and waiting for me on the bed. Naked.” “Is that an order, Master?” Hawk pointed to the bathroom. “Yes. And if you touch yourself in that warm, bubbly water, I’ll know it, wench. Don’t try me.” As Hawk left her bedroom, Gillian found herself running to the bath. She felt so silly, obeying him like a little girl, but also wonderful and so, so naughty. It probably wouldn’t take him long to get to the camp and back, so she had to hurry. Giggling, she sat on the edge of the large tub and slid her legs into the water, amazed at the perfect temperature, the fragrant bubbles. He had chosen well, mixing and matching a few of her bath oils, including the mint and ginger she most preferred. As she lowered herself the rest of the way into the bath, the marks on her ass stung, making her clit ache in the warm, warm water. Her nipples throbbed along with the rest of her, and Gillian cursed Hawk for forbidding her to touch herself. Of course, she could… And he would punish her if he found out… Where would he mark her this time? And how? I’ve lost my mind. In the end, she soaped up and rinsed off in a big hurry, careful to keep her hair as dry as possible. Even the towel felt sensual as she rubbed herself dry, never mind the soft cotton bedclothes she spread out to wait for Hawk, as he instructed. What was he planning now? The unknown, the fear mixed with anticipation mixed with excitement, it was enough to make her brain expand—not to mention her clit. She

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wandered back to the bed, caressing her belly and hips, wishing Hawk were here to do it for her. That wish doubled as she climbed onto the bed and stretch out on the soft sheets. Her fingers itched to reach down, to press and release just once, just enough to take the edge off. Don’t try me, wench. The bastard! How would he know, anyway? Besides, he’s taking too long. Quick as a flash, Gillian thrust her hand into the wet heat between her legs. She rubbed two fingers over her clit twice, then three times. A sweet shudder of welcome relief made her gasp. Damn. She hadn’t expected such a big reaction! Her entire body seemed to be on high alert. As luck would have it, Hawk opened her bedroom door before she had a chance to settle back on the sheets. She almost threw herself backward, shocked, but told herself he would think she just got back from her bath. Yeah, right. Hawk paused in the doorway, the picture of handsome severity. The look on his face conveyed sternness, but also the shadow of amusement. “Just make it to the bed in time?” he asked mildly. Gillian nodded, hoping she wasn’t as fluorescent red as she felt. She noticed he was carrying a leather bag. Her eyes fixed on it as he slammed the door behind him and strode across the room. Anything but looking him in the eye. He tossed the bag on the bed beside her and immediately grabbed her wrists. That made her look at him instantly, and she saw he was smiling. He raised first one hand to his nose, then the other—and his smile grew more feral. Staring at her with blazing accusation, he slipped her fingers—the fingers she had used to rub her clit— into his mouth. The hot, moist sensation of his tongue flicking across her knuckles, the gentle sucking as he tasted her, nearly made her come on the spot. Mercifully, he released her before that happened. “Well, well. That’s a second punishment, wench.” He pushed her down suddenly, draping himself across her, moving himself between her thighs until his breeches scrubbed against her sensitized pussy. Gillian moaned, then slowly processed what he said. “Second punishment, Master?” He teased her lips with his, then murmured. “Absolutely. The first is for lying to Jamie in the library. For touching yourself when I told you not to—now, that will wait for later. You need a major lesson in delaying gratification. Did you know that?” Help me… “For now, the first punishment. Stand up and bend over the bed.” Gillian hurried to do as he said, wondering with delicious anticipation if he was going to spank her again. Images of the dildo-riding-crop flashed through her mind. Had he gone to get that wonderful custom-made toy? 173

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Hawk stretched her arms above her head, leaving her ass vulnerable. “No talking, no making noise, and spread yourself wide as you can. This will hurt less if you do.” She shuddered wildly, now as scared as she was excited. What now? A totally new kind of spanking? She couldn’t imagine. And he wasn’t letting her see. She moved her feet apart, wider, as wide as her legs would spread. “Good.” The leather bag moved from beside her, and Gillian heard him rummaging inside. The anticipation was killing her. Her nipples felt like molten bolts of pain, pressed into the bedclothes. Her pussy was already wet enough for her juices to flow down her legs. The marks from Hawk’s belt smarted, as if reminding her what might be about to happen. Instead, she felt Hawk’s thumb press into her ass, massaging the hole with something cool and moist. “Tell me why you’re being punished, wench.” “Because I lied in the library, Master,” she answered immediately, biting her lip as he slid his thumb slowly into her anus and back out again. “What did you lie about?” That took more thought, which was hard, because Hawk had gone back to massaging her opening with a vigor. Some sort of lubricant slid all through her crack, spreading over the edges of her ass cheeks. “I lied to Jamie about having everything under control.” “Exactly. Now, I know part of that was you wishing to keep your sexual adventures private from the harpy.” His low, exciting voice sounded infuriatingly logical. “I don’t have a problem with that. It was the rest of your intent I objected to, and the reason I’m doing this.” Gillian felt a rush of confusion, then a rush of pleasure as he once more slid his thumb deep inside her ass. “Tell me why you want the world to always see you as in control, wench.” He rammed his thumb deeper, making her gasp as she tried to respond. “I—I want people to think well of me.” Hawk stopped touching her opening, and she heard the rustle of his movement behind her. Was he going to fuck her? Somehow, she doubted that. She would enjoy it too much, damn him. “You want people to think well of you. You think you must meet society’s ideal of a thin woman, plus be perfect and in control at all times for people to think well of you. Isn’t that true, wench?” Gillian found herself swallowing hard at the way he spelled out that brutal truth. “Yes, Master.” “You’re going to get over that, beginning right now.”

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Gillian felt something hard and cool slide into her lubricated anus. Hawk pushed it in an inch or so, then twisted it around even as she tightened against it. Shivers of pleasure made Gillian twitch, earning her a firm instruction to be still. She did her best, biting the sheet with her teeth. Another push, another twist. She felt expanded, just a little. After a minute or so, Hawk shoved the thing in another inch or so. “This is a plug,” he informed her. “Once I get it in, you’ll wear it until I remove it. Do you understand?” Sheet still firmly between her teeth, heart now pounding crazily, Gillian nodded. Another push. The plug moved deeper still. This time, the pleasure competed with a burning, stretching pain, but Hawk waited until she relaxed into the sensation. Her clit was swelling to unimaginable proportions. “There are things in life you can’t control, wench. For now, I’m in charge of your body, your pleasure. You’re mine to use. You’re mine to touch, tie up and fuck. Aren’t you?” The pleasure in his tone was unmistakable. “Yes, Master!” Gillian pulled against the sheet at the same time she bit it hard. “Relax as much as you can. Do not scream.” Shaking, Gillian did her best to comply. Hawk gave a fierce push, and she felt the plug slide inside her. Her muscles closed around it, holding it firmly in place. It hurt a little—but the good kind of hurt. The kind that made her want to beg him to fuck her. But no. This was a punishment. Damn it! “Stand up,” Hawk ordered. Gillian pushed herself off the bed, doing her best not to groan at the incredible sensation of the plug. It pressed high inside, and forward, stimulating her even after she stood totally still in front of him. “If at any time the plug becomes unbearable, I expect you to tell me. Do you understand?” “Yes, Master.” “Put this on.” He thrust a garment into her hands, obviously another one of Sara’s beautiful creations. This one was black silk with red lace trim—only, it seemed to be a little lacking in length. When Gillian held it up, she realized it would barely cover her thighs. Her gaze shot to Hawk’s, but he only gestured for her to hurry up. Wordless by command, Gillian unlaced the bodice. She wriggled into the thing, relieved to find it gave her hips plenty of room. It also shoved her full breasts up high— higher still as Hawk helped her lace it.

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When he finished, he stepped back with a look of absolute appreciation. “Perfect,” he announced. Then he reached up and straightened her gold and sapphire collar—and hooked a leash to it. “Come, wench. Dinner awaits.” Gillian almost fell as he started leading her from the bedroom. “Dinner? What are you talking about?” Hawk opened the door and walked her into the hall, ignoring her discomfort. God, her ass was hanging out—her plugged ass—and her nipples had almost escaped the red lace. “I’ll allow that slip since I know you’re nervous.” He chuckled, but didn’t slow down. Gillian struggled to keep up, eyes tearing from the stretching sensation in her ass, the plug, moving as it pleased, driving her half crazy. She was on a leash. A crazy man was dragging her half-naked out of the castle. Dear sweet heaven, they were at the stairs. What was he doing? “Oz and Jamie won’t be about, no worries. And the dogs are with them. It’s late, so the children are already in bed.” He stopped at the castle’s front door and covered her with a rain slicker, complete with hood. “This is for good measure, in case one of the tykes gets up for a snack—but once we get where we’re going, it comes off.” “Yes, Master,” Gillian snarled. Hawk laughed, then threw open the door and led her out into the rainy night.

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Chapter Nineteen Hawk could tell Gillian was mad enough to spit—but twice as excited as he led her through the rain. The leash was pulled tight between them, but as he reached the main gates, he eased the pressure so the leather strap wouldn’t be obvious if some kid did turn up at a bad time. Thankfully, none did. He was able to lead his beautiful wench to the pleasure tent without any interruptions, straight to the feast he had requested. Jarrod was there, and Sara, and several other couples Hawk enjoyed, already chatting amiably and sampling the fare. Sheila, Thomas, Alan, Pash, Aria—a lot of the tent regulars, dressed in their finest medieval formal wear. Even Old Sir was in attendance, sleeping soundly on a red velvet pallet near the entrance. The guests, dog excluded, had gone to great trouble to clean the place thoroughly, curtain off the stalls, and set up a small banquet table in the center. The tent was lit by lanterns and candles. Roast mutton and hen waited on pewter platters, along with corn on the cob, beans, fat yeast rolls, potatoes, cobblers and skins of wine, ale and water waiting to fill their goblets. Hawk turned to Gillian, loving the heat in her cheeks as he removed her cloak and unfastened her leash, hanging both on the rack just inside the door. “For you, milady.” He gestured to the table. Gillian’s eyes were so big they might have been bright blue moons. “They’re all dressed up so nicely, but I—I’m barely covered, Master,” she said low enough that no one else could hear. “Indeed. It’ll be my pleasure to show you off so completely.” He bent down and planted a kiss on her cleavage, drawing a gasp of embarrassment from her pretty lips. When he stood, he gave her a soft kiss, and whispered, “Let go. Enjoy. I’m sure they will.” He got no answer but a nervous stare. Well and good. By the time the meal was over, his professor would know a thing or two more about the joys of being out of control. Hawk seated them at the head of the table, a little apart from everyone else. He kept Gillian on his lap, but the lip of the table was high and long, still allowing them to pull up comfortably. In a gesture of compromise, he allowed Gillian to serve her own food and eat from her own plate. A kindness, given her mounting anxiety. He could make concessions, if she needed him to. But only a little. The feel of her naked, squirming ass, her wet pussy pressing against his cock—it was damned hard to concentrate on dinner and talking, but he managed. She managed,

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too, gradually fading into talk about the soggy preparations for the fair, the need for supplies and all manner of camp activities. Gillian helped herself to a fair amount of the table’s fine offerings. Hawk, for his part, stuffed himself. He couldn’t remember ever being so hungry— on many accounts. The woman on his lap was driving him near to distraction. This “punishment” was almost more than he could take. And it was almost time to take it to the next level. As his wench delved into a bite of cherry cobbler, Hawk took a sip of wine and casually slipped one hand into his pocket, to a tiny remote for the butt plug. He flicked the power on, and just as casually slid his other hand up to Gillian’s pussy. To her credit, she didn’t flinch, but she did shiver as he inserted three fingers hard and fast into her channel. To the other diners, it would look as though she was changing positions—except for her telltale furiously blushing cheeks. “Is Hawk keeping you busy at the castle?” Sara asked innocently. Gillian gulped and nodded. Jarrod started on some tale about castles he had seen during his military service, and Hawk tapped the button on his remote. He heard the soft hum of Gillian’s butt plug vibrating. She squealed and would have fallen straight off his lap if he hadn’t jerked his hand out of his pocket to catch her. “Sorry,” she stammered to a concerned Sara and the rest of the dinner guests. “I— uh—lost my balance.” Grinning in spite of his attempts to remain as cool as possible, Hawk resettled her in his lap, sending his fingers even deeper into her sweet wetness. Once he was sure she was stable enough, he pulled her toward him and kissed her cheek. Then he whispered, “If you make another noise like that, wench, I’ll lay you down on this table and fuck you while they watch. Hard.” Gillian’s mouth dropped open. For a few seconds, he felt real worry that she’d use her safe word, and he wondered if he was pushing her too far, too fast. He stared at her, trying to judge, anxiety mounting, until she composed herself and settled back against his hand, grinding her hips on his cock for good measure. Damn, but she was so sexy. Sublime. He stuck his free hand back in his pocket and hit the button again. Gillian wriggled a little, but made no sound. “Don’t be so quiet, love,” he teased. “Talk to our hosts. They’ve all worked so hard on this meal.”

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“We’re hoping you’ll like the fair,” Aria said amiably, smiling at Gillian from the opposite end of the table. Hawk hit the switch over and over, until Gillian’s pussy tightened around his fingers. Then he eased off. “Maybe you can do some storytelling for us, since you’re so knowledgeable about history,” Pash suggested. “Storytelling,” Gillian managed to echo as Hawk spread his fingers wide inside her pussy. He could tell she was ready, that she might come any second, so he waited. Let her ease back into the conversations, then set off the vibrating plug once more. This time, he didn’t turn it off. Gillian was sure she was dying. Hawk was finger-fucking her and making that damned plug vibrate in her ass—in front of people! She didn’t think they could tell, or see, or hear—but she didn’t know for sure. They just kept talking, expecting her to talk back! She was so hot she felt like she would catch fire. Her clit ached and ached. Shit. He wasn’t turning off the plug this time. It kept going and going, a low, steady thrum inside her, driving her hard and fast toward a cliff she dared not fall over. Be still. Don’t make noise. Damn! The man is fucking me in public! She wanted to scream, needed to moan, needed even more to come. Hawk shifted a little beneath her, moving his hand in his pocket. The plug vibrated faster. When no one’s looking, I’ll kill him. She had never been so excited in her life, but she couldn’t do anything about it except sit. And take it. And take it. And take it some more. And hope her eyes didn’t cross. If she fainted dead away, that would no doubt earn some huge punishment she didn’t even want to contemplate. The younger men—Pash, Thomas and Alan—handsome to a one, kept giving her appreciative glances as they explained storytelling. Jarrod wasn’t keeping his eyes to himself, either. They kept straying to the top of her bodice, to the red lace, as if hoping for a flash of nipple. She could have been offended, but instead, she found herself flattered. These men really did seem to think she was worth looking at, despite her larger size. In fact, a few times, she had been sure Hawk was staring daggers at his best friend, and she wondered if he was jealous. The thought made her push against his invading fingers. She heard him give a soft rumble as she pressed against his stone-hard cock.

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Good. Serves him right. “You have to be dramatic when you’re telling a tale for the little ones,” Thomas was saying. “They love all the roars and growls and screaming and stuff.” “Can you do a good scream, Gillian?” Sara smiled at her, and Gillian wondered if the woman knew what was happening. Her pussy contracted on Hawk’s fingers, and she almost came at the very thought. “I—I can hold my own,” she managed to choke out, despite the fact that Hawk had turned up the vibrator in her ass—again. How fast could the cursed thing go? She had to be jiggling from head to toe. Aria laughed. “I’m a great screamer. Check it out.” She let loose with a dramatic, moaning yell that sent Pash into fits of laughter. Thomas spoke in a giant’s voice, all deep and menacing, then shouted and groaned like he had taken an arrow to the heart. Without moving his arm at all, Hawk pumped his fingers deeper into her pussy, then eased. Deeper, then easier. She started seeing stars. Her breath came in little hitches. Her nipples felt bigger than plums, scraped by the silk and leather. The entire lower half of her body felt like it had turned to liquid flame. The noise-making flew around the table, along with the laughter. Sara gave a curdling shout, mimicking a banshee. “Gillian’s turn,” Hawk announced. “She’s going to give that banshee a run for her money, Sara.” The bastard turned the vibrator to its highest speed, took his hand out of his pocket, and braced her with his arm as he leaned up and whispered in her ear, “Come now. And yell.” Gillian cut loose with a huge shriek as the orgasm claimed her. Her body wanted to jerk and buck, but Hawk had her trapped firmly against the edge of the table. The sound shooting out of her mouth went on and on and on, until she had no breath, until Jarrod jumped up and started clapping and the younger men were rolling and barking with laughter. “She’s good!” Aria announced above the clamor as Hawk finally shut off the vibrating plug, letting Gillian collapse against his chest. She was sucking air for dear life, and her pussy was still clenching and unclenching around his naughty, moving fingers. She hoped—prayed—she looked embarrassed and shy instead of post-orgasmic. Part of her was mortified. Part of her didn’t care. That was a new, fascinating feeling, not to care what other people were thinking. Hawk slipped his fingers free and wiped them discreetly on a napkin. He nudged her into sitting up. “I think you’re a hit,” he said innocently. “More wine?”

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Hawk thought the rest of the dinner went remarkably well. After Gillian recovered from his punishment, she managed to stay engaged, and actually seemed to enjoy herself with his friends. That pleased him. Jarrod’s ogling did not. One day, he might have to teach that deck-swabbing bastard a lesson. He even wanted to kill Pash and Thomas a few times, the way they were looking at his woman. She’s mine, he wanted to roar, then caught himself. He knew he was the one who brought her to the party in such revealing clothes. How could they help themselves? He certainly would have stared. At last, Hawk realized he had had all he could take for the night. With a word to Gillian, he pushed back from the table and the two of them said their goodnights. Hawk helped Gillian into her rain cloak, then snapped on her leash and led her back out into the drizzling, dark night. She said nothing on the walk back to the castle, and he wondered if she was angry with him. The thought bothered him more than he would have liked, but when he glanced back, she was walking head down, in submissive posture. Just following the rules. Back up the castle steps, through the door, into the entryway—without attacking dogs or harpies, thank God. He owed Oz big-time, taking the housewitch out for movies and dinner. When he took Gillian’s cape off, he couldn’t help pulling her to him for a kiss. She yielded instantly, meeting his lips, his tongue, holding him as tightly as he held her. It took him long seconds to remember he was the Master, that she was expecting him to make the next move—needed him to make it, for his pleasure, and hers. “All right, wench.” He sighed, enjoying the misty, half-drunken look of her sapphire eyes, framed by the damp edges of her soft blonde hair. Adored her smile as he gave her leash a tug. “Tell me, is there a bed in this castle’s dungeon?” “Bed, Master?” Gillian’s knees were already weak. The dungeon? Tonight? Her mind was going to melt. “Um, yes. There’s a bed.” “Take me there,” Hawk commanded. At that moment, there in the castle entryway, as the midnight rain fell all across Blackmoor Downs, Gillian came closer than she ever had to speaking her safe word. She blinked hard and fast as her throat tightened, her chest ached and her hands started to shake. What was wrong with her? She wanted this more than anything! But now that the moment was at hand, she wanted just as much to run upstairs and lock herself in her room. Hawk’s expression shifted from Master to man in a heartbeat. He stroked her hair. “Gillian? Tell me what’s happening.” 181

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“I—I don’t know,” she admitted. “I feel like I’m having a heart attack.” “Panic,” he said softly, and pulled her to him. “Easy. Let me hold you.” For a second, being so close to him made her feel smothered. She pushed against his chest, but he didn’t let go. Caught between the urge to pound on him and the urge to let him pick her up and carry her to bed, she just stood there until the terror inside her eased. “Breathe,” Hawk instructed. “That’s it. Slow, not too deep, but not too shallow.” His tone guided her. She followed his lead without question, gradually bringing herself down from that scary place. “You’re tired,” Hawk murmured. He gave her cheek a kiss. “So am I. We both need a good night’s sleep. I want you to take me to the dungeon, but I give you my word— we’ll only sleep there tonight. Do you trust me for that?” Gillian relaxed another fraction. “Yes, Master.” The response was automatic. Slowly but surely, Gillian felt excitement beginning to edge out the vague, chest-crushing fears. Her breathing slowed down more and more. By the time she pushed open the door to Reggie’s chambers and led Hawk through the dark rooms to the elevator, she was feeling a little sorry the man was so damned perceptive and responsible. She couldn’t imagine sleeping in the dungeon—just lying there, sleeping—with all those delicious toys waiting, waiting… Hawk held her leash and her hand as they stepped into the elevator. The key was still in place, and the car answered her press of the button with a smooth, whishing movement. The doors opened onto the dark hallway. “Straight ahead?” Hawk asked, leading her out of the car before the doors closed. “Yes. The door should be open, and the lights are just inside the door on the left, Master.” “Are there any obstacles, or problems with footing?” “No, Master.” Hawk gave the leash a firm pull, and Gillian felt the comforting snugness of the collar as he boldly led her down the hallway. Moving so fast in complete darkness gave her a little bit of a head rush. He slowed them at the right moment, and she heard his hand brush across the stone entryway, seeking the lights. Cool air played on Gillian’s damp thighs, on her exposed cleavage. She was more than aware of the plug in her ass, but it felt comfortable now. Pleasing in that naughty way she had come to crave. Here I am at the dungeon door, dressed like a modern tavern wench, leashed and collared by my dark, powerful man… Her pussy tingled.

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The lights blazed, and Gillian heard Hawk’s sharp intake of breath. “Impressive, Master?” she asked quietly. Hawk led her inside, his head turning right and left, his dark eyes snapping as he observed, catalogued—and his mouth, it was hanging open just a little. Gillian covered her own mouth. Even the throwback knight could be caught off guard. That made her feel oddly calmer, and even closer to him. Once he recovered from the surprise of seeing such an amazing dungeon, Hawk turned his back on the Saint Andrew’s cross, the slings, the tables, the dildos— everything. She saw him struggle to calm the fire that wanted to leap straight out of his eyes. His expression communicated the same thing Gillian felt every time she even imagined the place. So many toys. So many possibilities! Still, he had told her they would sleep tonight. Would he keep that promise? As if hearing her thoughts, Hawk finished gathering himself and quietly led Gillian to the medieval bed. “Bend over,” he instructed, and Gillian obliged. The red sheets felt so soft and erotic under her skin, reminding her to stretch her arms over her head. More cool air rushed against her ass and pussy as she spread her legs wide. Hawk’s fingers brushed the lips of her pussy, stroking just a little, teasing just a little more. She could tell he was tempted, that he wanted to go back on what he said, but he withdrew his hand. “Relax your muscles.” Gillian took a deep breath, and did her best. She felt Hawk’s fingers slide into her ass, and the butt plug slowly, slowly began to respond as he pulled. Shivers of pleasure traveled up and down Gillian’s body, bunching and focusing directly on her clit. She did her best to keep her ass loose, but each time Hawk tugged, her muscles clenched, shooting more bolts of heat through her pussy. “Let that be a lesson to you, wench.” Hawk made the plug buzz once before he finished extracting it. Gillian almost jumped off the bed in response. “Being out of control isn’t always terrible, is it?” “No, Master.” She wanted to rub her clit so badly she could barely stand it, but she didn’t dare. Even one swipe, and the bastard would see her. Or smell her. Then he’d really have no mercy. The thought that she could control him, manipulate him by misbehavior, made Gillian grin, but she kept still until he ordered her to stand up. She complied, thinking over the uses and misuses of her power. It was almost as good of a head rush as hurrying down the dark hallway. Giddy laughter threatened to burst from her throat, and she knew then just how much she did need to sleep. 183

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Tomorrow… Her fantasies would all come true tomorrow… Hawk unfastened her leash and commanded her to get undressed and get into bed. Hawk undressed too, standing in the bright lights, his cock hard and straight. He wants me, Gillian thought with a new rush of warm pleasure as she pulled the covers over her naked body. He’s thinking about tying me up, about using these toys on me. Me. This gorgeous hunk of a man wants to play in the dungeon with me. After a long time studying the dungeon’s many offerings, Hawk lit a single candle, closed the door, barred it and switched off the lights. He carried the candle to the bed, then blew it out before sliding under the sheets behind Gillian. He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her in that protective way she was getting way too used to enjoying. Damn, he was all man. Those hard thighs. That hot ramrod of a cock nudging her still-tingling ass, the way his muscled chest pressed into her back… And he wants me. He put a collar on me. And tomorrow… Satisfied, excited, relaxed, nervous, wet, frustrated, confused, yet clearer than ever, Gillian hunched back against Hawk’s erection and fell sound asleep. Hawk held his sleeping beauty for as long as he could, but his cock was killing him. He couldn’t rest, and he didn’t want to risk relieving himself in the dungeon with her, even if he headed into the bathroom he saw off to the side. Instead, he quietly eased out of the bed, got dressed and made his way back down the dark hallway to the elevator. He didn’t like leaving Gillian alone, but he couldn’t imagine her waking, as exhausted as she was. Hell, he was worn out, too. He rode the elevator up, and moved through the dark apartments until he found the main hallway. Proceeding carefully, Hawk was more than aware that Osmond and the harpy could be about—not to mention the greyhounds, who still weren’t sure if they liked him. The longer he walked, the more his erection eased. Well and good. A little delayed gratification wouldn’t lessen his pleasures, either. By the time he reached the castle’s main level, he had decided a snack wouldn’t hurt, and he’d remembered the package Sara had sent with him when he first headed up for the meeting that morning. It was still in the library. Navigating the dimly lit hallways, Hawk found the kitchen easily enough. He raided the refrigerator and wolfed down some grapes and cheese, then chased that with some milk. On impulse, he grabbed a few cold hotdogs, munching happily as he headed for the library. In fact, he still had one hotdog hanging out of his mouth when he pushed open the door to find Jamie Hart standing by the conference table, essentially naked in the rope

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dress Sara had no doubt made for Gillian. Sara’s package was torn open on the table, right next to Jamie’s nightgown. Hawk didn’t know who reacted faster—the harpy, screaming and trying unsuccessfully to cover up all of her accentuated private parts, or him, spewing halfchewed hotdog all over the library door. The more Jamie hopped around trying to hide herself, the tighter the rope knots became. Hawk swore and choked on hotdog, knowing he had to do something before the damnable woman made it necessary to cut her free. “Be still,” he ordered in his firmest tone. To his great surprise, Jamie froze, half bent over, head lifted, eyes wide with complete humiliation. “I—I found this package. Didn’t know what it was, so I looked, and—” The harpy was an amazing shade of ruby. She was covered in perspiration, her hair wild, her expression increasingly wilder. Under other circumstances, Hawk would have thought this hilarious—and he had no doubt whoever this perplexing creature chose to bed, that man would be wellpleased and spent by the time she was done. For now, however, he sensed an advantage. His trading skills surged to the forefront, and the next time he spoke, it was with calculated disapproval. “Those are gifts. You had no right to nose into that package, Ms. Hart.” Her red face darkened. “I know that now. I’m sorry.” “Gillian would be most unhappy to know you’ve seen this. Most embarrassed as well.” This doubled Jamie’s misery. “Please, don’t tell her.” “We’ll see about that.” Hawk made himself keep an even expression as he headed over to where the hapless housekeeper waited. “Turn around.” For once, Jamie didn’t threaten, yell or argue. She hopped around in a slow circle until her back was to Hawk. Swallowing laughter, Hawk unfastened the back knot with practiced hands. Jamie let out a breath as the binding pressure eased and she slipped out of the ropes. “This may leave marks. You really shouldn’t play with a rope dress alone, woman.” A hacking cough was his only response. Jamie whirled back to the table, grabbed her nightgown, and jammed it over her head. She stood, trying hard to catch her breath as Hawk gathered the rest of the package contents—two more gowns, a skirt, a peasant shirt, and one hell of a sexy demi-cup bustier—and folded them back into the paper before picking them up. “Do you have a Master, Jamie? A Dom who would enjoy seeing you dressed like that?”

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He looked up just in time to see her hand fly to her mouth. She coughed again, then shook her head furiously. Hawk let out a dramatic sigh. “A pity. You should think about it. If anyone could use a bit of taming…” This made Jamie drop her hand back to her side and curl it into a fist. Before she could start shouting, Hawk added, “And now to the issue of telling Gillian. I’ll hold my peace on three conditions. Are you interested in hearing them?” Jamie’s frown was instant and sullen, but she nodded. If she had a frying pan handy, I’d be in trouble. Never mind the rolling pin. Soldiering on, he tapped the package and asked, “Are you aware of the dungeon beneath my father’s private chambers?” Clearly shocked, Jamie’s fingers loosened, and she went back to blushing. “Of course. Who do you think takes off the dust every month?” “Good, good.” Hawk gave her his most winning smile. “For the next two days, you’ll deliver three meals for two to the door, without coming inside. Full, good meals—no raw bacon and coffee grounds. Do I make myself clear?” Jamie hesitated, but finally gave a short, sharp nod. “Second, you’ll cease your attempts to strike me, kick me, curse me and remove my manly parts. You’ll give me at least silence and lack of violence, if not respect.” Another pause. Another nod, this time with a little pouting. “Third and most importantly, you will tell Osmond Burns how you feel about him, and you’ll do it before Christmas. Including any thoughts you might have had about that dungeon.” “Hawkins Blackmoor. That’s not fair!” Jamie’s hands became fists again, but she made no attempt to swing at him. “I never pretended to be fair, Ms. Hart.” Hawk kept his voice Wall Street cool. “Those are my conditions, take them or leave them.” When Jamie did nothing but sputter, wanting to call him names but obviously restraining herself because of the leverage he now held, Hawk decided to make his exit. As he reached the door, he said, “I like breakfast by 8:00 am.” She let out a scream and muttered to herself as he pulled the hotdog-splotched door closed behind him. Grinning, Hawk headed for the dungeon and didn’t look back.

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Chapter Twenty Gillian woke to the soft caress of fingers slowly blazing a trail down her side, from the curve of her breast to her well-rounded hip. She couldn’t help but stretch like a cat, extending her arms upward and wiggling her toes. She’d never felt so content, so satisfied, in all her life. Even the collar around her neck gave her pleasure, knowing that it meant she belonged to Hawk. If only for these few days, she was completely his. Soft morning light spilled into the dungeon from window wells along one side. The windows were made of stained glass, and beautiful colors fractured against the stone wall before her. She realized she’d never been down here in the daytime, to see the full genius of Reggie’s design. The press of Hawk’s erection tight against her ass reminded her of another genius— her undisputed Master. The delicious feel of his hard cock gave her back some semblance of the control he had taken from her last night. Hawk might have her complete submission, but she could excite him, make him hard, drive him crazy by how she reacted—or didn’t react. She was responsible for his pleasure. “Good morning, wench,” came his sexy rumble as he leaned over and dropped kisses along her neck. Gillian turned in his arms to face him and he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. His breath was warm and he smelled of all that was heady and masculine, a scent that mingled with oiled leather, clean sheets and her own arousal. “Morning, Master.” She dared to trail her fingers along his stubbled jaw and smiled. Hawk clasped his hand around the collar at her throat and she shivered. He looked so damned hot with his hair rumpled and his dark eyes studying her intently. “Did you learn your lesson about control last night?” Gillian heated from head to toe at the memory. Hawk had made her climax and scream in front of a table of his friends. And what excited her and frightened her all at once was that she had enjoyed it. He had been right the time he told her he believed she was an exhibitionist. Her breasts had nearly been bared to every person there, and she was almost positive they had known what Hawk was doing to her. The truth had been in their eyes, in their amused and aroused glances. “I asked you a question.” Hawk’s features tightened into a commanding pose as he released her and pushed himself to a sitting position. The sheet dropped to his waist, and her gaze dropped to the tent his cock made against the material at his lap. “The rules change now, my dear. You’ve had some training now, and you’re not a novice. When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. That’s two punishments I owe you now. Don’t make it a third.”

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Gillian flushed and her gaze shot from his lap to his face. She’d forgotten what his question was, so all she said was, “Yes, Master.” He narrowed his eyes. “And…?” Heat burned her cheeks like wildfire. Damn the man. “I don’t remember what the question was, Master.” Shaking his head, Hawk sighed. “My words aren’t casual, wench. That’s three punishments.” This time his gaze turned so fierce she drew away from him. “Did you learn your lesson about control last night?” he growled. “Oh.” She gulped. “Yes, Master. I learned my lesson last night.” “Hmm. Somehow, I doubt that.” He folded his arms and studied her. “Letting go of control, having faith in your own beauty—and apparently, paying attention to your Master’s reactions and words top your learning list. I want you on your knees in this bed, facing away from me. Be very still, and don’t make a noise except to answer what I ask you.” Goodness, we’re starting fast this morning! Gillian sat up and settled back on her knees, facing away from Hawk as he instructed. What met her eyes was a full view of the dungeon—which looked more cleaned and polished since she last saw it. The chairs and padded tables had been dusted. The three different stocks looked freshly conditioned and polished. The benches looked equally fresh, and all the straps seemed oiled and ready for use. The metal web and the cages scattered about the huge stone room now glittered in the sunlight, especially the smaller cage attached to the chain and pulley in the middle of the room. Hawk’s hands slipped around her waist, and he cupped her breasts. Don’t make any noise, she reminded herself. Just in time, because he gave her nipples a fierce pinch. She jumped, but bit back her cry, then the groan as he eased closer to her. “Did that hurt, wench?” Gillian nodded. “Yes, Master.” “Good. You and I need to come to an understanding about you following my instructions. Keep looking at the dungeon. Study each piece of equipment, and think of how I might use it to…educate you. Punish you. Pleasure you.” He started to knead her already rock-hard nipples in earnest then, mixing in pinches and strokes even as he nipped at her neck. “The only way I can take you to the next level, please you in those ways you’ve dreamed, is to truly be your Master.” He pinched and pinched, alternating with light flicks and strokes. Somehow, Gillian managed to stay upright and keep her mouth shut. Her pussy flooded from what he was doing, how his body felt pressed against hers, and what he said.

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Educate…punish…pleasure… Her eyes crossed the rack of whips, canes, rods, ticklers and wands. God, what the man could do with those. She shivered. And that table of dildos, with all the colors and sizes…not to mention the huge one she’d tried riding on her own. Hawk kept up his stroking and pinching with one hand. The other hand moved down to stroke her pussy. In seconds, two of his fingers slipped inside her already-swollen lips and stroked her clit. Just once. Just enough to make her shake and want to scream. “Did that feel good?” “Yes, Master.” The fingers came together, pinching the clit fiercely. Gillian flinched, but ate her scream. Tears flowed down her cheeks instantly, and she had to gasp when he finally let her go. “Did that hurt?” “Y-yes, Master.” Hawk went back to stroking her clit, so lightly the sensation made her crazy. “That’s the basic lesson you keep failing to learn. Do as I command, and you’ll know pleasure. Disobey me…” he pinched her clit again, even harder. She had to bite her lip to keep from yelping. “Tell me,” he demanded without letting her go. The bastard had her nipple, too. A vise on her tit, a vise on her clit—and he wanted her to talk? “If I disobey you, I’ll know pain, Master!” Instantly, he let her go. “Good girl. That’s my wench. I think we’re already back on the right track.” He moved away from her, got up and came to stand a few feet away at the edge of the rich red rug that stretched beneath the bed. He looked magnificent with his black hair wild about his broad shoulders, his powerful chest, his muscled abs that tapered to lean hips and strong thighs. A warrior’s warrior. A total throwback to a time when men were closer to wolves. And that cock, jutting from its nest of black curls… Gillian licked her lips. He winked at her, then grabbed his clothes from the floor and got dressed, right down to his boots. His erection made a splendid hard line in his tight breeches. Gillian’s disappointment was palpable, but she kept it hidden as best she could. “Come here, wench,” he growled, pointing to the spot directly in front of him. Forcing herself to lower her gaze like a good submissive, she rushed to get out of the bed, tangling her feet in the sheet and almost falling on the rug-covered stone. She felt clumsy and awkward, and again that embarrassment about her size flooded her. By 189

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the time she was standing where he told her to, she was sure she was pink from head to toe. She dared a peek at Hawk’s face and saw that his dark gaze had become more intent, like he was reading her thoughts. But instead of reprimanding her, he gestured toward one of the mounted dildos—the same one she had ridden before, during her wild fantasies after she first met him. It glistened, as if already lubricated. Does he know? But—how? Noooo, he couldn’t. This is coincidence. “What are you waiting for? Get moving!” Gillian rushed to the large rubber cock with the leather and wood mount. “Check the stirrups,” Hawk commanded, moving behind her in the general direction of the rack of whips and floggers. Gillian bent over in a hurry, checking the soundness of the straps, acutely aware of her bare ass and pussy, spread wide for him to see. “I want you on top of the platform, in position.” Hawk’s order echoed against the stone walls. “But don’t let the dildo enter you.” Trembling with anticipation, Gillian mounted the dildo’s saddle-like stand, settled a foot in each stirrup and held herself as still as she could. The cock’s lubricated tip pressed against her aching pussy. She was already so ready for relief. Some easing of the pressure inside her. She’d rather fuck Hawk, but by God, the dildo would do. “Pay close attention, wench. I want you still. I want no noise except answers to my questions. Do you understand me?” “Yes, Master.” “I have a very special toy to show you.” Gillian thought she heard the sound of him plugging something in, but she had to be imagining that, right? She hoped her mind was playing tricks. What could he have plugged in? The urge to turn her head and look nearly made her crazy on the spot. Soft leather lashes rubbed across her ass. She jumped at the odd sensation. The lashes were cool, almost like they weren’t made out of leather at all, but some sort of finely spun soft metal. My mind is playing tricks…my mind is playing tricks… “Do you know what just touched you?” Gillian’s voice didn’t want to work. She was so obsessed by the plugging-in sound she heard and the unusual feel of the lashes that her thoughts clogged up. When she got her throat to cooperate, her answer came out more like a question. “A flogger, Master?”

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“Good guess.” Hawk sounded very pleased. “But this isn’t a flogger. It’s a cat-o’nine-tails from my personal collection—and it’s special. Do you know what makes it special?” Cat-o’-nine-tails? Cat-o’-nine-tails?! The safe word flashed through Gillian’s mind. She didn’t think she was ready for the cat-o’-nine-tails. Especially if it had to be plugged in! The soft, cool lashes returned, stroking her back, snaking lower to brush her cheeks, then the tender region between ass and pussy. She startled, rocked forward, and almost sat down on the cock before Hawk told her to. Damn, damn, damn. The sneak! “No, Master,” she forced out, doing her best to regain her balance. “This is called a Panther, and it’s made out of a combination of copper and fabric threads.” Gillian’s nerves jumped. “C-copper, Master?” “Don’t worry. It will feel like a leather cat—until I turn on what it’s attached to. Have you ever heard of a violet wand?” Barely able to hold herself over the dildo, chest tightening with a mix of fear and eager anticipation, Gillian said, “I don’t think so, Master.” She heard the click of a switch, then a soft electrical buzz. Oh…my…God… Her eyes opened and closed all on their own, over and over. Her knees quivered. The tip of the dildo came dangerously close to target. This time when the cat—the Panther—touched her, she felt something like purring bubbles skitter across her skin, following the line of the flogger’s tails. When Hawk pulled it away, wild little stings zapped all across her ass. Gillian gasped and rocked forward again. The dildo brushed her wet, throbbing opening. “Careful,” Hawk cautioned. Her whole body tingled and buzzed. That thing was electric! Was he going to shock her and whip her at the same time? Again the Panther’s lashes touched her, higher this time, across her hips, and again on her back, stinging her shoulders with the amazing charge-and-crack. She felt like Hawk had poured liquid heat on her skin. The sensation dripped straight down, setting her clit on fire. Maybe I am ready for a cat-o’-nine-tails. Even if they’re electric. He wouldn’t really hurt me…would he? 191

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No. No he wouldn’t. The Panther bit into her ass, twice as hard. Incredible shocks doubled the burn from the blow. Her breath caught. Her legs started to shake. He nipped her with the Panther again. Even as she moaned, violet sparks rolled between her skin and the departing tips of the cat-tails. A smell like summer storms filled the air. This is insane. What the hell is happening? But, damn, did it ever feel exotic. And wonderful. Gillian’s hands twitched from the need to touch herself. “I see what you want,” Hawk rumbled. “You want to pleasure yourself without my permission, just like you did last night before dinner.” He whipped her again. The snap-and-crack seemed more forceful. Her ass burned. Her whole body started to shake. The need to scream rose fiercely in her chest, but she held back. Her juices were dripping down the mounted dildo. That much she knew for sure. She could only hold herself up a little longer. What would he do when she gave in and sat down on the dildo? “Touch your breasts,” Hawk demanded. “Squeeze your nipples like I would. Lift them up and lick them. If I don’t like what I see, you’ll get a bite from the Panther.” Gillian wriggled from the sweet burn on her shoulders, her back, her hips, her ass. The sparks were gone, but she still felt the spots where they danced. Fire, but not fire. Heat that came and went like a breeze. She picked up her large breasts, imagining Hawk’s hands on her. Higher, higher toward her mouth. Cheeks heating, she began a slow massage, rubbing and pinching her nipples. “Harder,” he ordered, coming around to the side where he could see her. Gillian could see the Panther then. It had a long black handle attached to a brown tip—and nine golden-red tails. He whipped me with that. And I took it just fine. Gillian pinched her nipples harder. “Start sucking. Now.” Head spinning, body shaking from the electric sensation of squeezing her nipples, Gillian shoved her breasts higher and crammed the ends into her mouth. As best she could, she sucked, making loud noises that a week ago would have embarrassed her to death. Now, she only hoped they saved her ass—literally. Her teeth nicked the pebbled flesh. She wanted to groan, but she couldn’t. She needed, needed, needed to come already. Hawk oh-so-lightly swished the Panther across her belly, hands and chest. Purple sparks exploded from the ends and rippled across her in mind-boggling patterns. The sight of flashing purple heat dancing across her skin shocked and thrilled Gillian.

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Everywhere the tails touched, she felt that teasing, bubbly burn, followed by the soft pinch of sparks as the tails retreated. Gillian moaned louder. She couldn’t help herself. “Don’t stop sucking,” Hawk ordered. She didn’t. Again and again he stroked her with the Panther’s electrified tips, all the while staring as she toyed with her nipples. Gillian wanted to close her eyes, but she didn’t want to stop watching the tails, the sparks, Hawk’s face—she didn’t want to miss a thing. “Are you excited, wench?” Gillian stopped sucking her own nipples long enough to shout, “Yes, Master!” Hawk stepped behind her again. Before she could react, the Panther striped her ass again, sending thunderbolts of stinging pain across her consciousness, followed fast by light burning shocks. Before the pain even penetrated her mind, pleasure followed, doubling her wetness, doubling her need. “Sit on the cock. Don’t go slow. Use your nipples for a gag if you have to, wench.” On autopilot, Gillian sat down hard on the mounted dildo, feeling it ram inside her so stiff, so unyielding. Her eyes bulged. She literally stuffed her nipples farther into her mouth, biting down to muffle her scream. Before she could recover, the Panther tagged her shoulders. The hot sizzle-crack of sparks tickled her neck and ears. Heady scents of lightning and musk filled her senses. Gillian had to bite her own nipples until tears spurted out of her eyes, just to keep herself from coming without permission. “Let go of your breasts.” Hawk’s voice was decidedly husky now. Somewhere in Gillian’s foggy, desire-drenched thoughts, she realized how much he was enjoying this, and that only increased her already manic arousal. She lowered her breasts and moved her hands to her sides, sitting as still as she could, stinging, impaled, dying to touch herself but giving absolutely no indication of that, as best she could tell. “Fuck the dildo. I want you to ride it hard and moan, but under no circumstances do you come without my permission.” Hawk moved into her field of vision again. This time, he was carrying the dildo-crop he had used on her in the pleasure tent. This instruction was more than easy to obey. Gillian moved herself up and down the unforgiving lubricated shaft, feeling it stretch her pussy wide each time she lowered her weight. The stirrups felt cool against her bare feet, and the platform felt even cooler under her palms when she braced herself. “You like that, don’t you?” “Yes, Master,” Gillian said, then let herself release a long, low moan. Up and down. Up and down. She heard the wet sound of her inner walls sliding against rubber, the smack of her ass against the leather saddle mount. Her nipples

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throbbed and ached, right along with dozens of places on her back and cheeks, courtesy of that amazing Panther cat-o’-nine-tails. Hawk flicked the wide leather tip of the crop against one sensitized nipple. The sharp pop made her cry out. Very little pain. A whole lot of pleasure. “Pay attention. Keep your eyes on me and fuck that cock. Harder. Faster.” Sweat broke across every inch of her skin. Gillian locked her eyes on Hawk’s face. On the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes flared each time she moved. He tapped her other nipple with the crop. Sweet pain, followed by a rush of heat. “Faster, wench. Don’t try my patience.” Gillian moved her hips as powerfully as she could, sliding up and down the dildo, bending forward, toward Hawk. She kept her eyes open and focused on him, just like he told her to. The beginnings of an orgasm coiled in her belly, threatening to explode. “You’d like to come, wouldn’t you?” Hawk grinned and popped his palm with the riding crop as Gillian yelled, ‘Yes, Master!” The dildo felt like a heated rod inside her now. She could barely keep her eyes open, but she didn’t dare close them. The edge of the cliff was so close. So, so close. “May I come, Master?” Another wicked grin teased Hawk’s lips. “You touched yourself without permission when you thought I wouldn’t catch you. Shame.” He slapped the crop across his palm. “Don’t climax. Stop immediately, and be still.” Gillian screamed, but she complied. Her ass smacked the leather saddle mount as she sat down, the rubber cock firm inside her pussy, her nipples so swollen they looked like cherries on the ends of her breasts. “Get off the dildo and climb down,” Hawk instructed conversationally, as if that were no big deal. “Now, wench.” Clenching her teeth, Gillian slid upward, feeling her pussy clench in protest as she took herself off the dildo. Despite her wobbling knees, she managed to get down, holding tight to the platform until the cool stone floor grounded her enough to stand. Hawk gave her little time for contemplation. “Over there now,” he ordered, pointing to the soft rug surrounding the bed. “On your hands and knees with your back to me.” Gillian tottered over to the spot he indicated and sank down as instructed. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her ears, and the ache in her pussy and her nipples kept time with the rushing blood. Even the stinging marks on her back and ass danced to the same rhythm. “Will you ever touch yourself without my permission again?” Hawk asked quietly from behind her. “No, Master. Absolutely not.”

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She felt the harsh sting of the crop across her already well-scored ass cheeks. “I’m not sure I believe you, wench.” Another pop and sharp sting. Gillian bit her lip to stifle her cries. She was sweating and shivering all at once, hot and cold, horny and miserable, and absolutely wetter than she had ever been. “Remember this toy? I had it made just for you.” Hawk smacked her ass with the crop again. “I like the soft pink marks it leaves. I’d like to show off your ass right now— the faint welts from my belt, the bright red lines from the Panther, and these little triangles.” He slapped the leather hard across her crack. “You’re mine, wench. Do you know that?” Gillian opened her locked jaws long enough to shout, “Yes, Master!” “This is my ass, to mark however I please.” He marked her again, hard enough to make her rock forward. And again, and again, in a slow, devastating rhythm. She knew he was being gentler than before, but God, did it ever burn on top of her barely healed belt welts and the new lash-marks from the Panther. Each time she thought she couldn’t stand another strike, the pleasure would take over. Hawk waited just long enough each time, letting her get wetter, and wetter, letting that orgasm rise again in her belly, start to spread lower and higher, heating her face, her sore, aching nipples, every part of her. “I’m close, Master. I’m so close. Please, may I come?” He popped her again, this the hardest of all. She barked with the pain, then had to bite harder into her lip to stop the orgasm. Any harder and she’d draw blood. Her mind loosed from its moorings, started to slip into that eerie place of total pleasure, total peace, but Hawk said simply, “No.” And the next blow didn’t fall. The absence of what she expected actually made her heart rate double with nervousness, anticipation, even an odd sort of disappointment. She heard the sound of Hawk kneeling behind her, felt him running his mouth along the stinging marks on her ass. The juices flowing down her legs increased. That was such an amazing sensation, the burn on top of the sting, followed by the deep, soothing coolness. Something hard pressed against her pussy, and she knew it was the cock end of the crop. And she knew it was lubricated, too. What, did the bastard keep a tube of lubricant in his pocket? Before she could prepare herself, Hawk rammed the wooden dildo deep inside her—and kept ramming it. Fast. Faster. In and out and in and out, rocking her forward, rocking her so hard she barely kept from pitching down on the rug.

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“Take it,” he commanded in that husky, raw voice that let her know how much he was turned on. “Yes, Master,” Gillian managed to moan as her nipples rubbed the soft carpet, driving her nearly right into total insanity. “I can’t hold back much longer, Master. Please, please, Master. Please!” Hawk’s only answer was a growl, another deep thrust, another, then— Nothing. And… “No.” He will die, Gillian decided as she collapsed forward, whimpering on the carpet. I will murder him, and Jamie and Oz will help me hide his body. “Will you ever touch yourself again without my permission?” Hawk asked. “No, Master!” The answer was automatic, despite the fact she was busy plotting his execution. Silence, followed by, “I think I’m starting to believe you, wench, but I’m still not sure.” Death, death, death… “Up,” Hawk commanded. At least this time he helped her stand, took a few seconds to stroke her burning ass, then pointed her to the black iron cage hanging from the heavy chain. The small one in the center of the room. “In there, back on your hands and knees, now. This is your chance to convince me I can trust you to behave, once and for all.” An argument bubbled up inside her. Not the cage! Son of a bitch. Somehow, some way, he would pay for this level of torture. Especially if he didn’t let her come soon. Gillian forced herself to breathe, to keep her gaze lowered. She reminded herself about five times that she had agreed to this and in the end it had been worth it so far, repeated her safe word three times in her head, then moved. Her feet plodded from the warm rug beside the bed, across the cool flagstone floor, to the iron cage. It was so small it likely would only fit her length when she was on her hands and knees, and was only tall enough that her head would almost brush the top bars when she was in a sitting position. The flagstone was hard upon her knees when she lowered herself and crawled into the cage. Thankfully another swatch of soft red rug covered the cage floor, and it was thick enough that her hands and knees sank into the comforting thickness of it. Gillian crawled until her head nearly bumped the front bars, then jumped when Hawk slammed the gate shut behind her. She was locked in. Caged. She almost whimpered, but kept it inside. The last thing she wanted was some whole new confounded set of punishments.

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The rhythm of Hawk’s stride met her ears and she knew he was walking away from her. Her heart started racing all over again, wondering what he was planning to do to her this time. She didn’t know if she could take it—was almost sure she couldn’t. But she kept her gaze lowered and waited for him. When he returned, it was only seconds before she felt a tug at her collar. A clink, a snap—and she realized he had fixed her leash in place. From the corner of her eye she saw him tying the leather to a bar of the cage. He tested the length, keeping it loose enough that she didn’t feel like she was choking. He walked away again, and she remained on her hands and knees, chained to the cage—chained to the cage—and forced herself to remain quiet. She absolutely would not beg him to tell her what he was doing. He’d probably run the cage up to the ceiling then. When she heard him return just moments later, she caught the mouthwatering smell of bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes and rich maple syrup. She almost looked up in surprise, but waited for his instructions. “Sit, wench,” he commanded her. “You can tell me if the collar and lead are too tight.” “Yes, Master.” Gillian scooted to a sitting position so that the leather strap wouldn’t pull the collar tight around her throat. “There’s enough room in the lead so far.” “Good.” She sneaked a quick peek in his direction. Hawk was still fully dressed, and holding a breakfast tray filled with the wonderful-smelling food. Her stomach growled loudly. She thought he smiled, but he set the tray down on the floor too fast for her to tell. From his pocket he produced a pair of velvet-lined cuffs. What the hell? “Grab one of the bars above your head with both hands.” He tapped the top of the cage with one hand and she quickly obeyed, lacing her fingers over the indicated spot. As he snapped the cuffs around her wrists, he said, “If you ever touch yourself again without permission, this is just a taste of what I’ll do. Is that clear?” Heat flushed Gillian again at the memory of him scenting her hands, then tasting her juices on her own fingers. “Yes, Master.” “Look at me, wench.” She raised her eyes and saw that he was holding a forkful of eggs. “Open wide.” Gillian obeyed and he slipped the delicious eggs into her mouth. Jamie’s cooking, no doubt about it. Before she could ask how he managed that, Hawk slipped a piece of sausage link into her mouth. As she chewed, she saw an amused expression on his face and wondered what he was thinking.

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“In case you’re wondering,” he said as he fed her a piece of Jamie’s incredible pancakes, “Jamie will be delivering our meals throughout the day. Without her usual weapons. And she won’t be stealing any glances inside, either.” Gillian almost choked. Hawk brought a glass of milk to her lips and she swallowed down a couple of good gulps before he took the glass away. When she caught her breath, she asked, “How, Master?” His lips curved into that sexy grin that made her body turn as warm and fluid as the hot maple syrup on the tray. “Let’s just say that Jamie and I have come to an understanding.” She wanted to find out more, of course—but she wasn’t foolish enough to ask. Hawk continued to feed them both. While he slipped food into her mouth, he reached through the bars and alternately pinched one tender nipple, then the other. God, her pussy was so wet from the sensual breakfast that she could smell her own juices over the food. The ache between her thighs was almost too much to bear again. She couldn’t believe how erotic it felt with her hands cuffed above her head, her large breasts bared and available for his touch, and her collar fastened to the cage. She was totally helpless. Totally his. She was Hawk’s wench. His sex slave. When her tummy couldn’t take another bite, Hawk polished off the rest of the breakfast. He wiped her mouth with a napkin, then let her suck the syrup off his fingers before cleaning them as well. He stood with the tray and walked out of her sight, and a fluttering sensation broke loose in her belly. Again, the question. What would this man do next? She waited. And waited. Her arms began to ache from being over her head but her pussy continued to throb. She still felt as though the butt plug was in her ass, and the sting of Hawk’s lashes and cropping tantalized her mind. She wanted so badly to reach down and flick her fingers over her swollen clit. Like last night, it wouldn’t take much. The thought made her cringe. Damn the throwback. His punishments were taking effect. Finally, when her arms began to grow numb, Hawk returned. He crouched before her, so that his eyes met hers. “Have you really learned your lesson, wench?” Gillian nodded. “Yes, Master.” “Will you ever touch yourself again without my permission?” “No, Master!” “Very good.” He untied the leash and unfastened the cuffs. As her sore arms dropped to her sides, he said, “That was one of three punishments I owe you. Onward, wench.”

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Her jaw dropped. One of three? Shit! She had forgotten the other two. After all this—did she really have two more punishments to survive? She could swear Hawk was holding back a grin. Instead he gave her a stern look that made her feel contrite. “You disappointed me twice this morning. Have you forgotten already?” She bit the inside of her cheek before she answered, “No, Master.” He studied her intently, then rose and moved behind her. She heard the click of the latch then the creak of iron as the gate swung open. “Come,” he said, and she turned to crawl out of the cage. When she was out and on her feet, he pointed toward a high bench padded in rich red leather. Next to the bench was a round table with dozens of tapered candles on its surface. “Lie down on the table. On your back, with your arms over your head.” His words were gentle and firm at the same time. Gillian found herself moving automatically. Fear mingled with excitement. She felt sore, lightheaded, and yet unbelievably horny. The man was torturing her to death. He really was. When she climbed up on the table and settled on her back, Hawk walked around her in slow circles, studying her from every angle. His eyes felt like hot fingers, and she turned redder by the second. For some reason, being stared at made her self-conscious all over again. Made her feel larger, remember her size— Stop, stop, stop… Hawk turned toward the candles, then turned back with a small chalice in his hand. He surprised her by tipping it forward. Warm oil spilled onto her belly. It smelled of mint and ginger, the scents she used in her bath, and it felt divine. With an even, comforting expression on his handsome face, Hawk worked the oil into her skin, massaging her sore arms and even paying attention to her hands, wrists and knees. She began to slip into a trance, enjoying the feel of his hands on her body, once more announcing his ownership, his absolute possession. Unfortunately, he touched her everywhere but where she wanted to be touched. He avoided her breasts and her mound, teasing her with his strokes, coming close, then moving away. With every movement his hands made, he taunted her, drove her a little more crazy with desire. “You have such a lovely body. You know that now, don’t you?” She hesitated, and he frowned. “Yes, Master.” Her words sounded unconvincing, even to herself. “Your uncertainty disappoints me.” He paused in his ministrations and narrowed his gaze, an almost frightening look in his eyes. “If it’s the last thing I do, Gillian, I’ll take that doubt away from you.”

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Before she could respond, he covered her breasts with both hands and massaged them. He pulled on the soft flesh until he reached her nipples, and tugged on them all at once. He pinched her taut buds so hard she cried out and arched her back. Begging for more at the same time she was begging him to stop. Hawk had never felt more aroused, more alive—and more frustrated. He kept his gaze focused on Gillian as he released her nipples, second-guessing himself each time a tear appeared in her pretty sapphire eyes. Damn, but he wanted to keep going. He wanted to stroke her to orgasm after orgasm, then plunge his cock deep and fuck her until she couldn’t possibly come again. That wouldn’t give her what she wanted, though. What she needed from him. A Master. A man who wouldn’t give into his baser wants and leave her just shy of paradise. Clenching his jaw hard against the demands of his cock, he moved away from her. He was certain she was ready to burst from frustration and the need to come, and it filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction. This kind of teasing, of erotic torture, he could tell she had dreamed of it for a long, long time. He should keep it going as long as he could. That prospect further annoyed his cock. It ached and throbbed against his leather breeches and he wondered if perhaps he should have left them off, keeping his erection from being so damned painful. But he had to make it clear to Gillian who was Master, and leaving her completely naked while he was dressed would make her feel vulnerable and even more at his mercy. My sweet professor. He moved to the head of the table. Using the table’s soft, padded straps, he lashed her wrists in place, taking care not to stretch past her comfort level. Then he walked slowly to her feet, and from beneath the bench pulled out a stirrup on a wooden arm that would bend to whatever arrangement he chose for Gillian. He glanced at her and saw her eyes widen as she realized the same thing. Reaching down beneath the bench, he withdrew the other stirrup and raised them both. After letting her stew for a few seconds, waiting, wondering, breathing harder and harder, he took one of her feet and strapped it into one of the stirrups, and then did the same with her other foot. Once she was strapped in, he positioned the stirrups so that her thighs were spread wide, and her knees almost to her chest. Her well-oiled body gleamed in the sunlight spilling through the stained-glass windows, and her chest rose and fell in quick little pants. She loved this. Being completely helpless. Being wide open to his eyes, his hands, his cock. Completely at the mercy of his will. “You are beautiful,” he said, letting his eyes dare her to argue. “I wish you could see what I see.”

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Hawk grasped her thighs, lowered his head and brought his nose to Gillian’s drenched folds. The moisture glittered in the sunlight and the rich scent of her desire filled him like an aphrodisiac. He darted out his tongue and licked her swollen clit, and his little wench almost came unglued. She cried out and bucked her hips, pressing herself closer to his mouth. He gave a long swipe with his tongue, from her core to her clit and her thighs trembled beneath his grasp. He licked her again and again, knowing that he was driving her closer to orgasm. But he wouldn’t let her get there—yet. Not until he was ready. Not until he had, indeed, fucked her senseless. While savoring her sweet taste, he raised his head and looked at Gillian. She was fisting her bound hands, knuckles white, her chest rising and falling as her breathing had picked up. Her eyes were glazed and he could tell her control was tenuous. “You’re not going to come without my permission, are you, wench?” Gillian shook her head and her voice trembled as she said, “No, Master.” “I expect nothing but your complete surrender and compliance, Gillian. Don’t disappoint me again.” She visibly swallowed. “Yes, Master.” “Good.” He forced himself from the sweet honey of her pussy and walked around the bench until he was at the top, her head before him, where he was out of her sight. When he looked down upon her sweet face, his heart clenched. She was so beautiful, so trusting… He closed his eyes for a moment and pushed the thoughts from his mind that wanted to surface. This is all about surrender and pleasure. Stay focused. He forced his attention back to Gillian’s pleasure. The sweet torture that would give her the ultimate release, beyond anything she could imagine. Beyond anything she had experienced before. Hawk moved within her line of sight again and took a moment to enjoy the view. Her arms were stretched far above her head, her breasts thrust high and her thighs spread wide. “Beautiful,” he murmured before he turned away and faced the impressive wall of pleasure toys. “Reggie, you must have been one horny old bastard,” Hawk said softly, low enough he was certain Gillian would not hear him. His gaze searched the wall, cataloguing all of the whips, floggers, butt plugs, dildos and other assorted items meant for a Master to deal out both pleasure and pain to his willing wench. When his gaze rested on an intricately carved chair on a raised dais, he realized with a start that the chair wasn’t meant to be used in sexual play. It was more of a throne—where a Master would sit while he trained students in the art of Domination and submission. “Well, what do you know,” Hawk murmured, and shook his head. The old man had been more than a Dom or a Sire, he had been a Master. Like Hawk. Like his son.

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They’d had more in common than Hawk realized. This dungeon held story upon story, secret upon secret. Unbelievable. For that moment, at least, he felt a bit of kinship and peace with Reggie Blackmoor. Tucking that fact and feeling away for later examination, he shook off the distraction. And reached for a butt plug. This one was thicker than the one he had used on Gillian last night. He smiled at the thought of the torture and the pleasure his little punishment had caused his woman. With a low growl of anticipation, he snatched a flogger from the wall with his free hand and marched toward Gillian. When she saw his face, fear crossed her own features, and he forced himself to soften his expression, yet retain a dominant demeanor. Hawk moved to the table beside the bench, laid the flogger down, and grabbed a bottle of the ginger-scented oil. He watched Gillian’s expression as he oiled up the plug. “Did you enjoy having your ass filled most of the night, wench?” She paused, then said, “If it pleases you, then it pleases me, Master.” That caught Hawk by surprise. He nodded and set the bottle of oil back on the table before moving so that he was between her thighs, her anus clearly presented to him along with her wet pussy. Her moisture had dripped down, making the tight hole glisten with her juices. He held back a smile as he positioned the plug. It wouldn’t do for the wench to see how turned on her Master was. Without comment, he pushed the hard rubber into her, faster this time than he had last night, causing her to cry out and raise her hips. When the plug was fully inserted, he leaned over her and braced his hands to either side of her body. “Did that hurt?” Gillian’s eyes were watering as she nodded. “Yes, Master.” “Good.” She needed to experience pain along with pleasure—the right kind of pain. Not too much, not too little. He walked back to the table and picked up the flogger. This one had a black and red leather handle. The opposite end was made of unraveled silken ropes. White, so soft, yet able to cause the perfect sensual sting. “You were a bad wench this morning,” he murmured as he rubbed her breasts with his free hand. “You know why you’re being punished, don’t you?” Gillian had almost lost track of the number of reasons why she was being punished, and she had to concentrate. “For not responding to you fast enough, and for forgetting the question you asked me to begin with.” There. He has to be happy with that.

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Hawk responded only by stroking her breasts with the silky end of the flogger. She shivered. The hair-like strands felt far too soft to cause her any pain. When the first lash fell across her breasts she almost screamed in surprise and shock. But the silky strands dealt an amazingly sweet, soft sting, followed by an instant aftermath of pleasure. Straining to look down at her own nipples, she saw dozens of red marks covering the swells of her breasts—but they faded almost as she watched. Hawk struck her again, and Gillian let her head drop back. Again, and again. Tender blows. Perfect strikes. Not too hard, not too soft. Just enough that the sting burst into pleasure over and over. The breasts were mostly fatty tissue, and it didn’t hurt as much as she would have thought. Actually it felt wonderful. Pain. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasure. She felt like she was flying, closer and closer to that wonderful pinnacle reaching from earth up to heaven. Between being stretched out wide for his total domination, the helplessness, the almost burning stretch of the butt plug in her ass, the lashes falling across her body, and the gorgeous man dealing out her punishment, she was out of her mind with needing to climax. So close…so close… “Don’t come without my permission,” Hawk said close to her ear, breaking the near trance. “Don’t disappointment me.” He stopped lashing her and she whimpered. Hawk raised an eyebrow. He moved away from her and she watched him walk to the wall, place the flogger back where it had been, then pluck a huge vibrator from its resting place. Plastic by the look of it. Thick especially at the tip, long, tapered…it was red. Oh, jeez. “What was that?” Hawk said as he walked back to her, and her cheeks burned as she realized she must have spoken aloud. “Nothing, Master.” He grunted, moved between her thighs, and thrust the vibrator up her wet, ready channel. It moved inside her easily, held in place by a groove just above the base. “You can moan if you’d like.” Gillian moaned. The vibrator had a little arm that sat directly on her clit and she knew she was in for it now. She heard the flick of a switch and the vibrator began to move within her, magnifying every sensation. Her skin, her ass, her nipples—she couldn’t take this. How could he do this to her when she was so damn close to orgasm? The bastard! “May I come, Master?” A soft laugh.

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“No.” Hawk almost laughed at the flare in Gillian’s eyes. His torture was driving her out of her mind, and he wasn’t even finished yet. He moved back to the table, picked up a gold-plated lighter, and began to light the candles of all colors, shapes, and sizes. “What…” he heard the tremble in Gillian’s voice, “…are you going to do to me now, um, Master?” “It’s called wax play.” He pulled a silken scarf from his pocket and laid it gently across Gillian’s eyes. She sucked in her breath, but didn’t protest. “This wax is special, designed to heat your skin, cause a fair amount of pain, but leave no burns.” Hawk plucked a blue votive candle, the same color as her eyes, from the table and tested it on his own wrist. Warm, almost burning, but quickly fading. Perfect. “I want you to tell me what you feel. Show me whether you like it or not. Do you trust me?” “Yes, Master,” she whispered, gratifying him with that immediate, definite response. He rewarded her by tipping the candle, covering one of her swollen nipples with hot wax. The blue flow coated the tip of her breast as she arched her back and yelped, then settled back immediately, licking her lips. Her expression shifted from tortured to ecstatic. Judging her reaction, Hawk poured more of the blueberry-scented liquid over her opposite nipple, loving the way it splashed her in heated sapphire. She looked like a work of art, especially as the bright blue wax trailed down the full globes to pool between her breasts. A single stream headed for her belly button, and he helped it along, adding trickle upon trickle until it pooled there as well. Gillian moaned and thrashed, as much as her restraints allowed. “How does that feel, wench?” Hawk could barely get the words out. “Painful…good…I don’t know.” Perspiration coated her face, and he heard the continuous sound of the vibrator in her pussy. “Please let me come, Master. I don’t know how long I can hold back. I’m trying so hard. Please let me come!” “No.” He moved his hands between her thighs and slowed the vibrator’s speed—taking a moment to tweak both it and the plug. A little push. Deeper. A little tease. This drew another set of wild moans from Gillian. Hawk set the blue votive back on the table and reached for another candle, this time a green one.

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Gillian caught her breath as she sensed Hawk bringing another candle over her chest. The sensation of the hot wax sliding across her sensitive nipples had been at first startling, but then unbelievably exciting. Like having hot, tight mouths locked on her throbbing buds. Like having hot tongues tracing down her skin. She couldn’t help tensing as she waited for him. This time he dribbled apple-scented wax from her breastbone down her belly, making rivers beside the first ones he created near her belly button. She bit the inside of her cheek as he trailed out and back, painting her, marking her yet again as his. All his. Only his. God, it was hot, then cool, painful, then pleasurable, liquid, then solid. Her pussy contracted around the barely moving vibrator, and she anticipated his next movement. Not being able to see him, that only added to the thrill. She heard the rustle and rattle of him swapping candles again. This time, she caught the scent of cherries. Shocks of pleasure rattled her as he drizzled the wax from one breast to the other, back down her belly, never crossing the previous streams. After the cherry candle came one that smelled of roses. The splashes touched her here, there, avoiding her pussy, staying clear of her collar. Hawk was creating a design, as if she was some kind of masterpiece. She began to anticipate each drop and dribble. He kept it to her breasts and only went as far down as her belly. Next came orange-scented, then lemon. The fruity scents made her realize how hungry she was and how long he’d been torturing her since breakfast. It had to be closing in on noon. Hawk paused. There was no sound at all. Gillian trembled, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what to do. A rustle. A soft thump. Then the feel of Hawk’s hand between her legs. The vibrator flared into fast, manic life, shaking her insides, pressing against the butt plug and vibrating that sensitive hole as well. Gillian screamed and twisted, fighting the onrushing orgasm, welcoming it, wishing for it—and the vibrator turned off. All sensation stopped. “Bastard!” she shrieked, then panted, and added. “Bastard Master, I mean.” A soft chuckle was her only reward. Heavy knocks banged against the door to the dungeon, almost stopping her heart. She yelped and struggled against her bonds. Hawk chuckled again and switched on the vibrator again, this time to that slow, mind-melting speed. It hummed in her channel, hummed against her misery of a swollen clit. She felt her nipples puckering underneath the wax coatings and heard herself making an unintelligible sound as she continued to struggle against her bonds and fought against the oncoming climax that wanted to rip her in two.

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“Somebody’s at the door,” Hawk said in that teasing tone. “Don’t, Master,” she finally got out in a rush. “Please don’t let anyone see me like this.” He leaned down and placed a firm kiss on her mouth. “Don’t lie about what you want, my pretty little wench. You know it excites you, the thought of being seen like this. Naked, bound and completely helpless, with your legs spread wide, a plug up your ass, a vibrator in your pussy, and my beautiful wax creation covering your chest.” Another firm kiss swallowed her protests. He pulled the scarf off her eyes, tossed it aside, and said, “Trust me, Gillian.” With that, Hawk turned away from her and strode to the dungeon doors.

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Chapter Twenty-One Hawk chuckled to himself as he covered the distance between the wax table and the entrance. He could feel Gillian seething behind him, but she didn’t say a word. She trusted him. He knew exactly what he’d find when he opened those massive doors, and he wasn’t disappointed. At his feet was another tray of food. This time there were two plates mounded with cold-cuts and an assortment of breads, along with silver condiment dishes with mayonnaise, Dijon mustard and some other sauce he couldn’t identify. The smells were enough to make him salivate. After he picked up the tray, he slammed the doors shut behind him, barred them, and strode over to where Gillian was still fighting her orgasm. He set the tray on the table beside the candles, but she seemed totally oblivious to anything but what her body was experiencing. He reached over and kissed her softly on her lips. “Ready for lunch, my love?” Gillian trembled from head to toe. “I’m so close, Master. Please let me come.” “Not yet.” He reached between her thighs and flicked the switch, causing the vibrator to stop. “You’re just now finishing your second punishment.” When he let her out of her bonds, Gillian knew she was going to punch the bastard. Beat him to death. Tie him up and whip him. Suck his cock and stop right before his head blew off. He deserved it! She trembled from head to toe with need. Need so great that she knew she wasn’t going to make it much longer. With or without his permission, she was going to come. To her surprise, Hawk unfastened each of her wrists, massaging them before moving down to her feet and releasing them from their confines. It entered her mind that she could give him a really good kick right then and there, but she held herself back. She had agreed to be his wench, at least for now. As he helped her to sit up, her head spun and she had to brace herself to keep from slumping down the bench and onto the floor. Hawk held her, too, obviously sensing her distress. The butt plug was still up her ass, the vibrator in her pussy—both still driving her crazy. The wax had entirely cooled and felt rather erotic upon her breasts and belly. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so ragged and alive. Looking so ragged and alive. Control. What was control? She had given up on control hours ago.

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When she had steadied herself, Hawk began to peel away the wax from her body. To her surprise, it came off in one piece, a colorful and fruity scented masterpiece. “The body oil,” Hawk offered by way of explanation. He held up the circular picture. Gillian flushed at the sight of her big breasts shaped in wax, complete with hard nipples. Hawk glowered, as if tracking her thoughts. He shook his head, then placed the wax creation on the table she had occupied. That’s when her nose caught other scents. Meats, cheeses and Jamie’s homemade bread. She glanced at another of the padded tables, where she saw plates of cold cuts and thick slices of breads and rolls, steam still rising. She yelped as Hawk scooped her up in his arms and carried her to a swing where he carefully set her down. Her face heated as she grabbed the chains. It was the same swing she saw Dr. Lambert get her amazing fuck. Was Hawk going to fuck her here, now? After blowing out the candles and retrieving the food tray, he came back to set the tray on a high table beside the swing. He grabbed a stool and brought it over to her. Right now Gillian wasn’t sure she cared about food. Her ass and pussy were stretched and full with the plug and the vibrator, her nipples were screaming for his mouth, her body was burning and stinging and reveling in all of the punishments he had dealt out. How much more could one woman take? Hawk asked her what she liked on her sandwich, and somehow, she managed to answer. He piled the bread high with her favorites—roast beef, Swiss cheese, Dijon mustard and lots of mayo on two thick slices of Jamie’s homemade whole wheat bread. When he handed it to her, she didn’t realize just how famished she was. Even with the instruments of torture still within her body, she gobbled up every bite of her food, and ended up licking her fingers clean. It felt way past naughty, eating with a vibrator and plug inside. Eating so much, so fast with the smells of sex and scented wax still hovering in the air. When she looked up at Hawk, he had finished his sandwich and he had an amused expression on his features. “Gave you quite a workout, didn’t I, wench?” She swallowed down a retort that would have earned her another punishment. “Yes, Master.” “I’m pleased with you.” Hawk grinned, then leaned forward and cleaned Gillian’s face and hands with a soft napkin. After that, he cleaned his own face and hands, covered the remnants of the food, put it aside, then stood and pulled her out of the swing. Gillian’s legs trembled but he held her tight. He wouldn’t let her fall. That she knew, without question. She could feel the vibrator slipping from her pussy, but before

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it fell, Hawk pulled it out, along with the butt plug. These he laid aside on a table, and Gillian found herself forgetting them in a hurry. Hawk eased her down to the stool he had brought over, and she sat watching eagerly, heart pounding, as he pulled out a foil package from his pocket, tore it open and removed a condom. Without comment, he unfastened his pants enough for his enormous erection and balls to spring out. Gillian’s eyes widened. Her body heated. Somehow, she knew this would be something new. Something unexpected. “You know you’re mine, wench.” “Yes, Master.” “And you’ll do what I say without question.” “Yes, Master.” “Even if you aren’t certain you’ll like it?” “If it pleases you, Master.” Gillian was barely breathing now. What was he up to? Her toes curled. Could she take this new torture without losing her mind? “This pleases me.” He rolled the condom onto his cock and settled himself onto the swing. “Turn around and sit on my lap, wench.” Emotions crowded her throat. Fear, excitement, lust. God how she loved it when he called her wench. She turned so that her back was to him. Before he settled her on his cock, he rubbed his condom-covered erection through her slick folds, lubricating it with her own juices. Then before she knew what was happening, he was bringing her down so that his cock was positioned at her anus. He’s going to fuck my ass! He’s going to— Slowly he slipped inside her, stretching her, filling her, far beyond what the butt plugs had done. She clenched the sides of the swing so tight her knuckles ached as the pain of his intrusion caused her to bite her lip. Her cheeks flamed. She felt a mixture of humiliation and sweltering thrill. He was fucking her up the ass. He had his cock in that forbidden place, pushing, pushing, taking her, claiming her and marking her in yet another way. So total. So full. She was his wench. Master… As he pushed the swing and began moving inside her ass with the same gentle rhythm, the pain turned into such incredible pleasure she thought she would explode with it. Her clit, God, her clit just needed a single rub and she would come so fast she’d explode with the power of the sensation. She just knew it. “Can I—can I touch myself, Master?” she said even as embarrassment flooded her at the thought. “May I come?”

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“No.” The word was firm, brooking no argument. Oh, jeez. When would it end? Hawk was ready to burst with his own orgasm as he fucked his sexy professor in the swing. He moved her body up and down his length without pulling out, feeling her tight ass gripping him like a fist. Just when he was sure neither of them could take it any longer, he stopped the swing and forced Gillian off his lap. His cock begged to be back inside her, but he ignored his own desires. It was almost time, but not yet. Oh, no. Not yet. “One more punishment, wench,” he said as he disposed of the condom, holding back a laugh at her soft moan of frustration. He pointed to the Saint Andrew’s cross occupying the corner of the room—and had to work again not to laugh when she gasped. She hesitated, looking as if she feared and longed for the cross, as if that simple staple of BDSM play had been the subject of many a long fantasy. Good. Very good. “Gillian…” he said in a warning tone, nudging her to action. “Should I add another punishment?” “No, Master.” She shook her head and padded across the flagstone floor to the large polished wooden cross. When she reached it, she hesitated again. “Face it,” he ordered, feeling his own mixture of hesitance and desire. “You’re due a real whipping for your final lesson. It’s one I intend for you never to forget. Ever.” Gillian visibly trembled. “Step up to the cross now, wench.” Obedient despite her shaking, she pressed her sweet body against the leather cushioned part of the cross directly in front of her. Hawk strode over and fastened her arms to each side of the cross, then followed with her legs, cuffing them securely so that she was once more spread out and completely at his mercy. He would have to be careful this time. Inspecting her back, ass and shoulders, he calculated where her skin was most sound, where he might create sensation without doing real damage. Yes, very careful. This time, he would make the lesson stick. Everything that was happening, had happened, was so overwhelming that Gillian could hardly see straight. She had fantasized about the cross, in the darkness of her bedroom had masturbated to the thought of being completely out of control, bound and whipped against it. 210

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But now that the moment was here she was terrified. Yet at the same time she knew she had nothing to fear from Hawk. He would give her no more than she wanted, than she desired. More than I can stand? God, what can I stand? The thoughts swirled together. When Hawk left her to retrieve a whip, she felt cold and alone, felt the true bite of fear. She wanted to scream, or cry, or shout the safe word. Yet her throat resisted. Her mind resisted. What can I stand? How much can I take? When Hawk returned, he began to trail the whip over her shoulders, the small of her back, her ass and her thighs. The leather felt so intense, so sharp and unforgiving. How much… How much… The whip traveled back up, stroking her back, sliding across her neck. She was shaking so hard. Terror? Anticipation? Hawk stepped away from her. She slammed her eyes closed and held her breath. And held it. And held it. The world divided into two parts. In one, she was a boring professor barely holding her own in tenure interviews, in negotiations with a day-trading bastard who wanted her home. In the other, she was…she was elemental. Flesh and fluid. Desire. A sex slave, bound before her powerful Master. Who am I? Which me is real? How much? God, how much? “Tell me you’re beautiful, Gillian,” he said as the whip lightly curled around her ankles. Barely even a sting. Hardly a touch. She caught her breath. Tried to speak. But all the lies and hedges and platitudes were gone now. She was stripped too bare. How could she say something that she didn’t believe? Or did she? Hadn’t Hawk shown her how beautiful, how desirable she was to him? Scenes flipped through her mind. The heat in his eyes, the way he seemed to worship her even as he punished her. The way his lessons seemed designed to give her everything she wanted and so much more…

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“Tell me you’re beautiful,” he warned. “And mean it.” The whip curled around her waist. Again, barely a sting. He was playing with her. How she must look, with her large body, her white skin scored in so many ways, with so many patterns. “You’re beautiful, Gillian.” The whip lashed across her ass, this time with real bite. Amazing sting. She screamed from the pain. Her eyes blurred with tears. “My words aren’t casual. I never lie to you, or speak without reason.” Hawk’s assertion came forcefully. “You’re being whipped for forgetting this once. Are you forgetting it again?” “No, Master!” The lash fell again, on her thighs. God it stung! But the pain soon joined the throb in her pussy, and brought her closer to orgasm than she would have thought possible, after just two strikes. Another fell, then another. She cried out with each one, tears running freely down her face. The lashes were hell, they were heaven, they were everything in between. Her skin stung but her mind and body soared. “You can stop this any time, wench. You can believe. You can tell me the truth about yourself!” The whip stung her ass again, harder. She thought she heard it pop. Felt like it flayed her but knew it hadn’t. Another stroke like that and she’d come. “I’m beautiful,” she choked. The whip snapped across her thighs, making her scream. “Tell me louder,” Hawk demanded. “I’m beautiful!” Gillian screamed, cringing against the next lash, wanting it, not wanting it, needing it, hating it. Hating him, needing him. Her world was on fire. “I’m beautiful!” She heard a heavy thud, like Hawk had thrown something across the dungeon. Then he was there, behind her, pressing against her. He was naked. God, she was burning to death. The salt of her sweat, the salt of his sweat. Stinging, flames, heat, need. Her nipples pulsed against the padded cross. Her hands were fists. He had her by the waist, pulling her lashed ass closer, grinding his hips into her. In one hard thrust, his sheathed cock tore into her waiting channel. She screamed again, ragged, making more noise than she had ever made in her life. Hawk didn’t hesitate or wait, didn’t tease this time at all. The time for teasing was finished. With her body spread wide against the cross, making her so open, so wide for him, he fucked her hard, hard, driving his cock in and out of her sore, needful pussy.

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“I’m beautiful!” She couldn’t help the cries from spilling through her lips. They were coming from some other place, some other space in her mind. “Fuck me, Master. Harder, please! I’m beautiful!” He drove into her so deeply that her mound pounded against the padding of the cross. “I’ll fuck you until you scream loud enough,” he growled, the knight, the untamed throwback. “Scream louder. Until everyone hears you, all the way to the camp.” Gillian couldn’t help it. She was already doing just that. Her mind was gone. Her body was leaving. “I’m beautiful!” she shouted, barely able to know anything past the hot hammer of Hawk’s cock, the way he was spreading her, forcing her, possessing her. “You’re mine, Gillian.” His cock did the same kind of talking, demanding, announcing, insisting. “You belong to me.” She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t stop the feelings of spiraling out of control. And his words—they nearly pushed her over the edge. She did belong to this man, heart and soul. Harder and harder he fucked her and she cried out with every thrust. More tears ran down her face from the need to come, the need for completion, the need to feel him deeper, deeper still. When he finally shouted, “Come, Gillian!” her entire world shattered. She tilted back her head and screamed and screamed and screamed. No words. Broken sounds. Gasps and shrieks. Her body clenched and clenched around his cock and he drove her on and on to one orgasm after another. Hawk gave several thrusts more and then shouted his own release. The force of his climax reverberated throughout her, driving her own orgasm higher even as his cock throbbed within her pussy. When he finally slumped against her, Gillian sagged against her bonds, knowing she would have crumpled into a pool of liquid heat if she hadn’t been bound to the cross. Her body seemed to flow and throb around his cock, centered, obliterated, and she thought it would never stop. Wished it would never end. I have another day of this. Maybe hundreds of days. Please, let there be hundreds. Her last conscious thoughts captured the hot rasp of his breath in her ear, the wet heat of his murmured words. “Beautiful. All mine. Forever.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two Beautiful… All mine… Forever… Those words echoed in Gillian’s mind the rest of that night, and all across the following day of nonstop sex. Bondage, whipping, pain—all of it melted together into a pool of fire. She bathed in it. Drank it. Totally immersed. Each time she thought she couldn’t stand another second, she found something new inside herself, some hidden strength she called on to endure and fly ever higher. Beautiful… All mine… Forever… Three days became four, then five. Teaching during the day, playing half the night. Then nights melted into days and days faded into nights. For a time, Gillian’s life became a blur of study, tenure preparation, the sound of hammering, sawing and swearing from the Wanderer camp—and unbelievably hot sex broken only by the joys of Jamie’s meals and the raucous barking of greyhounds. She wore Sara’s gowns and gifts, even the naughty open-cupped bustier, every chance she got. In fact, when she got dressed for work, normal underwear and the feel of synthetic fabric annoyed her. For now, Hawk lived in the castle with her as much as she lived in his tent with him, making sure to plant warm kisses on Old Sir’s nose every chance she got. So, a Renaissance troupe had turned her fields into a medieval village. So, a throwback knight liked to fuck in her in dungeons and pleasure tents. So, her housekeeper had taken to blushing and running every time she saw Gillian coming— who knew what that was about? Life could have been much worse, in Gillian’s opinion. Until Wednesday, October 23, when she headed home from John’s River College absolutely seething. Rain spattered and slammed against her windshield, making her drive slowly, which was probably a good thing. To say that her second tenure meeting had been a disaster—well, that would have been an understatement. Beck and Baumeister had trotted out more student evaluations, and basically asserted that Gillian didn’t have enough fire to teach in their department. That she wasn’t deep enough, personable enough, or strong enough to carry on Reggie’s impressive legacy.

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Steven had defended her valiantly, Geraldine had seemed less than comfortable and Celia Lambert had made a few token protests—but basically, the arrogant womanhating bastards rolled right over her. Lambert’s faint praise and subtle betrayal had made her madder than anything. Why couldn’t she fight with claws and fangs and flying fur like the other women on campus—the ones with tenure? She just sat there and took it. Damn! She gripped the steering wheel so hard her hands ached as she turned onto Blackmoor’s long driveway. Things weren’t going much better for the Wanderers. They had enjoyed one soggy day of partial sunshine, but otherwise, it rained right through the fair’s opening five days earlier, and the clouds just kept rolling in. Hawk and the knights couldn’t risk their horses by jousting on a sloppy course. Attendance had been abysmal, craft sales poor. As much as Gillian might have wished for just such a disaster when the troupe arrived, she didn’t feel the same way anymore. Now the strangers had faces and names and dreams and goals. Now the strangers weren’t really strangers at all, and Gillian worried over them daily, wanting them to succeed. She could tell by Hawk’s nervous attention to his ledgers and Jarrod’s bleak countenance that the Wanderers needed the fall fair to thrive for many reasons she didn’t even grasp. Worse, Sara seemed miserable. Every day the skies stayed gray, the poor woman seemed to fold further in on herself, but she wouldn’t tell Gillian much about what was bothering her, past the obvious. The only thing that had been going well was Gillian’s time with Hawk. By mutual agreement, they had delayed the inevitable third meeting to take the pressure off both of them. Gillian would be through with her tenure process by then, and the fall fair would close at Thanksgiving. They would both be free to focus on a real negotiation— and in the meantime, they would have each other. By day, Gillian labored to better her teaching at the college, worked hard on academic and tenure projects, and did what she could to help the troupe with the fair. By night, she was her Master’s wench, loving every minute they spent at their rough, sexy play. Damn. If her committee only knew… The whole meeting, she’d been squirming in her chair, still suffering under the remnant stings of Hawk’s lash. She’d become addicted to the whip, to being fucked hard on the cross. She especially loved it when he took her from behind. No rules. No control at all. God, it was delicious. “Not enough fire to teach,” she growled as she parked. “Next time I’ll wear my damned collar and bring a whip. The black one. Then we’ll see who has enough depth to carry on a legacy.”

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Thunder punctuated her sentiments as she slammed the car door, popped her umbrella and stalked through the garage, out into the driving rain. The bedraggled Wanderer camp looked deserted, except for a lone figure in the distance, sitting under a tree by the creek. That would be Jimmy Two-Shanks, Gillian knew, keeping watch for the flood he was sure would sweep them all away. She didn’t know if Hawk was down with the troupe or in the castle until she got inside and saw the slight but relaxed form of Old Sir lounging on a rug near the library. The door was ajar, and light spilled through the gloom. Debating whether or not to pull off her underwear, Gillian dropped her umbrella by the front door and made a beeline for Hawk. Nothing would make her forget her tenure woes like a hard, hot session at his mercy. Her ass was already stinging by the time she touched the door, opened it and stopped cold. Hawk was in the library all right, sitting at the table where he liked to stretch her out and fuck her. He was dressed in jeans and a navy shirt, open at the neck, longsleeved, but tight enough to show off his sexy muscles. Unfortunately, he didn’t look ready for sex at the moment. He looked darker than the endless storm outside. Wiping a few stray raindrops out of her eyes, Gillian took the seat next to him. He glanced up from what were apparently morose thoughts. “You’re wet around the edges,” was all he said. A few racy comebacks traveled through Gillian’s mind, but she didn’t give voice to any of them. This was not a man in a mood to be teased. “Sara’s boys are in the hospital,” he said by way of explanation—or greeting—she couldn’t tell. “They’ve both got pneumonia. It happens easier for diabetics, I’m told.” The weight of Hawk’s mood settled across Gillian’s shoulders. “I should go dry off, change my clothes and go over to see about them.” “Don’t.” Hawk went back to staring at his folded hands. “Nothing personal, but Sara doesn’t take to company when things like this happen.” The stark reality of his statement left her feeling on the outside. Of the troupe, of Sara’s life. Even Hawk’s, a little. She didn’t much like the sensation. “We’ve had no business for two days, Jarrod’s eating like a pig and doing everything he isn’t supposed to do for his health. And I can’t get damn Jimmy TwoShanks to damn get out of the damn rain.” Hawk sighed. “A friend of mine in Colorado said Emerald Nathans came out to the old camp site for a while, but she left last week. He’s afraid she’s headed back here.” “That’s quite a list.” Gillian put a hand on Hawk’s wrist. “I’m sorry.” “It serves me right for coming here,” he said, his expression dark. “I should have kept the troupe out west. We only have one season a year there, but the business is good—and it rains a hell of a lot less.” “This much rain is unusual, even for here. It has to break soon.”

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Hawk’s chuckle had a sarcastic edge. “It’s better for you if it doesn’t. Makes me have second thoughts about my decision to fight you for Reggie’s inheritance.” Gillian’s stiffness was automatic. They never crossed into this territory. It was supposed to wait for the— “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Hawk pulled his hand away from her touch. “Talk like that is for our meeting. We can virtually live together, share a bed, fuck like rabbits, but we can’t talk too much about our past, and we sure as hell can’t talk about Reggie or his goddamned stupid will.” He stood suddenly, pushing back from the table. Gillian watched, heart fluttering uncomfortably, as Hawk stalked over to a bookshelf and seemed to study the titles. She had seen this side of him before, in those first uncomfortable meetings. It didn’t frighten her or anger her like it did then. This time, it just made her sad. Hawk seemed tied in knots, unable to hold himself in, but unable to let himself go. All he could do was vent a little of the anger. “I—I’ll talk about Reggie if you want,” she offered, fishing for the right words to start untying the knots. “Not now,” Hawk snapped. His back was to her, but she could tell he hung his head, immediately ashamed of his harsh words. After a few silent moments, he said, “I apologize. I’m not good company right now. It’s best I go back to camp for a while.” Gillian stood up too fast, but she couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving, not when he seemed to need her most. “Why don’t you stay?” “And what?” He came over to her, gently touched her face, and traced the line of her jaw. “Play at being Lord Blackmoor? Enjoy the sexual favors of the princess in her castle?” Her cheeks flushed. “That’s an option. But, we could just talk—” “God, Gillian. This has been a fairy tale.” Hawk dropped his hand to his side, and Gillian felt the ache of the broken physical contact. “One I’ve enjoyed more than you know. But I’m not a storybook prince, and I’ve got real decisions to make.” Her chest tightened. “What are you saying?” When Hawk looked up, his black eyes blazed with an emotion she couldn’t read. He grabbed her by the shoulders, too hard, too firmly. This time, he did scare her. “Marry me,” he murmured. “Let what’s mine be yours, and what’s yours be mine. It’s the best way.” “Marry—me—you—the best way for what?” Her mind took off on a major spin, and her chest actually hurt. Not as much as her shoulders did, though. His grip really was too tight. She wriggled against it. “Hawk, please.” He let her go and stepped back. “The best way to settle Reggie’s mess. If you were my wife, if I were your husband, it would all be so simple.” 217

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A wave of joy washed over Gillian, followed by a cool spray of reality. She rubbed her arms. To hear Hawk Blackmoor say he wanted to marry her, now that really was a fairy tale come true. She wanted to shout yes, to throw her arms around his neck and cry with joy—but she couldn’t. This felt all wrong. The look on his face wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t romantic or pleading or even sweetly nervous. It was hard. Calculating. Like he was offering a contract. Her heart sank. He was offering a contract. The soldier. The day-trader. The throwback knight. The Master. He knew how to fight, conquer, defend and protect. He knew how to possess. Now she was realizing what he didn’t know how to do. Risk. Compromise. Love? Does he know how to love? “I don’t want to fight you in court, Gillian.” His expression softened a little. “I don’t want to take anything away from you, leave you and Jamie and Oz in the lurch.” “I don’t want to take anything away from you, either,” she said as her heart plunged deeper inside. Grief rose with her tears. “Go ahead, though. Finish what you were saying.” Hawk’s eyebrows lifted, probably at the sharpening edge in her words. “You don’t want to take anything away from me, leave me and Jamie and Oz in the lurch, but…” This seemed to surprise him, but not very much. His mouth tightened. Gillian battled a sense of the world shifting out from under her feet. She wasn’t a teenager. She wouldn’t be devastated by this. She was holding herself tightly, keeping her arms in front of her like a shield. “Let me finish for you. You don’t want to fight me and take Blackmoor, but you will. You have your rights as Reggie’s son, your duty to your mother’s memory and your obligation to your troupe-family.” Now Hawk’s expression shadowed in a whole new way. When he spoke, his words were heavy, hard ice. “I asked you to marry me.” “You proposed a business merger.” Gillian looked at the floor, then back at him. Damned if she would wilt or cry. “After all of this, after everything—I’ve been such a— never mind. You’re right. It’s best you go back to camp for a while.” “Are you dismissing me?” Hawk’s words came out through clenched teeth, colder than ever. “Take it however you want. Just go.” Gillian managed to keep her firm expression as he stormed out of the library. The sound of his boots on the stone hallway made her heart ache, and the sound of the front door slamming made her sob. But she kept it at that. A single heartfelt sob.

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She couldn’t exactly throw herself across the conference table and weep about how Hawk had victimized her. She had been a willing participant. More than willing. Eager, even. Her well-marked ass was proof enough of that. They hadn’t made any promises. Everything was by agreement, all neat and tidy. Safe. Sane. Consensual. Another sob choked out of her throat, along with a bittersweet laugh. She raised her hand to her neck, stroking the spot Hawk’s collar had adorned during their private times. She had wanted to learn what he had to teach her. She had wanted her fantasies fulfilled. He had certainly done that. How am I going to live without feeling…that joy, that ecstasy…again? The turning loose, the flying, the absolute release of his domination and lovemaking. The saner part of her mind had known their tryst would come to an end at some point, that they couldn’t live in their BDSM-version of Camelot forever. She just never thought it would blow up over an offer of marriage. From him. “I’m beautiful.” The words bubbled up with a fresh spurt of tears. “I’m beautiful, and I’m an idiot, and I’m worth more than a merger proposal.” A whine and a soft scratching drifted down the echoing stone hallway. It was met by more whines and growls. Thrusting her emotions as far away as she could, Gillian rubbed the moisture out of her eyes. Then she bucked up, thrust out her chin, and went to check on the problem. When she reached the hallway, she saw Old Sir at the front door, scratching feebly. The girls had joined him, licking and nuzzling, trying to offer him a little comfort. Lancelot and Merlyn were nearby, wide-eyed, looking puppyish and confused. “Did he go off and leave you?” Gillian reached the noble old dog and knelt beside him. She scratched the soft fur behind his ears. “I’m sorry. That was my fault. Are you sure you want to follow him in this weather?” Old Sir whined again. His tail wagged a few times. “All right.” Gillian stood and opened the door. Old Sir slipped out. The other dogs followed him in a sweeping rush, ignoring her shouts and chastising. “Damn, damn.” Gillian went right out after them, fussing, demanding they come back inside. The sky was darker than ever. A menacing wind agitated the trees, and rain came down in moving sheets, chilling her instantly. Through the water and gray light, she saw Old Sir ambling not for the camp, but for the tree by the creek where Jimmy TwoShanks stood watch. Gillian grimaced. Maybe the dogs were trying to do a good deed, or get her to do it. Hawk’s temper and mood aside, she might be able to accomplish this much toward 219

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helping him and the Wanderers—getting their best stable man to shelter before he joined Sara’s boys in the hospital. She slogged across the yard and out of the open gate, then up the slight rise. By the time she reached the tree, she felt like she’d been in a cold shower. Her teeth were chattering, and she thought she’d gotten wet under her skin. Jimmy Two-Shanks greeted her with a solemn nod. The dogs ringed him, staring northward past the castle. Morgan was barking. The rest were whining and wagging their tails in nervous bursts. “Won’t you come inside with me?” Gillian called to Jimmy over the noise of the rain, the wind, the water, and the dogs. “Thanks, ma’am, but I think I ought to watch. The water’s been rising all day.” “It won’t come over the bluff, Jimmy. It never has.” He shrugged. “I’m the cautious type. Watching’s what I do.” Morgan’s barking picked up. The other dogs started barking with her—and backing away. Gillian looked down as cold water rushed across her sodden shoes and ankles. The water was coming up fast. And the creek seemed wider. Limbs swept along, north to south, disappearing from sight almost as fast as they appeared. Branches and odd trash. Gillian had seen this before, just not so intense. Without the widening… “Jimmy.” She put her hand on the older man’s arms. “Let’s get back a little ways.” This time, at least, Jimmy Two-Shanks didn’t argue. As the dogs barked and barked, Gillian took Jimmy’s hand and led him away from the tree, back toward the castle. The younger dogs shot past them as they walked—but Gillian and Jimmy only made it two steps before a rushing roar made them both turn and look upstream. Where the creek seemed to grow to river-size even as they stared. What looked like a wild ocean wave washed down hard, swelling and swelling, driving the water up over its trough. Mostly it flowed over the east bank, spilling into the woods—but some came westward, straight toward them. Gillian felt sure the fast-moving current would stop short of where they stood, but to her horror, she saw Old Sir right in the water’s line, still struggling toward them in his slow, feeble way. “No!” Without thinking, Gillian let go of Jimmy and ran back for the dog. The sobs she’d been holding in the library tore out of her now. Mud splattered and flew as she dug in her heels, shoved herself forward. She heard Jimmy shouting, heard the dogs barking, heard the swollen river-creek’s angry whoosh-whooshing.

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The water was catching Old Sir, swallowing the poor old greyhound even as she watched. Gillian saw him, saw Hawk and Reggie and her family and everything, everyone in her life she had ever lost, figuratively or actually. “No!” she screamed again to the rising water. “No! No!” She flung herself toward the dog, not caring if she lived or died, only caring if she reached him. Only caring if she saved Old Sir from such a wrong, brutal death. Her hands grasped wet fur just as the rushing water struck full-force. Old Sir swirled out of her grip, yelping until the sounds of the furious creek drowned his cries. Roaring with rage and frustration, Gillian staggered up, tried to launch herself forward again, but something grabbed her. Something threw her back even as it hurtled past her. A man. Hawk. Strong arms locked around her own, keeping her from going straight back after the dog and Hawk, too. “Hold it there!” Jarrod shouted over the noise. “Be still!” Gillian squinted into the waning rain and realized that it really was Hawk who had stopped her and dived in after the dog. Even now, man and beast were joining in the center of the wild water, swirling in a circle—and starting downstream. The other greyhounds raced down the bank, keeping pace, barking. Past the tree. Toward the edge of the Wanderer camp. Jarrod kept a firm hold on Gillian’s hand but pulled her along with him, following the dogs. She forgot the cold, the mud, the rain, the wind—everything in the universe focused only on the two dark spots center-stream and moving fast. More voices started shouting. Wanderers spilled out of tents, running toward the bank. Oz and Jamie came out of the castle yelling and shouting. Gillian couldn’t make out anything but the painful pound of her own heart, the desperate jerking of her breath. Hawk was trying to push Old Sir toward the bank, making little progress against the current—but some. Closer. Closer. Close enough to grab a low-hanging branch before an even harder torrent of water tried to shove them under. Man and dog looked beaten, barely breathing. Faster than the next lightning flash, someone had fetched a rope, and Wanderer men and women were tying themselves together. Making a human chain. Gillian and Jarrod rushed to them and joined in, tying up, stretching down, down. The big Scotsman put himself at the head of the line, wading in first. The force of the water hit him and shoved hard. He staggered.

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Gillian felt the rope jerk tight around her waist, saw everyone else bracing along the line. She jammed her feet hard into the earth, pretending she was a tree root. An immovable object. She wouldn’t fall. She wouldn’t be the weakest link. Her fingers dug into the rope and into waist of the man ahead of her, just as someone behind her anchored just as hard into her waist. Jarrod righted himself and plunged ahead, keeping hand-over-wrist with the man behind him even as he reached for Hawk. Too far. Too far! Thunder split the air. Gillian thundered back at it, swearing, furious with the weather. The circumstance. Everything. She refused to lose anyone else—anything else—to fate. Not happening. Not today. The line inched forward. Gillian inched with them, just another link in the chain. A determined link. A pissed link. Jarrod leaned and reached again. This time, Hawk clasped his wrist. A chorus of cheers and grunts rippled along the line. As one, the Wanderers and Gillian lurched backward, towing Jarrod, Hawk and Old Sir another foot. Another inch. Into the shallows. To the edge of the water. And they were out, stumbling, fumbling up the bank. Men ran down to help. Women, too. Gillian, too. Even the greyhounds seemed to be tugging and pulling, doing their best to haul the foolish humans up the main part of the bluff, up the lip of earth and trees protecting the Wanderer camp from the flash flood. Minutes seemed too long, stretched by panic, but at last, Gillian, Hawk, Jarrod and Jimmy got clear, as did the rest. They made for the castle as the Wanderers dispersed back toward camp. Hawk cradled Old Sir like an infant, and the other dogs loped in circles around them. Jamie was already at the door, holding it open and gesturing. Oz was running with his easy, confident stride—seemingly toward the garage. Probably to get a car. Probably to take Old Sir to the animal hospital. Leave it to Oz to think so calmly in the madness. That thought carried Gillian, shivering and coughing, into the castle at the back of the procession. Wet dogs and wet people sank to the dry stone immediately. Jamie was already hauling out towels and blankets. Hawk wrapped Old Sir in the first one, speaking softly to the dog, stroking his head. The old dog’s tail flopped feebly on the stone. He was shaking so badly Gillian wanted to cry at the sight of it.

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She heard the choked sound of Hawk’s voice, even though she couldn’t make out the words he was whispering to Old Sir. When she gazed at Hawk’s usually stern, hard face, she saw only worry and fear and something else. Affection. Deep, genuine caring. Well. At least he could love a dog. That was something, right? If that dog dies, I swear I’ll just die with him. Her shoulders hitched as she forced back a sob. Jarrod draped an arm around her and offered her a towel as Jamie tucked a blanket around Hawk’s shoulders. A horn blared outside. Hawk stood up with the dog, glanced once at Gillian—a glance that held concern, maybe apology—then hurried out the door, trailing his blanket behind him like a superhero’s cape. “Son of a bitch,” Gillian whispered, meaning Oz, Hawk, Reggie, Old Sir, all men, flooding rivers—all of it. Every single thing. “He can be,” Jarrod agreed. “Or were you talking about me?” Gillian turned to offer the big man a snappy comeback, but the pallor in his usually red cheeks froze her words. He took his arm off her shoulder and dried his beard and face as she watched, worry mounting. Jimmy Two-Shanks was standing up now. “Best get back down the hill. Folks’ll be thinking I’ve gone soft, and the horses, they’ll need checking.” He started out the door just as Jamie got back with more towels for the dogs. “If you’ll wait, I’ll get you some hot tea—” But Jimmy was already gone. “Damn stubborn bastards, all of them.” Jamie dropped the towels and snatched up Merlyn for a good rubdown. Gillian barely paid her any mind. She was still watching Jarrod, who had gone from pale to ghostly. The big man was rubbing his left arm and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. This day’s trials definitely weren’t over. In fact, the real trouble was just arriving. Dread pushed out the cold, the chaos, all other emotions. “Oh, damn.” Strength came out of nowhere, pushing Gillian to her feet. She was already running for the phone when Jamie started screaming. Five hours later, as the clock on the wall inched toward midnight, Hawk Blackmoor sat with a nurse in the intensive care waiting room at John’s River Memorial Hospital. He was trying to process what the woman was telling him about Jarrod.

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“Angioplasty.” That much made sense. “Mild cardiac event”—that was a bit more vague and disturbing. Was there any such thing as a mild cardiac event? Damn. Damn the entire universe. First the twins, then Old Sir, now Jarrod. The boys and the dog, they would likely be fine, if their doctors could be believed. Jarrod was in more serious shape. And apparently, Gillian, Jamie and Jimmy were being treated, too, for exposure, hypertensive crisis and congestive heart failure, respectively. Hawk was torn in so many directions he didn’t even think he could move. “Good thing Professor Markham called 9-1-1. So many people try to drive heart attack victims to the hospital, and they die en route. The ambulance can treat them so much sooner.” The nurse’s smile was sad. “I hate that she had to go through another crisis, after her family and all.” That penetrated Hawk’s fog. He gazed at the little nurse. She had brown hair and a pixie face. Seemed more the talking type than the slapping type—and those were in short supply in his life right now. “I’ve heard a little about that, but I don’t know what really happened.” Nurse Talkative was more than happy to fill him in on every brutal, heartbreaking detail. A robbery gone wrong. Some very crazy, very bad men. Gillian’s mother cut down in the garage, along with Gillian’s then-boyfriend. Her father and brother killed when they rushed out to defend their home and loved ones… Hawk was grinding his teeth by the time the nurse talked about how Gillian and Reggie found them, how that sweet, selfless old man had taken the little girl back to his castle and tried to give her support, a good education and some kind of normal life. “I think it bonded them together like father and daughter, what they saw.” The nurse sighed with dramatic flair. “Me, I would have never gotten over something like that.” Feeling like he was standing on Mars, Hawk exchanged platitudes with the nurse until she finally had to go back to her duties. A few minutes later, he got word that he could see Jarrod. Actually, the ICU nurse said, “Can you get in here and make this son of a bitch stay in his bed?” Hawk couldn’t help noting that so far, the nurse’s grouse was the day’s brightest moment. He followed her quietly through the automatic double doors, and he found himself in a round room that looked like a human fishbowl. There was a huge main nursing desk that made an arc, commanding the room. In front of the desk were ten glass cubicles. No curtains. Nine of the cubicles had peaceful-looking patients lying still, hooked to machines that hummed and clicked and whispered. The tenth cubicle, the one dead-center at the head of the arc, held the problem child.

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“I said, get the damned thing out of my arm!” Jarrod bellowed. At least five nurses and one red-faced security guard—with a gun—flowed in and out of the door. Battling exhaustion and the urge to laugh, Hawk made his way to the trouble spot and politely pushed his way inside. Then he politely pushed the nurses and the armed guard out. “It’s about time somebody with some sense got here,” Jarrod rumbled. Hawk walked over to the bed, shocked to see his big friend so pale, so seemingly frail. The grouchy Scotsman was hooked to a dozen machines with leads and tubes, and he had an I.V. line in his left arm. It was this bit of needlework he seemed to hate the most. With his large, fumbling fingers, he dug at it, snarling, until Hawk peeled his hand away and dropped it back on the bed. “Enough,” he said quietly. Jarrod looked like he wanted to start shouting again, but he glanced up at Hawk and apparently thought better of it. “How’s the dog?” he asked, the thickness of his tongue hinting at the medications he was fighting. Probably somewhere in between the angioplasty and the concoction that would knock him out for the night. “Old Sir is resting comfortably at the Animal Emergency Clinic. You have some nerve, throwing a heart attack just to focus all of our attention on you.” “Didn’t have a heart attack. Didn’t you hear? A cardiac event.” Jarrod snorted. He started to pick at the I.V. again, but stopped when Hawk gave him a glare. “I’ll be fine. They pumped me up with a balloon. Or something.” “You’ll be a salt-free vegetarian if I have my way,” Hawk said smoothly. This earned him a hateful stare in return. “Bugger yourself. Trust an army puke to take a little thing and make it a huge problem.” “You’re in the ICU, Jarrod.” “Bugger yourself,” Jarrod repeated, sounding more drunk. Good. Hawk figured if he kept up the banter, the big man would burn himself out and settle into a needed sleep. “Why don’t you relax, friend?” Hawk leaned against the glass, since the tiny room didn’t have a chair. “If you’ll go to sleep, I can check on everybody else.” “Whole camp’s falling to hell.” Jarrod coughed. “What’d you do to Gillian to make her so mad, anyway? You never told me.” Hawk frowned despite his best effort to keep an even expression. “I asked her to marry me.” Jarrod laughed. “Yeah. That would do it. Smart girl.” “Bugger yourself.”

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“Don’t fuck around, Hawk. Whatever you did to her, fix it.” Jarrod’s eyes were closed, but Hawk could tell his friend wasn’t joking. “Wanderers, Reggie, land— nothing’s worth losing her.” “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I asked her to marry me, and she threw me out.” “I know you. Bastard.” Jarrod’s logic broke up with his voice. “Didn’t…didn’t…ask her right, I bet.” Hawk thought about arguing, but there wasn’t much to say. Besides, the Scotsman seemed to be settling into sleep. Just as Hawk was about to ease out of the glass cubicle and head down to see Sara, Jarrod’s eyes flew open. “Becket,” he said emphatically. “T.S. Eliot’s Becket.” “Beg pardon?” “Murder in the Cathedral. Remember?” The big man turned his pale face toward Hawk. “We did a version a few years back during fair season. You came out to Colorado to watch it.” Hawk folded his hands, almost pleading. “Jarrod, please. You need to go to sleep.” “It was Diane’s favorite. Becket. Yeah.” Jarrod nodded. His eyes closed again, and he snored. Hawk waited. Another snore, and another. Carefully, he eased back out of the cubicle. He was almost to the arc of the nursing desk when Jarrod’s halting voice reached out to slap him in the back of the head. “The last temptation is the highest form of treason,” the Scotsman quoted, with amazing Shakespearian flair for a man hooked to machines in an ICU. “To do the right deed for the wrong reason.” Hawk wheeled around. Jarrod punctuated his recitation with a snore. His best friend’s words chased Hawk as he made his rounds. He checked on Jimmy first. Thankfully, the stable man was sleeping soundly, not making any attempt to fight his tubes and needles. Next, he stopped in to see Sara, who, predictably, slapped him. She didn’t explain, and for once, Hawk didn’t need her to. It was clear she had checked on Gillian and Jarrod and gotten at least a piece of the story. Enough, for sure. Any more and she might have blacked his eye. He thought about taking issue with the fact that Sara had known about the horror of Gillian’s past, but she had chosen not to share it. All those suggestions about the library… It would have been a lame complaint, though. Even boors like me know how it is between women. Besides, if I’d given her more space, more time, she might have told me herself. If I had asked. Why didn’t I ask? “I’ll try to do better,” he said earnestly to Sara, glancing from sleeping boy to sleeping boy. “I don’t want to hurt her again.”

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Sara grunted, then went back to her sewing. She let him leave without hitting him again. He wasn’t at all sure he deserved that courtesy, but he accepted it gratefully. When at last he stood by Gillian’s hospital bed gazing down at her angelic face, so smooth and untroubled in sleep, he had no attitude and no excuses left. The last temptation is the highest form of treason To do the right deed for the wrong reason. Hawk sighed. “I really let you down, love,” he whispered. Gillian didn’t stir. The nurse told him she had been given a light sedative, that she’d get fluids and warming blankets across the night. Discharge in the morning. Hawk wanted to wake her, hold her, kiss her, make her every promise she could ever want to hear—but that would have been selfish, and he had been selfish enough to rack up ill fortune for the rest of his life. If the universe still held some redemption for him, he could at least correct some small part of that. “I have some things to set right,” he told his sleeping beauty. “When I get back, I hope you’ll talk to me past the few choice words I deserve.” He risked one kiss, a soft brush of his lips against her limp hand. Then he left before he went back on his good intentions to let her rest. Osmond Burns was kind enough to drive Hawk back to Blackmoor Downs with no recriminations and no conversation. Hawk did what he could to see to the camp’s running in his absence, then packed up for his time away. He left notes for Sara and Jarrod, made arrangements for one of the grooms to feed Old Sir if the aging dog returned to his tent after escaping the vet, then headed through the dawn drizzle for one last visit to the castle. In Jamie’s room, he left a wrapped package and a note reminding her of the deadline to meet the third condition of their agreement. Then he went to Reggie’s apartments and taped a note on the elevator door, in case Gillian might find it. When he turned to leave, the first light of day—actual light, daylight, sunlight, not rain, spilled into Reggie’s bedroom. For the first time, Hawk actually noticed the room’s features. The simplistic design, the Spartan furniture—and the tables and tables full of pictures and letters. Even the walls. Framed pictures. Framed drawings, framed childish notes. Surprised, Hawk examined the first wall. He found it full of pictures of him as a small child. The date and his age were notated at the bottom of each photo and portrait, in Diane’s unmistakable hand. Even

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the drawings, the notes—they were his. Things he had drawn and given to his mother. Awful little-boy poetry. Knock-knock jokes. Surprise gave way to amazement. Hawk moved around the room, tracing the history of his childhood all the way through college, through his military service, even. At some point, Gillian’s history joined his own in much the same fashion. Her high school report cards. Her college papers. Pictures, portraits, photos, notes—it was all here. All that Reggie could memorialize. The tables held only more of the same. Pictures of him, sent to Reggie by Diane. Pictures of Gillian, obviously taken by Reggie or Oz or Jamie. And several wooden boxes. Feeling like an intruder, Hawk lifted the lid of the nearest box. It was full of postmarked letters, unopened, marked Return to Sender. Also in the unmistakable calligraphy his mother had been known for producing. A strange sense of wonder uncoiling in his belly, Hawk thumbed through the letters, checking dates. Weekly letters, across a year’s span. He checked a few more stacks in that box, and a few in one of the other boxes to confirm his observation. Then he selected one, a very old note, from the week of his third birthday. Carefully, making certain not to tear the paper, he slipped a finger inside the envelope and pulled open the letter. A single sheet of paper, neatly printed. My Dearest Son: Happy Birthday! I sent you a training saddle, and your mother assures me you will receive it. She tells me you do very well with your first pony, though I must admit, I worry that you aren’t old enough. I do hope you’ll be careful… Hawk stopped reading. For a long time, he stood in the sunlight in his father’s bedroom, in the shrine dedicated to the two children Reginald Blackmoor had adored. The letter trembled in his hand until he folded it once more and tucked it back into place. There would be time for this exploration later. As for making amends for his many, many misjudgments about the people who deserved honored places in his heart—there might never be enough time for that.

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Chapter Twenty-Three Hawk had been gone almost two weeks with no word. Not a call, not a letter. Sara and Jarrod had found notes with lists, instructions and apologies for his absence. A stable boy was feeding Old Sir in Hawk’s tent, and Jimmy Two-Shanks seemed more spry than ever. Since the rain had stopped, he’d left his creek-side vigil. Every time Gillian saw him, he was grooming horses or checking tack, whistling all the time. As for Hawk, the man himself had vanished. “He’s coming back,” Jarrod assured Gillian when she visited the big Scotsman in his tent. He was more than furious that he’d been restricted from performing. As the sun and cool weather turned out larger and larger crowds, Jarrod had sulked so badly he wouldn’t even go outside to watch the jousts. When he did, he ended up blessing out the cooks and food venders, none of whom would serve him anything but four ounces of unsalted lean meat plus a healthy portion of vegetables. Sara confirmed Jarrod’s opinions about Hawk, adding “thoughtless bastard” to every other sentence. Orders for her dresses, costumes and even her discreetly displayed adult wear were coming in faster than she could keep up. She had allowed Gillian to baby-sit a few times, but otherwise, she rejected all help. Watching how Sara’s pride wouldn’t allow her to accept a dime’s worth of assistance with the boys’ extensive hospital bills, Gillian understood Hawk’s dilemma about the Wanderers better than she would have liked. She had to admit, in his shoes, she didn’t know what she would have done with the mess Reggie left. These people needed Hawk and what he could give them. They needed a home, provisions, the life they knew. A few, like Sara, could have taken traditional jobs with insurance benefits, but in the end, trying to fit into the proverbial rat race would have robbed them of all they valued. Just the thought of Sara’s talented fingers twisted from life as a commercial seamstress made Gillian cringe. Jarrod, Sara, Jimmy and the rest—they belonged in the Wanderers. And the community of John’s River began to enjoy the taste of history offered by the little troupe’s camp, goods and performances. Unintentionally—yet rather naturally—Gillian found herself assuming the role of Lady Blackmoor when visitors arrived. The third weekend Hawk was gone, she even opened the castle for tours. Oz and Jamie didn’t object, and neither did the dogs, who barked at first, then took to hamming brilliantly for anyone with a camera. As for Hawk’s absence, Oz and Jamie offered comfort but no information—and Jamie seemed completely nervous most of the time. Gillian gave up trying to

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understand the housekeeper’s flighty moods, though the way the woman studied Oz whenever his back was turned gave her a few clues. All in all, Gillian’s life assumed a smooth rhythm—except for the gaping hole in her existence where Hawk should have been. Night after night, she reminded herself that they had essentially ended their relationship in the library before he left. Still, that was so sudden, after so much… It was all she could do not to obsess. Truth be told, much of the time, she did obsess. Fantasies plagued her each night, and more than once, she had reached between her legs, stopping just short of rubbing her clit. She had almost gone to the dungeon, too. She wasn’t quite sure why she didn’t— the man had no hold on her anymore—but somehow, being down there without him, she didn’t think it would feel right. And no way would it be as satisfying. By the night before her final tenure meeting, her nerves and frustrations were eating her alive. She paced back and forth in her room wishing she could slow down enough to sleep. “Damn you, Hawk,” she whispered to nobody. Her only answer was the random thumping of greyhound tails on her bed. Gillian groaned. She pulled her soft, short robe around her, all too aware of her taut nipples, of the way her juices flowed the second she thought of Hawk. “Maybe I should give up and make some coffee.” She sighed. “Maybe I should give up and go to the dungeon. Just to—ah—you know, look around.” Be a little closer to him. Be a little closer to how I felt when I was with him. Her gaze shifted to her jewelry box. Her collar was in there. He hadn’t asked for it back. Of course, he hadn’t exactly had time between the flood and Jarrod and whatever took him off in such a huge hurry. “Too bad. He’s not getting it even if he does ask. That’s mine. It was a gift.” Part of her wanted to put it on. Another part of her warned against it. Too sad. Holding on to the past. “I have to move on, don’t I?” At least for now… More dog tails thumping languidly. If the girls could talk, they probably would have said something about rude humans inflicting insomnia on poor, helpless canines. Gillian decided enough was enough.

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She was going down to that damn dungeon and she was by God going to get herself a little relief. Then she’d sleep better and kick some academic ass in that last meeting tomorrow. The walk to Reggie’s apartments went quickly, and Gillian was glad she didn’t pass Jamie or Oz in the hallways. Even though they both knew about the pleasure chamber, she really didn’t feel up to explaining herself right that moment. Pre-tenure jitters. Hawk withdrawal. The elevator waited as always, but as Gillian started to push the button to call it, she saw something stuck to the door. A single piece of paper, illuminated in the moonlight. She reached up and took it down, then went over to the wall switch and turned on some lights. The words—so few—but they said so, so much. Tears jammed into her eyes, and her heartbeat picked up to near unbearable levels. Damn him. How did he know? How did he always know? Gillian, Not without me. Not yet. Please. All my love, Hawk The next day, Gillian showed up to her tenure meeting dressed in her best baby blue suit, Hawk’s note tucked into the silky, tight bustier Sara had made her to go underneath it (this one had bra cups), sporting her collar for all to see. To the uninitiated, it would look like an elaborate choker. To the initiated—well, she figured they could just sweat. As she seated herself at the round table and smiled at her committee, she saw Celia Lambert turn the color of strawberries in June. The woman blinked and swallowed, then finally, as the men talked amongst themselves and Geraldine stared at the ceiling as if searching for an escape hatch, Professor Lambert leaned over and cleared her throat. “Ah—Gillian,” she whispered, “Where did you get that—that—um—necklace?” “Oh, this?” Gillian fingered the sapphires and winked, keeping her voice low and private, between the two of them. “Celia. I thought you knew how submissives got their collars.” Celia Lambert sat back hard, staring.

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It was Gillian’s turn to lean forward. “It’s still there, you know. If you ever want to visit again, I don’t mind, as long as you let me know ahead of time. But that’s a discussion for later.” Wordless, eyes wide, the good Professor Lambert could only nod. And look very, very, very, very intrigued. Steven brought the meeting to order, and in only minutes, Beck and Baumeister kicked up their usual questions and aspersions on her abilities. To Gillian, who had once been devastated by their attitudes and sharp words, they sounded like a chorus of blah, blah, blah, blah. When one of them finally took a breath, she broke in and addressed Geraldine, Celia, and Steven. “Professor Beck and Professor Baumeister have their points. I won’t argue that in the past, I’ve been too cautious, too meek and probably too careful.” She ran her fingers along the top of her collar, loving the feel of the stones tight against her throat. Loving the memory of everything she had done while wearing that otherwise innocent piece of jewelry. “I can tell you one thing for certain, though. I’ve learned a lot during this process. More than I can ever say. And the days of boring Gillian Markham—those are over.” Steven smiled at her. So did Celia. Geraldine grinned nervously, and Celia patted her hand. “Look.” Baumeister sat up straighter in his chair. “We don’t have any guarantees…” “Life doesn’t come with guarantees,” Gillian interrupted again, giving him a smile she knew could be interpreted as a snarl. “Take this committee, for example. I should have been guaranteed fairness. I should have been judged on my merits, my strengths, and counseled on my weaknesses. Instead, you and Professor Beck have done everything in your power to present me as a simpering idiot who doesn’t know my ass from a hole in the ground—historically or personally.” She sat forward, closing the distance, all the while tapping her freshly painted, freshly sharpened baby blue nails on the table. “I resent that, in case you’re wondering.” Baumeister’s jaw went slack. Beck started to splutter, but before he could say anything, Gillian turned on him. “You both know I’ve done everything I needed to do. That I’ve gone above and beyond. I was born in this town, born to this college and born to this position. If you don’t believe that by now, you can both go to hell.” Even Steven went slack-jawed this time, but Celia and Geraldine sat straight as jousting pikes in their chairs, eyes bright. “If I had a penis swinging between my legs, the two of you would have welcomed me with a pat on the back and a key to the boys’ club.” Gillian leaned back. “In fact, if

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that’s all it takes, I could wear one the next time I come here. Any preference for length? Oh, wait. You want us to believe size doesn’t matter. How could I forget?” Geraldine covered her mouth, but Gillian saw the tears of laughter running out of her eyes. Celia had to put her head on the table to contain herself. Steven was trying to stand up, but his motor skills seemed to be failing him. As for Baumeister and Beck, they were staring at their crotches, maybe wondering who gave away their very—er— little—secrets. Gillian got to her feet. “It’s no fun, is it? Being attacked and not being able to defend yourself. Imagine how it feels when you have no power, no confidence. I’d hate to see how you two treat your students.” To Steven, she said, “Thank you for all of your time and patience. I most certainly am not including you in this little lesson, and I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you.” She squared her shoulders. “I think we’re finished here. I look forward to hearing about the vote. Later. Right now, I have a castle and a troupe of Renaissance players waiting for me. There’s supposed to be a hell of a joust this afternoon.” Gillian took her time leaving the scene of her professional suicide, and she took her time driving home, too. Hours. Glorious, free, private hours. The sunny, cool day, the smells of late fall, the way the stones in her collar glittered—everything felt polished, new and hopeful. By the time she got back to Blackmoor Downs, it was afternoon, and the place was already packed with cars. We’re going to need better parking, she thought as she pulled into the garage. Better parking, maybe some stone walkways and paved paths for people in wheelchairs. I’ll talk to Sara and Jarrod. She decided to check in at the camp before going to the castle—and the minute she hit the gate, people started running up to her. “He’s back…” “Saw him come in…” “Not sure, but we think he went to the castle…” “Said something about meeting you in the library…” In spite of all her vows to the contrary, Gillian felt herself go weak with nerves and worry. Giddy with anticipation. Hawk. Back. Waiting in the library. Her thoughts jumbled into a Celtic knot. The only thread she could grasp was Sara. She really wanted to talk to Sara right now, before she went to see Hawk. She had to find Sara.

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Before she knew it, Gillian was running, checking craft stalls and private tents, calling out, squinting at any flash of strawberry-blonde that caught her eye. The camp was crawling with patrons. The clanging of swords and the loud crack of lance meeting shield announced the ongoing jousting tournament. The loud stream of cursing from the kitchen area told her that Jarrod was behaving, at least about staying out of the fighting—though “Mutton…well-done…” and “Damn your hide…” suggested he was giving the afternoon cooks a run for their money. Gillian dodged here and there, farther back into the teeming mass, through it, and into the private section. Hawk’s tent was empty. Where was Sara? She had to calm down. She had to get her thoughts together. Somebody called her name, but it was a man—not Hawk—so she ignored it. As a last resort, she hurried over to the pleasure tent. Pash and Thomas—damn, they were both so cute—were standing guard, but they grinned and stepped aside as she approached. “Sara?” Gillian ducked into the tent, hurried to the center—and came to a full stop. The tent was apparently in use. A little afternoon delight for people off-shift, she supposed. Groans of pleasure drifted from several of the stalls. A man and a woman Gillian didn’t even know were fucking hard on a padded table. A brown-headed girl she didn’t remember was flogging another girl, equally young and beautiful. And on her knees, naked, collared and leashed, right in the middle of it all, was Emerald Nathans. Gillian’s groan rivaled at least two of the orgasmic women. Hawk’s would-be slave saw her, got to her feet, and rushed over to where Gillian was standing. On impulse, Gillian snatched up the fashion model’s leash and pulled her close, until they were almost nose to nose. “What the hell are you doing back here? Hawk asked you to leave.” “I—I know.” Emerald didn’t fight her. “I’m so sorry for how I acted—he was right to send me away, but I wanted to ask him for a second chance.” “Naked?” Gillian yanked the leash. Her nose actually touched Emerald’s. It occurred to her that she wouldn’t mind seeing Emerald whipped, so long as the bitch didn’t enjoy it too much. “Dressed as his slave?” “No! I mean—I’m that way, yes, here now—but I just came to—uh—take care of my nerves before I tried to talk to him.” Emerald stepped back a fraction and hung her head. “I’ll be dressed when I see him, I swear.” Gillian let some of the pressure off the leash. “Do you mean that?”

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Emerald nodded. “Please. Give me a chance. I just can’t live…out there.” She waved a pretty hand to indicate the wider world. “I—I just don’t belong.” This time, Gillian’s groan was inward. How could she argue with that? Emerald’s eyes drifted over Gillian’s blue suit, to her collar, then down to her cleavage. Gillian realized that in her mad dash to find Sara, her undergarment had shifted, and some of the bustier’s white lace was showing. “Did Sara make that?” Emerald asked, as if she weren’t standing in a pleasure tent, naked on a leash, with sounds of sex reverberating around them. “Yes,” Gillian answered, ignoring the rest of the activities as best she could. She unbuttoned her blouse so Emerald could have a better look. “It’s so pretty. I need to ask her about one for me. Green, I think.” “Um, okay. Have you seen Sara?” Gillian absently swung the leash with one hand, tugging at the bustier’s soft lace with the other. “I’ve been looking everywhere.” The pleasure tent door opened, as if by design. Sara came in, followed closely by Steven Cathcart. “Oooh,” Emerald whispered to Gillian. “He looks just like James Bond. Do you know him? Can you introduce me? I’d do a few days on my knees for that one, for sure.” “Oh, my God,” was all Gillian could say. Sara waved. “Gillian! This gentleman said he had something urgent to tell you, and I knew he wasn’t a stranger, a normal townie. I warned him this was an adults-only tent for the troupe, but he said that didn’t matter.” “Oh, my God.” Gillian knew she was being repetitive, but no other phrase came to mind. She held Emerald’s leash, wondering if her blush could actually catch on fire. She looked down at her half-exposed bosom. At Emerald’s nakedness. At the people hunching and coming in every direction. At Steven, and the way his mouth was hanging all the way to his chest. His hand was stretched toward her, as if offering to shake, and he didn’t seem to be able to put it down. For a minute, she thought he would turn around and run. Then his eyes fell on Emerald, and he looked her up and down with unabashed appreciation. “Congratulations, Dr. Markham,” he said, his hand still out, his gaze still fixed on the green-eyed, collared and leashed naked fashion model. “The vote was four to one in your favor.” “What?” Gillian came back to reality, trying to process what he was telling her. “I’ve got tenure?” Steven nodded, but he still didn’t look at her. His entire world seemed to have narrowed to Emerald Nathans. “Came…tell…you…myself…who…?”

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“Steven, this is Emerald. Emerald, meet Professor Steven Cathcart.” Gillian stuck Emerald’s leash into Steven’s outstretched hand. “Do me a favor and give each other a thrill.” To Sara she said, “Hawk’s back. I need to get my head together before I go talk to him.” Sara nodded and took her hand. They left a very happy couple behind them, joined hand to leash, smiling shyly.

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Chapter Twenty-Four Hawk paced around the library. He had just finished chastising Jamie and sending her off to confess her passions to Osmond Burns per their original agreement when he saw Gillian’s car arrive, then saw her head directly into camp. After that, he had seen the good Professor Cathcart follow after her not five minutes later. If she’s taken another lover, it would serve me right. “But I’ll kill him.” He cracked his knuckles, only distantly aware of the ridiculous apelike gesture. Whatever. If it took going down there like Tarzan, snatching his Jane out of the pleasure tent—with or without beating Cathcart to a bloody pulp—so be it. He had to talk to Gillian, if only to give her all the documents he brought. If only to make some basic amends. She has to listen. “Who am I kidding? She doesn’t have to do a damned thing.” “And what is it you’d like me to do, Hawk Blackmoor?” Gillian’s soft, enticing voice hit him with the force of a fist. Hawk turned to find his princess, his professor, his lady of the castle standing in the library doorway, her blonde hair loose and free. Her bright blue eyes were shining in the afternoon sunlight—tears? Anger? Excitement? He didn’t dare guess. Besides, he couldn’t really think, because she was wearing a new outfit, courtesy of Sara. Bloody hell. In a hurry, he dropped his gaze to the floor to control his cock, but as usual, the damned thing had a mind of its own. It got hard so fast he thought his jeans would rip in half. That was—ah—one hell of an outfit. His eyes traveled from her feet, which had been wrapped in a pair of troupestandard leather sandals, fall-style, with closed toe and heel. The dark brown straps wove up her shapely legs, disappearing beneath a soft sapphire skirt. The fabric accentuated her hips, lacing with silvery ties at her waist. His cock came even more to attention as his eyes moved upward, to white silk and lace. An incredible bustier lifted, shaped, almost let her large breasts spill over low-scalloped edges. A sapphire scarf gave her shoulders some cover, and—

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“You’re—you’re wearing the collar.” The words left his mouth before he considered them. Gillian eased inside the library, closed the door behind her and locked it. “Tell me why I shouldn’t take it off. Tell me why I should ever call you Master again.” He locked eyes with her, nearly undone by the soft firmness in her gaze. This was not the innocent, frightened woman he first met—but neither was she jaded, or judging, or bitter. Self-assured, yes. And confident of her own beauty, not to mention his attraction to her. Slowly, he wrapped his mind around the fact that she seemed to be giving him a second chance—not just at knowing her, but at showing her his true feelings. Damn. I had this all planned. And it didn’t go anything like this. He coughed. Tried to regain his balance. Failed. Surrendered. Looking away, he gestured to the array of papers on the library table. “I left to think, to figure out—to set up—if you sign these, the castle is yours outright.” Gillian was walking toward him slowly. He heard the whisper of that sexy skirt, imagined the way her breasts moved in the bustier. “And the rest,” he said hurriedly, “the land, the money, would all go into a trust, in life estate, managed by you, to care for you, your heirs, Jamie and Oz and the troupe. I’d be out of the loop. Everything would be up to you. If you’d just let them stay, the Wanderers—” She reached him, stood directly in front of him. Determined, Hawk kept his eyes averted. He wouldn’t let his cock guide his tongue, refused to let his animal instinct to possess this woman make him behave like an ass. Again. Damn it, he wouldn’t. Quietly, without comment, Gillian pushed the papers aside. “I had a similar idea. Only in the papers my lawyer drew up, a portion of our private funds would be donated to create an insurance and education fund for the Wanderers. And, we would own everything jointly, me with precedence over the castle and you with first say over use of the land.” Hawk cleared his throat. “That’s more than generous.” “And independent of the status of our relationship.” “Wise. And right.” God, he wanted to fuck her. But he wanted so much more. In his many mental rehearsals, he proposed before throwing her on the floor and screwing her brains out. Of course, that assumed she said yes. She had to say yes, didn’t she? “Are you accepting the compromise I’m offering, Mr. Blackmoor?”

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“Yes.” Hawk let out a breath. What had been so hard about resolving Reggie’s will, anyway? Had they really been fighting about it all this time? “Good. I’ll have the papers sent to your counsel. Now, will you look at me?” “No. If I look at you, I’ll fuck you. Hard. Here. Right now.” A pause. A soft laugh that made his cock buck in its denim prison. “And if I refuse to submit?” “I’d persuade you.” Hawk couldn’t stop himself. He looked at her, gazed into the endless blue fire of her eyes. Mint and ginger and the unmistakable musk of woman assaulted his senses. Was she wearing panties? His fingers flexed. It was all he could do not to grab her. “You’d persuade me.” Her voice was so, so soft and teasing. He felt like she was already taking him deep, sucking him with that perfect, warm mouth. By the quirk of her smile, she knew it, too. “All right, Mr. Blackmoor. You’re so good at conquest, at being a Master. Let’s see how you do with no commands. No orders. No absolute control. Just…persuasion.” Damn, she was trying to kill him. But what a fine way to die. Hawk stepped back far enough to give her a deep, proper bow. Then he stood, took her tight in his arms and claimed her mouth with the best mix of force and tenderness he could muster. The feel of her body against his warmed him, satiated him in some basic way. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Her lips yielded to his without a moment’s hesitation, and he felt her relax in his embrace. Yes. Thank all the gods. Yes. Reining his urgency, Hawk let his tongue speak for him, twining with hers, insisting, wanting, needing. Her soft moan of pleasure spurred him on, let him believe he was succeeding, at least a little. The scarf fell away from her shoulders—did he pull it away? Damn. He didn’t care, as long as she kept moaning, kept letting him in, one step at a time. As long as it took. Whatever it took. Gillian thought she might faint by the time Hawk let her go. She had never in her life been kissed like that. The top of her head might have blown off, and she wouldn’t have noticed. Score one for Hawk’s persuasion… The way he was looking at her now, his hands gripping either side of her face, his black eyes alive with so much fire and determination—score two, definitely. “I love you, Gillian. I think I loved you when I first saw you standing in your window, hating my guts.”

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Gillian’s heart expanded, aching yet throbbing with a sweet, hot rhythm. “Are you sure?” “Beyond all doubt.” He brushed his lips across hers, nipped her ear. “Beyond all sanity.” “I did hate your guts.” He kissed her cheeks, her chin, her neck, making trails and retracing them, sending shivers across her shoulders, down her spine, heating every part of her body. “Don’t blame you,” he murmured. “If you’ll give me a chance, I’ll spend a lifetime convincing you I’m not an ass.” Then he was kissing her on the lips again, harder, deeper, taking her without announcing his claim. Asking more than demanding. God, the only thing sexier than a totally dominant male was a dominant male who could beg so perfectly. And this one wanted her. This dark, sexy, outrageous hunk of man was humbling himself, professing his love, offering himself to her like a treat on a platter. “Tell me more,” she whispered. “Show me how you’ll do that.” His hands ran the length of her body, from breasts to thighs, back to her ass, then back to the laces of her white bustier. He tugged the first knot, then the second, letting just her nipples peek over the silky lace. “Beautiful,” he said in that low tone that made her entire body shiver. He ran his thumbs over the sensitive buds, rubbing flesh into lace and lace into flesh. Gillian felt the sensation down to her toes. When he repeated the action with his tongue, she almost came. The feel of wet heat on her nipples, soaking the lace, flicking the pebbled tips, it was nearly too good to stand. Her juices coated her legs, and her clit ached with the force of her need. To hell with delayed gratification. Not this time. No way. “I love you,” she whispered into his mouth as he moved up to kiss her. “I love you, you stubborn, arrogant son of a bitch.” Her lips moved against his, forcing the words out, scraping the stubble on his face, away from his mouth, back again, away, and back. They were moving together now like dancers, touching, grinding, grabbing. “I might forgive you if you fuck me. If you don’t make me wait.” Her hands were moving without thought, without care, pulling at the snap of his jeans, freeing his cock—damn. Rock-hard. Thick and long. Just right. Just what she wanted, and now. Not later. His answering growl was primitive, tortured. She loved it. She loved him. The way his powerful hands felt on her leg sliding up, up, lifting her skirt. The way he rumbled when he found her bare ass, her wet, waiting pussy. “So wet. So ready for me.”

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“Talk, talk, talk.” Gillian grabbed his cock, rubbed it from the damp tip all the way down, trailing her fingers on the soft shaft, along the vein, down to his balls, to the rough nest of hair. Half groaning, half roaring, Hawk picked her straight up off the floor. He hiked her skirt over one hip, positioned himself, and plunged deep inside her channel. Gillian wrapped her arms around her throwback’s neck, wrapped her legs around his waist, and screamed with much-needed release. Her first orgasm. A little one. She planned to have a hundred before he finished. Gripping her firmly, letting her lean back into his muscled arms, he pumped his cock in and out, in and out, taking her all the way down and almost all the way up each time. Each thrust made her shiver, made her entire body ache for the next one. Kissing her, fucking her, scrubbing her sensitive, exposed nipples against the buttons of his shirt, he laid her down on the conference table, strewing legal papers in every direction. “Did you go to the dungeon without me?” he asked, leaning over her, pounding her, pounding her, never missing a beat. After a long, satisfying moan, Gillian managed to gasp, “If I did, will you punish me?” “Absolutely.” Hawk braced his hands on either side of her head and doubled the strength of his strokes. So filling. So commanding. Gillian felt like he was touching her soul each time he moved. “With lots of marks?” she asked, half in a dream, digging her nails into the hard muscle of his arms. “And lots of screaming. God, I love you.” His lips found hers, and for long, perfect seconds, Gillian lost herself in the rocking, in the sensual slap of flesh meeting flesh, in the wet, hot scent and sounds of their sex. She felt the first tightening in her belly, that sense of onrushing orgasm, but she put it off. Not yet. Oh, no. This was too perfect. The man was a god with endless strength. The power of his thrusts, the hard, firm feel of his cock in her pussy—who could want more than this? And who could hold off an orgasm? Hawk’s lips grazed her collar, traced the edges, then moved to her ear even as the heat started to spread. Her vision blurred. Her breath caught. The table shook beneath them. When he spoke, he timed his words to the exact instant her pussy contracted, squeezing his cock with more force than she thought possible. “Will…you…marry…me?” “Yes!” Gillian screamed. “Yes!”

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She sailed upward, flew like a bird in a wide blue sky—and she could tell he wasn’t about to stop fucking her. Not yet. Not until he took her right to the edge and over, into that wonderful, mind-bending, body-burning freefall. Harder. Harder. He drove into her with a wild desperation, and she rose to meet him. Loving him. Needing him. Demanding everything he had to give, and more. So much more. Hawk came so hard he bellowed. His hot seed blasted into her as his body jerked into a splendid arch. The sight of his ecstasy shoved her over that cliff. All thought stopped. All sensation ended save for the perfect warm fullness in her pussy, the waves of pleasure washing over her, through her, shaking her so hard she thought the table would break. The moment felt golden, suspended in time, totally theirs and theirs alone. He loved her. She loved him. They were getting married. Gillian’s limp arms fell across him as he collapsed on top of her. His weight comforted her, brought her back down so sweetly, so gently. They were getting married. He would love her like this again and again, forever. Married. She sighed. They’d have to discuss the matter of a wedding present later. Yes. Definitely. When she remembered how to talk…

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About the author: Annie Windsor lives in Tennessee with her two children and nine pets (as of today’s count). Annie’s a southern girl, though like most magnolias, she has steel around that soft heart. Does she have a drawl? Of course, though she’ll deny it, y’all. She dreams of being a full-time writer, and looks forward to the day she can spend more time on her mountain farm. She loves animals, sunshine, and good fantasy novels. On a perfect day, she writes, reads, spends time with her family, chats with friends, and discovers nothing torn, eaten, or trampled by her beloved puppies or crafty kitties. Annie welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502.

Also by Annie Windsor: Arda: The Captain’s Fancy Arda: The Sailkeeper’s Bride Arda: The Sailmaster’s Woman Dungeon Heat: Hot Lessons Cajun Nights Ellora’s Cavemen: Tales From the Temple IV anthology Equinox Legacy of Prator: Cursed Legacy of Prator: Redemption Redevence: The Edge Vampire Dreams – with Cheyenne McCray

Discover for yourself why readers can’t get enough of the multiple award-winning publisher Ellora’s Cave. Whether you prefer e-books or paperbacks, be sure to visit EC on the web at www.ellorascave.com for an erotic reading experience that will leave you breathless.

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