Lord of a Thousand Nights (3 page)

He kissed her almost languidly. It was more a lover's kiss than a ravishment, and it deepened slowly, summoning something inside her that she didn't control, something made expectant from long abstinence. A delicious anticipation awoke and stretched and scampered through her limbs in a scandalous way. Reyna should push him away, but the courtesan Melissa certainly would not and so she suffered it, painfully aware that she wasn't suffering nearly as much as she should be. She tried to block out her shocking response, and her befuddled mind silently chanted a command for him to sleep, damn it, sleep.

He separated from her. His expression was indescribable. Warmth. Desire. The promise of untold pleasure. He rested on one arm and his naked torso hovered, almost touching her shoulder. That forbidden something inside her thrilled in response against her will. She couldn't take her eyes off his incredible face. She couldn't move.

“Do not be embarrassed,” he said. “Surely enjoying yourself on occasion is permitted.” He looked down and ran his fingers along the edge of her gown where it plunged to the top of her breasts. He leaned forward and kissed the skin exposed by the low-cut garment. The strangest thrill crawled through her whole body. She watched, mesmerized, as that hand eased the fabric off her shoulder.

Be sure he drinks the wine before he gets your clothes off.

She found her senses. She leaned away and forced a little laugh. She tried to look like the practiced courtesan determined to play out the game a certain way. “You have finished your wine,” she said, reaching for the flask and cup. “Let me pour you some more.”
Lots more.

He gave her a look that said he would do it her way for a while, but not much longer. He moved back to the bolster and stretched out. She turned in time to see the cup at his lips.

She forced control on the unsettled blood in her veins. “Now we talk,” she said firmly. “Finish your wine and tell me how you came here.”

“I do the talking? You are the one trained in the art of conversation.”

“I am trained to listen. Men enjoy talking about themselves, and we listen.”

“I do not enjoy talking about myself. You talk.”

“Me? About what?”

“You can talk about me. You can tell me how handsome I am and admire my face and body. Women always do that.”

“Do they indeed?” How convenient of him to remind her of his conceit just when she needed help in disliking him. If this preening stallion expected her to sigh over his beauty, he had another thought— She did sigh, but at the pointlessness of her rancor. The wine should take effect very soon now. Lord knew he had drunk enough.

She grimaced and turned toward him. His eyes looked closed.

He took her hand and laid it on his chest. It pulled her forward a little, and she noticed that his lids were open a slit and that he watched her. Nay, she might not mind killing him one bit after this humiliation.

She pasted a smile on her face and began tracing the lines of his shoulders and the muscles of his chest. Her mind scrambled for appropriate phrases. “You are certainly a very handsome man. Very beautiful eyes and a charming smile. And your body is strong and lean.” Dear saints, courtesans and whores definitely earned every
penny.
Go to sleep, you conceited idiot.
“Not bulky and hairy like some fighting men.”

“What do you like best?” His voice sounded drowsy and slow.

“Uh— well, these hollows along your collar line are very alluring—”

His hand rose languidly and wrapped in the lengths of her hair. He pulled gently, guiding her head down. “Then kiss them, madam. And then the rest of me. Isn't a courtesan's greatest talent in her mouth?”

She found her face inches from his and those smoldering eyes regarding her from beneath their lowered lids. Her breasts hovered over him, grazing him a little, and her ridiculous, traitorous body tingled. Gritting her teeth, she bent her neck and pressed her lips to the hollow above his collarbone.

Skin. Warmth. That intoxicating male scent. A gentle but controlling hand on her head guided her lower, to his chest.

Sleep, damn you.
She kissed his chest and tried to disregard the stunning, frightening intimacy the action evoked. He was the enemy, a stranger, and she hated him, but something inside her ignored that.

He guided her lower, to his torso and stomach—

Suddenly, the hand at her head went slack. She held her breath, and waited for the utter stillness that said he slept.

Cautiously, she slipped away from his body. His arm fell limply to his side.

She pulled the basket over and dumped out the rest of the pies. She pulled aside the loosely stitched cloth that made a fake bottom, and stared at the steel dagger hiding below it.

For Alice and the other women. Aye, even for
Margery. For Reginald, and even for Thomas for that matter.

She lifted the dagger. She looked regretfully at the beautiful man laid out like a drugged sacrificial victim. He appeared helpless all of a sudden, sleeping like a child, and she suddenly imagined him as such, innocent and fresh. Her heart twisted in rebellion at this course she had set for herself.

She raised the dagger, clasping it with both hands, its lethal point aimed at his heart. Her arms shook, her body shook, the knife itself wavered in the air.

She tried again to summon courage from her fear for her friends. When that didn't work, she turned to her fear for herself. The suspicious looks and accusations. The bishop's letter. The books and herbs and potions.

She had ceased to see the dagger, but suddenly it loomed in front of her, very real, very sharply. She looked to her clenched knuckles around the hilt and then to the point and then to the hard chest. Finally, she glanced at the handsome face.

He looked back.
Dark eyes glared dangerously from beneath feathering lashes.

Panic gripped her. Knowing that now it was kill or be killed, she rose up on her knees and brought the dagger down.

Strong arms flashed up, and iron fingers gripped her wrists. He thrust her to her side and she fell. In the scuffle that followed, the blade connected and a line of red oozed out across his upper arm.

She found herself pinned on her back. Fury hardened the face above her. “Did you really think I would play Holofernes to your Judith?” he snarled. “That was the plan, wasn't it? Like the Bible story. You kill the general and the leaderless army dissolves in confusion.”

“Apocrypha,” she corrected absurdly, her voice sounding very far away. “It isn't from the standard Bible. It is Apocryphal.”

“I don't give a damn if God gave the story to Moses himself, you bitch.” He grabbed her hair and stood, dragging her to her knees. He pulled her over to the central pole, and tied her to it with her arms stretched above her.

He went to the furs. She was sure he would fetch the dagger and slit her throat. Her heart pounded like a lead pulse in her chest.

He returned with the flask and held it to her lips.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Chapter TWO

S
he groaned and stirred. Ian looked over from the stool where he sat eating one of the meat pies. She lay stretched out on the cot, arms and legs spread and tied to the corners. He had considered stripping off her clothes, but had decided that might be overdoing it. He wanted her scared and vulnerable, not paralyzed by terror.

Their struggle had torn her gown, almost exposing one small, pretty breast. The skirt hitched high on her shapely legs. She had a very nice body, even if it was a little too thin. Small and curved and compact and neat like Elizabeth's had been, only younger.

When he first saw her standing in the dim light, formidable and determined, that pale straight hair hanging to her hips, he had thought for one instant that she was Elizabeth. But the face, while pretty enough, had none of Elizabeth's precise perfection, and much more warmth and expression. And the hair was not white like Elizabeth's, but the palest blond shot through with silver highlights, and
her skin possessed a pleasant pink glow. Elizabeth had been a snow queen. This woman looked like the first sun of dawn.

In her middle twenties, he guessed. Lovely and brave.

Too bad he had to destroy her.

His squire John entered through the tent flap, carrying a plate of stew. The youth had been slow delivering the supper, bringing one item at a time to have an excuse to ogle the woman. His hot eyes scanned the naked legs.

Best to clarify things now. “Keep your hose laced, boy. She is not for you.”

John flushed and set down the stew. Ian made a face at the tasteless mass. Fortunately, he had filled himself on Melissa's delicious meat pies. Picking up the last one, he tossed it to his squire as he left. “A consolation. The pleasure from all women is much alike. The same can not be said for food.”

She stirred again. Her lids slowly rose. Alertness spread as she comprehended her position. She yanked at her bindings, and the movement made her groan again.

“How is it?” he asked. “I've never heard of a sleeping potion that doesn't split your head later.”

Her lidded gaze slid over to where he sat. For an instant, before she composed herself, panic flickered.

Good.

“Lucky for you it wasn't poison,” he added.

“I didn't have a recipe for poison.”

He resisted the urge to laugh. Feisty little thing. “Too bad.”

She managed the slightest shrug. “Since it is obvious that you never drank any, it wouldn't have mattered.” She looked down at her vulnerable body again. “What are you going to do?”

She tried to sound brave and cool. He felt a little sorry for her. “I have been considering that these last few hours. I was all set to hang you when you woke.”

“Hang me!”

“Aye. For murder.”

“But I did not—”

“You tried.”

“I didn't really. I lost my courage.”

“I have a cut on my arm that says that you did.”

“Only because you attacked me. If you had been asleep as you were supposed to be—”

“I would be dead now. Don't get all pleading and innocent on me, Melissa. Your plan was bold and brave, and I respect that. But you failed, and that makes your life mine to dispose of. I considered hanging, but my squire convinced me that would be a waste. So I have devised a plan for your redemption.”

He walked over and sat beside her on the cot. “As you pointed out, this has been a long, hot siege. There are many bored men here, and the camp whores— well, they are not the same as having a courtesan.”

Her eyes went wide. “Are you saying that you will give me to your army? That you expect me to—”

“Not the whole army. Just the knights.”

“That is disgusting.”

“So is hanging.”

Her expression hardened in fury. He had expected tears. She had spirit, he had to give her that.

“I can not believe that your lord, Sir Morvan, would approve of what you plan. He is rumored to be an honorable man.”

“He won't give a damn. Soon, I will have taken this tower for him and half this army can join him at
Harclow. That is all that will matter. Also, I saved his life once, so he is at a disadvantage with me.”

Her jaw tightened with wavering control and her eyes glistened before she closed her lids. “I would rather hang. There are at least twenty knights here. They will probably kill me, anyway.”

“Not if they are pleased. In a way, you will be fulfilling your mission. Tomorrow at dawn we will fire one of the tunnels. By midday, I expect the tower will fall or yield. Your favors will reward my knights, and perhaps salve their annoyance that they can not pillage what they have conquered.”

Her gaze locked on him. “You fire the tunnel at dawn?”

“I expect so. We are digging two. The one to the south has reached the wall.”

His gaze drifted to the dewy skin of her face and shoulders and exposed swell of breast. No longer a girl, but then he had never much cared for girls. The urge to lick her glowing paleness, and the knowledge that she could not prevent him from doing so, tightened his body. Melissa the courtesan had been right about one thing. He had grown tired of camp life, and he did desire the illusions of some courtly lovemaking. He had been sorely tempted to play her game to the end, but then he might have lost the heart to use her the way he planned now.

He could not help himself. He reached out and stroked her cheek. Soft. Warm. He leaned forward and brushed it with his lips. “For a courtesan, this should be an easy punishment. The way I see it, there is just one problem.” He smiled down at her. “You, Melissa, are no courtesan.”

“I certainly am.”

“You surely are not. I have met virgins who kiss with
more skill than you. Who are you? Are you from the town?”

She nodded.

“So a young matron decides to be a heroine for her people. Very brave and impressive. Does your husband know that you tried this mad scheme?”

“I am a widow.”

“Ah. Still, your man didn't teach you much, did he? And that is the problem. My squire has spread the word that I have a courtesan here. Some of these knights might think that you are insulting them, or saving your best for others. They could get ugly. I could explain the mistake, but then they may think that I lie and am the one for whom you save the real thing.”