Immortal Lust

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Immortal Lust ISBN 9781419917769 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Immortal Lust Copyright © 2008 Sierra Dafoe Edited by Kelli Kwiatkowski. Cover art by Les Byerley & Syneca. Electronic book Publication August 2008 With the exception of quotes used in reviews, 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 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. 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.

IMMORTAL LUST

Sierra Dafoe

Sierra Dafoe

Glossary Aphrodisian: A vampire who is a descendant of Aphrodite. They subsist off of humans’ sexual energy instead of blood. Sex with an Aphrodisian is addictive. Aresian: A vampire who is a descendant of Ares. These are the strongest of the clans, second only to the “parent” godkin—Zeusians, Hadesians and Poseidonites. Athenian: A vampire who is a descendant of Athena. The most violent of the godkin, these vampires don’t hesitate to take what they want by whatever means necessary. Blood Price Tattoo: Athenian vampires have been known to take unprotected Helosian vampires (those who do not have a nest) as slaves. Because Heliosian vampires often lack the strength to overpower Athenians (unless they release the power of plague, which rots them as well as their victims), they must earn their freedom by serving one hundred years or more of slavery. At the conclusion of their service, they are given a tattoo that shows they have won their freedom and cannot be enslaved again by another Athenian. Godkin: The offspring of the Greek gods; also known as vampires. Hadesian: A vampire who is a descendant of Hades. These vampires have the ability to visit death upon any they touch if they so wish. They can also become invisible for a brief time, but it requires a tremendous amount of energy to do so. These are the most darkly seductive of the godkin. Heliosian: A vampire who is a descendant of the sun god Helios. These vampires can go out into the harshest of sunlight, though it does tend to give them a more aged appearance than other vampires. They have the ability to mesmerize with music/song. They may also visit a plague upon others by touching them, though they then become victims themselves. 4

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Hephaestian: A vampire who is a descendant of Hephaestus. These are the craftsmen of the godkin, creating deadly weaponry as well as exquisite jewelry. They are just as comfortable using the weapons they create. Nest: A tribe/group/clan of vampires.

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Prologue The Greek gods were not known for their restraint. They lived large and loud and fucked like bunnies every chance they got. It didn’t matter if it was a human woman, a Muse, a Nymph or a goddess. If she was female, they sent their sticks and berries into the bush. And goddesses were just as randy. There were consequences. Their children—known as godkin—had the same hedonistic appetites as their Olympian parents. And with each succeeding generation, something else became apparent. The descendants of the gods had a price to pay for their immortality—they had to feed on the blood or energy—or both—of other living creatures in order to sustain their own lives. The gods, as gods are wont to do, didn’t concern themselves with these insignificant problems, though from time to time they have popped in to cause mischief for their offspring—godly entertainment, if you will. Other than that, they’ve kept to themselves, eating, drinking and being oh-so-very merry in all sorts of ways. But their descendants—those immortal beings now known as vampires—continue on, some good, some bad, but all… Deliciously naughty.

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Chapter One

Acre, The Holy Land, 1191 In the hot, stinking dust of a desert night, Raymond du Sable crept closer to his goal across sands soaked with the blood of battle. Over four hundred men had died today, Saracens and Christians both. But tonight, Richard of England and the infidel Saladin exchanged gifts of courtesy. Chilled fruits served on crushed ice, transported hundreds of miles from the mountains of Mongolia, delicate embroidery and lace carried all the way from Britain. The sheer wealth required to bring such items this far staggered Raymond. But that was all right—he would have such riches soon enough. He grinned in the darkness, thinking of the monarchs in Richard’s pavilion. Bent over a game of chess perhaps, or enjoying the wailing of zurnas that the Turks considered music. They played at chivalry while Christians bled and died to reclaim the Holy Land from the godless Turks. Fools, the lot of them. He himself had no interest in the Crusade or its goals. He had accompanied his cousin on this fool’s mission for one reason and one reason only. And that reason lay just ahead in a heavily guarded tent within Saladin’s encampment. Only fools and infidels would bring their women to war. No doubt his cousin Philip was with the others in Richard’s pavilion, chafing like as not at the intricate shows of royal politeness. A vain, pious, unimaginative man, Philip, just thick-skulled enough to be dangerous. Did such a man deserve to hold the throne of France?

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Raymond thought not. Thrones and crowns belonged to those with the strength— and imagination—to take them. He grinned again, keeping his lips closed so that the flash of his teeth in the dark wouldn’t betray him. There were two guards along each side of the large tent, with two additional men stationed at the entrance. Raymond had no intention of gaining admittance through the front flap. No, his quarry was here, housed toward the back of the large, opulent tent that housed Saladin’s hareem—a fact he had paid a pretty penny to learn. But it was worth it. It all would be worth it. He had discarded his armor in favor of stealth and speed, yet despite its absence he felt invulnerable, almost divinely protected. The first guard fell easily to his knife and the small, secretive, almost sexual excitement he always experienced while doing murder sang along his veins. It was so different from the crudity of killing in battle— there was no finesse in that, no private thrill. As the second guard started to turn, Raymond slipped behind him and slashed his throat. Blood spurted across the sand, black in the gibbous moonlight, and Raymond stared at it a moment, picturing it as a sacrificial offering to whatever gods there were. Truly, he could almost believe in the old gods tonight. There was a tension in the air, a sense of fate, of destiny… Cytharea. Her name whispered in Raymond’s mind with all the potency of legend. Quickly he slashed a gap in the side of the tent and slipped through it, finding himself in a small, enclosed space. Cushions were scattered about the floor, and a single brass lamp dangled from a chain overhead. By its soft amber light, he could see the girl cowering back against the silken blue stuff that made up the far wall. Her dark hair tumbled down, obscuring her features. The thin fabric of her raiment barely concealed her body. Crossing quickly to her, Raymond seized her hair and pressed his knife to her throat. What if she wasn’t the one? What if the legends were no more than fables, fancies spun of air and idleness? Well, at worst he could slit the girl’s throat and be gone as 8

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silently as he had come, he supposed, and find some other means by which to wrest the crown from Philip. Then the girl lifted her head, staring up at him, and Raymond froze, licking his lips. His heart thudded heavily in his chest and a hot, painful yearning unfolded in his loins. Gods! She was everything the legends said. Eyes as deep as the ocean. A face more beautiful than any statue ever carved. But it was more than that, more than simply her beauty. She could have been a hag, he suspected, and still his body would have cried out instinctively with the need to possess her. Her eyes held him, the only point of stillness in a world that was suddenly whirling. The ache in his groin redoubled, and it was all he could do not to tear the filmy gauze of her dress from her body and plunge himself into her there and then. He could see the dusky nubs of her nipples through the silken fabric, tipping the glorious swells of her breasts, and his rod stiffened even further, a thick, throbbing agony inside his braies. With the last ounce of his willpower, Raymond tore his gaze from hers, panting. Sweet Christ! There’s no doubt, no doubt at all. Still, just to be certain… He yanked her head back and forced her mouth open, aware of the maddening spike of heat in his groin as he parted those lush, pink lips. His hunger beat at him like an imperative, demanding he take her now, right now… Pressing the ball of his thumb against one gleaming fang, Raymond laughed quietly in triumph. Yes. He’d been right. From scraps of legend and whispered rumors, he’d pieced together the truth—she was here, in Saladin’s hareem. His intoxicating, irresistible key to the crown. “Even such as you can be slain, Cytharea,” he whispered. “If you do not wish to die, come now and be quiet.” He almost wished she would resist. It was so damnably easy to imagine her ripe, voluptuous body writhing against him as he forced her to the floor, shoving apart those soft, creamy thighs, driving into her violently again and again… 9

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Cursing, he grabbed her wrist and propelled her before him through the slit in the tent wall. She didn’t fight him, but even that tiny contact seared his skin like fire. His balls throbbed, and the night around them seemed to pulse with every thundering beat of his heart. Somehow they managed to clear the encampment without incident—or so Raymond thought, at least, until they slid down the slope of a dune and he looked down to see fresh blood splattered across the charcoal-gray surcoat he’d donned for this mission. He stared at it in shock then glanced in awe at the girl he’d stolen from Saladin— the girl who was no girl. Who wasn’t, in fact, even human. What was she that his desire for her could blot out even the keen delight of killing? Your route to a kingdom, Raymond. The centerpiece of all your carefully laid plans. Yes. Yes. For all he had read of her, in scattered bits of verse and fable, she was a weapon more potent than he could possibly have imagined. Even now the siren song of her beauty was spiraling through him again, hardening his shaft ’til the hunger inside him was like a madness. It buzzed in his ears, drawing him to her, urging him to touch her, fondle her, fuck her… He grabbed her arms roughly, glaring down at her. “Cease this, Cytharea!” “I cannot,” she replied—and her voice too was enough to overpower him. A low, soft murmur as compelling as the burble of water in the desert, smooth and intoxicating as honey-laced wine. “You know what I am. I cannot help it.” She reached for him but Raymond struck her to the sand. He did know what she was—and he knew also that if he so much as coupled with her once he would be utterly lost, ensnared by her beauty, addicted to the unimaginable rapture that legend claimed lay between her thighs. She was Cytharea, daughter of Aphrodite. No mortal man could resist her charms. Or so it was said.

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Raymond smiled again, wondering which would be more interesting—if the man assigned to transport her back to France would manage to resist her, or if the famed chastity of the Templars would crumble like sand under Cytharea’s spell. Jacques Moires, marshal of the Templar Priory at Acre, had wagered a pretty penny that the knight he’d selected for the task couldn’t be seduced.

***** Tightening his belt over his hastily donned surcoat, Gerard d’Amiers paused outside the inner sanctum, hearing voices within. It was too early yet for matins, and besides, these voices were lower, more discreet, not the quiet offerings of fervent prayer but the soft exchange of what sounded like coconspirators. “You’re certain he can do it?” It was a voice Gerard didn’t recognize, gruff but with an eager, almost avaricious note to it. “He can do it.” The second voice belonged to Jacques Moires. It was the marshal who had summoned him, sending a squire to fetch him from the dormitory where his fellow knights still slumbered in the light of the rushes that were left always burning. There was to be no darkness in the Priories of the Templars, no long, secret hours of the night in which a man’s baser nature could seek release in private. The chastity of a Templar was to be inviolable and complete. There were those among his brethren, Gerard knew, who fell somewhat from that ideal. But for himself, there was little temptation to succumb to the perils of the flesh— he had sampled that forbidden fruit long ago, and had found the taste rotten indeed. It must be he they were talking of—why else had he been summoned? But summoned for what, he had no idea. He listened as Jacques added, “Believe me, my lord, there is none other among my knights so well armed against the temptations you foresee.”

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In another man, those words might have spurred pride—but pride was another vice Gerard had long put behind him. Knocking quietly on the heavy wooden door, he heard the soft clink of coins changing hands and then the marshal’s voice again. “Come.” Opening the door onto the candlelit chamber, Gerard studied the unknown man standing with the marshal. Of middling height and sandy-haired, with a face more clever than handsome, the man gazed at him curiously and then burst into a laugh. “This is your paragon of virtue? Surely you jest, Jacques.” “I do not.” The man quirked an eyebrow, grinning lecherously up at Gerard. “Is he simply incapable then? I cannot believe a man so clearly formed for tumbling wenches should willingly turn celibate.” The words needled him, and he fought down an unbecoming surge of irritation. It wasn’t the first time he’d been teased in such a manner—indeed, when he’d first joined the Order, the other knights had shared the stranger’s skepticism. But the young Gerard d’Amiers, who’d taken his vows with a heart still burning with rage and betrayal, had soon laid their skepticism to rest. “The more glory, then, his celibacy conveys unto God,” Jacques replied coldly, unamused by the other man’s words. Turning from him, the marshal told Gerard, “This is Raymond du Sable, cousin to the king. He needs a man to escort his young wife safely back to France. I have selected you for the task. Go and make ready. You leave within the hour.” “But—” Immediately, before Jacques could even send a reproving glance his way, Gerard checked himself. Obedience was sacrosanct, the first law of the Order. Bowing his head in acquiescence, he strode to the door, containing as best he could the dismay inside him. Leave the Holy Land to return to France? It had been the most blessed day of his life when he’d left his homeland behind, dedicating himself to the holy cause of the 12

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Crusade. He’d fully expected to die in battle, a possibility he’d embraced with open arms—and yet death had not come for him. Not yet, at least. Perhaps it is God’s chastisement, he thought. It is said that what we most desire, God often denies us, for even desiring is a sin and must be punished. And his punishment, it seemed, was to be sent to accompany a woman—a woman!—back to the country he’d been so eager to leave eight years before. The country where his betrothed, the woman he’d planned to marry, had inducted him thoroughly into the sinful delights of carnal love—and then had turned those delights into bitterest gall. Struggling against the rebellion welling inside him, he sought the small chapel, which was still empty—it lacked a quarter of the hour yet for lauds. Kneeling before the altar, he bowed his head, seeking for that inner quiescence, that perfect resignation to the will of God that, despite all his attempts, had always eluded him. But resigned or not, he had his orders—and although his submission to them might be imperfect, his obedience to them would not be. If I cannot eradicate my own will, at least I can use it to serve the will of God. Renewed in his determination, Gerard rose and went to assemble his gear.

***** The noonday sun baked down on the flat, dusty surface of the road. Listening to the heavy clopping of his destrier’s hooves, Gerard wondered idly how many hoofbeats it would require to reach France and the end of his task. He hefted his waterskin, letting the sun-heated water trickle down his throat, clearing the dust. For the past five hours the only sounds that had come from the cart behind him were the squeaks and groans of the wheels and the jingle of harness. He had been forbidden to bring a squire or even a servant to drive the sturdy ass hauling the cart,

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and so had looped the beast’s lead to the pommel of his saddle. The dumb animal followed along placidly enough. Now he unlooped the lead, letting the donkey plod freely down the hard-beaten road. So far as he could see, there was no variation in its pace for the change. He had not the least curiosity about the woman inside the cart, shielded behind the heavy curtains, but she was his responsibility for the long trek back to France and so he reined his horse back to ride next to it. “Would you care for water, my lady? You must be perishing of thirst.” There was no answer, and after a moment he repeated the question more loudly. “Water, my lady?” “Yes.” The answer was so soft he almost didn’t catch it. The curtain next to him shifted and a hand reached out, slender and fine-boned. He scowled in surprise—where had Raymond du Sable found such a girl as this on crusade? Avoiding the touch of her fingers, Gerard thrust the waterskin into her grasp and it was withdrawn behind the curtain. He waited for some word of thanks or question about their road. None came, though. Lifting the donkey’s lead again from where he’d placed it over a hook on the cart’s side, Gerard urged his horse again in front of the cart, facing the long, empty road ahead.

That evening, as the brilliant colors of sunset faded into the rich, purple dusk of the desert, Gerard dismounted heavily, holding the reins of his horse, and took the donkey’s bridle in his other hand to lead them both off the road. Campfires dotted the dimness around him, for there was a well here for the use of travelers. Seeking a quiet spot well away from the other fires, he unharnessed the beast and tethered it to the back of the cart. Leaving it nosing in the dust for what thin weeds it could find, he unsaddled his destrier and began making camp.

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Still there had been no sound from the cart. In a way, he was grateful—the prospect of having a woman’s chattering in his ears all the way across Outremer had held little appeal—but her continued silence was slightly unnerving. If she chose to sleep in the cart, so much the better…but surely she would have to leave it sometime? And at any rate, she would need to eat. “My lady.” He cleared his throat gruffly, standing beside the cart. “My lady, I’ll need to refill the waterskin.” Finally the curtain lifted, and Gerard found himself staring into a pair of eyes as deep and ever changing as the ocean. Blue, with hints of green in their luminous depths, they held him, catching his breath from his lungs. He could hear his blood roar in his ears like surf and was conscious of a tightness in his chest and groin, as if some irresistible sea tide were tugging at him, pulling his body and his passions toward a distant, unimaginable shore. Holy God, he thought in some faraway corner of his mind. How can any mortal woman be so beautiful? In the next moment, he realized he had no idea if she was beautiful or not. Taking command of himself, he broke away from the steady gaze of those luminous eyes and focused on her other features. High cheekbones. A sweet, oval face. Lips like rose petals, full and soft. Her skin was pale but with a dusky olive tint that complemented her eyes, and the hair that cascaded down over her shoulders was thick and curly and black as a raven’s wing. Yes, she was beautiful—so beautiful it made Gerard’s throat ache and his shaft stiffen with a longing he’d not felt for years. He felt rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but stand and stare at the vision before him, desire like a fire in the pit of his belly. Believe me, my lord, there is none other among my knights so well armed against the temptations you foresee. Jacques’ words had been meaningless to him this morning—

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knowing nothing of the task he had been selected for, he had not bothered to guess the temptations to which the marshal of the Priory might have been referring. Now he understood. Standing in the deepening dusk on the first day of the long journey back to France, he understood Jacques’ words all the way down to his bones. Oh sweet Savior, how am I to endure months with this woman when I can barely withstand five minutes? Then he noticed the darkening bruise against the perfect velvet of her skin, high on one cheekbone, and an unexpected fury clenched his heart. Noting the direction of his gaze, she lifted her hand, touching the bruise lightly. “Yes,” she whispered, although he had asked no question. “He struck me. Is that what you wished to know?” “No.” His voice was harsh even in his own ears. “It is none of my business, my lady, what happens between yourself and your husband.” “My husband? Is that what he told you?” Gracefully, the woman slid from the cart and stood before him, tilting her head to look up at him sidelong with a curious, almost sly glance. “The waterskin is in the cart. Am I permitted to walk about somewhat?” He nodded, waiting ’til she’d moved aside to reach into the cart and fetch the skin. Draping it over his shoulder, he untethered the donkey and fetched his horse to lead them both to the well to drink. “It would be safest not to go too far,” he said shortly, and turned away.

Cytharea stood in the gathering gloom, watching the knight walk away. Hunger beat along her body, a deep, unslaked yearning that she must feed, and soon. The one who had seized her from Saladin had not fed her, for which she had been almost grateful—there was an ugliness about him, not of face or body so much as spirit. The idea of taking him inside her had been repugnant. But the one whose care he had given her into… She glanced again after the retreating knight, seeing again in her mind’s eye the clear hazel eyes that had met her own, filled with light and a hint of old pain. His face 16

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was largely hidden by a thick chestnut beard and his head had been unbecomingly shaved—but his forehead was smooth and high, balancing the strong arch of his brows and the forceful thrust of his nose, and beneath the matted, dusty tangle of his whiskers, his features seemed strong and well-formed. He was taller by far than any of the men of this embattled land. Taller even than Saladin, who had stolen her in turn from a Mongol chieftain who’d kept her chained like a slave in his mountain keep. Such was the way of it, always, with her. She was godkin, the daughter of Aphrodite, goddess of Love, and her human lover Ankhises. Throughout the centuries men had burned to possess her, locking her away with their spices and gold like a treasure to be hoarded. And she, hungering for freedom, was nevertheless bound to them, needing their bodies to keep her alive. Neither fully mortal nor divine, she would die without the sustenance of their vital fluids—either the seed of their bodies or their life’s blood. But if ever once she drank the blood of a man… Cytharea shuddered. She did not know where the tall knight was taking her. She had overheard enough to know his task was to eventually deliver her back into the hands of the one who had seized her from Saladin. Raymond du Sable, whose touch, even as he’d struck her, had made her shudder with disgust. The thought frightened her. How much did this Raymond know? He’d known her name, where to find her—he’d even known to look for the fangs that marked her as godkin, half-mortal, half-divine. Did he know her deepest secret, the one she’d guarded jealously for centuries? That if ever once she drank the blood of a man, she would become bound to him, tied to him in a subjection unbreakable even by death? No more would she be able to receive sustenance from making love to a man—she would become utterly dependent on the one she’d drunk from. And all hope of freedom would be lost forever. Saladin had not known it—he would have forced her to drink of him long since if he had. No man, as far as she could tell, had ever learned her final secret. But what if Raymond had?

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At the moment, though, she was unguarded. The knight had simply left her here, alone by the cart. Raymond had told him she was his wife—a clumsy lie, and foolish. As a result of it, the knight had assumed she was here by choice and had seen no reason to watch or restrain her. She might never have such a chance again. With one quick glance in the direction of the well, Cytharea slid into the night.

It was said that the Lord gave no man burdens greater than he could bear. Thinking of the woman, Gerard wondered if this test was not beyond him. Not an hour ago he would have sworn no woman alive had the power to tempt him—but now, even away from her, his loins burned with a desire stronger than he’d ever felt. Perhaps that was why the temptation had been made so great. Perhaps nothing less than this woman would have served to test his piety, after Brigette. Gerard frowned as he slung the full waterskin over his shoulder, the padded coat beneath his chain mail keeping the weight of its strap from driving the rings into his flesh. It had been Brigette who had proved to him what the Church had long taught, that all women were venal and corrupt. She had not seemed so at first. Indeed, she’d seemed as fresh and pure as the wildflowers that had dotted the field in which she’d been gathering lavender. Her sweet, ripe bosom, no more than a tantalizing swell beneath her tunic, had stirred him, rousing all the hungers of his seventeen-year-old body in a way that was both a torment and delight. Her father was a baker in their village and he had seen her, of course, most of the days of his life. But never like this. Never with her golden hair floating about her in the sunlight, her hips swaying with a slow, lazy sensuality as she’d walked through the field, seemingly oblivious of the tall, dark-haired boy who’d trailed behind. She had followed the path down to the river, bypassing the footbridge that led to the village to follow the bank farther downstream, to a place where the trees hung low 18

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over the water, forming a cool, shaded cove. There, screened from all eyes but Gerard’s, she had dropped her basket to the moss and shed her clothes, revealing before him a body so lush and pink he’d stood frozen, his cock straining desperately inside his breeches, unable to look away as she’d plunged into the water, her full, soft bottom flashing at him as she did so. Swallowing in a throat suddenly and painfully dry, he’d crept closer, hiding behind the gnarled trunk of an oak. Once or twice, as he’d peered cautiously around it, it had seemed to him that Brigette’s dark eyes had glanced in his direction. But he wasn’t sure, and soon was too enraptured to care. Surely, though, she couldn’t have seen him. If she had, she never would have turned her body toward him as she waded back into the shallows, the water sluicing from her full, firm breasts. Never would have bent, letting those luscious mounds dangle, the nipples just brushing the surface of the water, to scoop handfuls of the clean bottom sand and rub them slowly over her flanks and belly. Never would have slowly caressed her large, pink nipples, playing them between her fingers as she stood with her legs spread wide in the slow-moving water, her head tossed back in carnal delight… He’d stared avidly, drinking her in, secretly pressing his hand against the jutting hardness of his shaft, sliding his palm up and down and feeling the rough weave of his breeches torment him further. His eyes had widened in shock as Brigette had slid one hand downward, cupping the downy swell of her sex and rubbing it, her fingers playing through the soft tangle of curls to dip into the opening between her legs he’d heard other boys in the village whispering of—that hidden cleft between a woman’s thighs where, they whispered, both heaven and damnation lay. With her other hand, she fondled her breasts, squeezing first one and then the other with a roughness that both stirred and amazed him. As if following her lead, he yanked at the ties of his breeches, opening them so that they sagged around his hips as he clutched his shaft, tightening his hold each time she squeezed, biting his lips to contain a moan as she pinched one large nipple. Copying her, he closed his fingers around the

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very tip of his cock, clamping the head so tightly a jolt of mingled pain and delight shot through his swollen balls. Her hand moved faster now between her thighs, her fingers working in and out of her slit with a frenzy that mirrored the hunger inside him. In time with her thrusts, he stroked his cock, his knees weak and watery with the lust pouring through him. His head swam. His balls felt as full and hard as ripened fruit, ready to burst with the juices churning within them. Brigette let out a moan, her whole body stiffening as she stuffed first two, then three fingers up into herself. Imagining her hand shoving his cock there instead, he felt his release rip through him like a lightning bolt, sending his seed splattering in thick, hot waves against the rough bark of the tree he hid behind. Every day for two weeks he followed her there, creeping cautiously through the woods as she stripped before him. At night he dreamed of her, his mind picturing again every detail of her body, the way her fingers rolled her nipples into hard, jutting points and drove between the swollen lips of her sex with a greedy ferocity that drove him mad with desire. Every day he fondled himself, sometimes squeezing his sac as he tugged desperately at his shaft, his eyes devouring her over and over. Until at last the day came when she’d looked up to see him, his shaft bared to her view. Petrified, he had frozen, one hand still wrapped around his jutting cock, unable to move. Holding his gaze, she’d slowly walked from the water, coming toward him. He didn’t know what to do, what to expect—he’d thought perhaps she might slap him. Instead, she’d dropped to her knees on the soft, mossy bank—and taken his straining shaft into her warm, wet mouth. That afternoon, of course, he had asked her to marry him. Smiling, she’d agreed, and then led his hands to her full, heavy breasts. Surely, he’d thought, there was no sin in touching her since they were to be married? No sin in letting her seat herself above him, her bottom soft and warm against his thighs as she’d taken his shaft in her hand and driven herself down upon it?

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So it had seemed to him, all those sweet, sweaty afternoons as Brigette took him again and again into her body, letting him sink his shaft home into the warm honey of her cleft, urging him ever faster as he plunged and pounded, his hips slapping against hers until his balls sang with fire and his seed spurted from him, leaving him moaning in the grip of an ecstasy so acute it hurt. Then had come the day when, thinking to surprise her, he’d crept through the woods on an afternoon when she’d thought he was absent, and peered around the trunk of the oak to see her on her knees before the village blacksmith’s son, his heavy cock stretching her mouth wide as she sucked it with the same greedy hunger Gerard had come to know so well… The arousal inside him had turned to ashes, the remembered sweetness of her cleft now bitter wormwood and gall. Two days later he had left the village, and within five weeks he’d sworn himself into the Order of the Templars. It was true. All women were impure, tainted from birth, their beauty a tool the Devil had given them to lure men into damnation. He had trodden that shining path once and seen where it had led. Never again would he be corrupted, however great the temptation. Squaring his shoulders, Gerard led the animals back toward the campsite, steeled in his resolve to resist the sensations stirred in him by Raymond du Sable’s comely young wife. Except when he reached the cart, she wasn’t there.

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Chapter Two Cytharea slipped through the darkness, passing silently between the flickering campfires of tinkers and camel traders, solitary pilgrims and well-armed caravans. Caught up in his battles, Saladin had failed to come to her for three nights running, and she could feel the craving that would soon turn to acute hunger crawling along her veins. She was alone in the night, but she was not free. Not truly. She could escape from this man or that—but she could never escape the need inside her. Sometimes she wondered if it were a curse of the Fates, if they were punishing her for the ease with which her divine mother had taken and left lovers, human and immortal alike, discarding them whenever the whim struck her. For Cytharea, it was not so simple. She had inherited all her mother’s seductive sensuality, an inherent eroticism that drew men to her whether she willed it or no. But she did not have the power of a god to free herself whenever a man captured her. Physically no stronger than a mortal woman, she was easy prey for any man who, having once tasted her delights, refused to let her go. Any man? All men. No man had ever willingly released her. She’d been held prisoner in palaces and cotters’ huts, castles and caves. Some she had escaped through her own cunning. More often, she’d been stolen from one man’s grasp only to find herself bound in firmer shackles by the next. Now she seldom even tried to escape. What was the point? As soon as she broke down and allowed herself to feed, the cycle would begin anew. But feed she must—and soon.

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At least her heart was free, she comforted herself. Any man might hold her, but none could truly claim her. Not while her heart remained her own. It was the one liberty she could claim for herself, and one she would never surrender. She would die, if it came to that, before she drank of a man’s blood. Of all the godkin, only she lived under such a restriction. The others could drink freely of human blood without being bound. It was a curse, she thought again, a retribution against her mother’s fickle heart. Caught up in her thoughts, she hardly noticed the path her feet were wending until a voice called out behind her, rough and coarse and slurred with wine. “Hai! Woman! Woman, come here!” She increased her pace—she could tell simply by his tone that this was no one she wanted to possess her—but suddenly a second man appeared before her from out of the darkness. Dirty and dressed in the battered leather of a marauder, he grinned, showing rotted teeth. Cytharea backed away from him…and straight into the grasp of the first. “I said, come here!” he repeated, and grabbed her arm, tugging her toward a campfire nearby. Five men squatted around it, all dressed similarly to the one who held her arm. The man with rotted teeth followed behind them, moving to hunker down with the others. Roughly, the drunken one shoved her into the circle. “Look what I found, out walking alone. What shall we do with her?” The other men laughed, their eyes brightening as the firelight fell upon her face, and Cytharea felt a wave of despair. How could she escape seven men at once? It was impossible. They would bind her hands and drag her with them, using her again and again until perhaps they fought among themselves, each wanting to possess her. But until then they would share her among them, passing her back and forth like a wineskin, or simply take her all at once… At the thought, the restless hunger inside her spiked upward, cramping her belly with need, a hunger that had nothing whatsoever to do with desire. Lust was not an 23

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emotion she felt—it was an emotion she projected. She was not drawn to men for pleasure, but to slake the craving inside her, making them climax again and again as her body took from their seed the sustenance it required. But some men were gentle, while others caused only pain. This lot, she had little doubt, were of the latter variety. One of them sat grinning, fingering the hilt of his sword. Another had already risen to circle behind her, his coarse, filthy hands trailing over her raven curls. The others were calling to him, urging him to tear the dress off her and expose her to their sight. What could she do? As his hands clenched down on the shoulders of her flimsy raiment, ready to rip it from her, Cytharea ducked quickly out of his grip and did the only thing she could. She danced. Her hips swayed, and the man she’d evaded, who’d come plunging after her with his arms outstretched and a snarl on his lips, let his arms fall to his sides. Undulating like a snake, she spun slowly before them, her full breasts jiggling hypnotically beneath the sheer fabric with every thump of her heel. Transfixed, the men traced the lines of her body with hot, hungry gazes, and Cytharea felt a certain satisfaction dilute her despair. At least she would feed well tonight. And tomorrow… Who knew what the morrow might bring? For now, she danced before them, holding them motionless at her feet, coveting her body as all men did, their lust stirring within them, rising up, strengthening… Oh yes. She would feed very well. Intent on the slack, upturned faces before her, she was completely oblivious to the eighth man who stood just beyond the firelight, frozen with his sword in his hand as if thunderstruck.

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When he’d first returned to the campsite to find her gone, a relief so strong it made him dizzy had flowed through him. Unlike the Savior in Gethsemane, this cup had been lifted from him. He would return, sorrowful and ashamed of course, back to Acre with some lie of bandits for du Sable’s ears… Gerard started, stunned with horror at his thoughts. Lie? Lie to the marshal? To du Sable? Surely this sense of relief was vilest wickedness, leading him into sin more surely even than Brigette had done. Falling to his knees, he abased himself, praying quickly. Then he rose and looked about him. She could not have gone far. “My lady?” he called softly, feeling again that seductive relief when he heard no answer. Ignoring it, he pressed into the darkness, cursing himself for not having even asked her name. “My lady du Sable!” Drawing himself up to his full height, he scanned the darkness, seeking for some sign of her. Perhaps a furlong away, he spied a group of weather-beaten tents clustered around a fire set well away from all the others. Behind them, half-screened from his view, there seemed to be an unwonted amount of movement. Drawing his sword, Gerard crept closer—only to freeze at the sight before him. She was standing in the center of a ring of men, moving so seductively that Gerard felt his blood roar in his ears and his shaft lengthen painfully inside his braies. As he watched, she raised her arms above her head, making her breasts—fuller and riper even than Brigette’s had been—press against the filmy silk of her dress. She moved with shameless abandon, her eyes flashing, her hips beckoning with small, lazy movements, immobilizing the men around her as surely as if she’d held a lance at their hearts. But it was they, he saw, who held their lances out to her. Three of them—no, four— had exposed their manhoods, stroking their shafts hungrily as she spun and writhed before them. Her gaze flicked over their exposed flesh and her tongue darted out to touch her lips, making one of the men groan deep in his throat and clench his cock even tighter.

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The one man standing eased himself closer, and the girl did nothing to evade him. She let him slide behind her, his hands coming around to cup her full breasts through the thin silk, and she arched into his touch, making him moan and squeeze her breasts harder. His fingers played roughly over her taut, erect nipples, and his hips worked madly, grinding his erection against the soft swell of her buttocks. Soon, Gerard knew, her hold on them would break and they would swarm over her like a wave, stuffing her mouth, her slit, her buttocks with their hard, hungry cocks, taking her again and again as they slaked their lust on her… His balls clenched tight at the thought, sending a first pulse of seed through his throbbing shaft, and he groaned aloud, his loins burning with an ache his hand yearned to ease. He wanted to watch them, he admitted, wanted to stroke himself as they lowered her to the ground, rutting in turn between her widespread thighs, or better yet, on her hands and knees to violate her as many ways as possible at once… Appalled at his weakness, Gerard gripped the handle of his sword, trying to force the vile visions from his fevered brain. Clearly the woman welcomed their attentions— she did not fight or scream as any decent, modest woman would do. Instead she worked her hips against the man behind her, tormenting his shaft, her head turned slightly to one side and her glossy black hair falling down around her face as she placed her hands over his on her breasts, rubbing them over her heaving mounds. Oh, she was a wanton! As corrupt and unchaste as a Jezebel. But she was his charge, and while his flesh might be as weak before her as any man’s, still she had been given into his care. Brandishing his sword, he leapt into the firelight just as the man behind her tore the thin cloth of her dress. Trapped by their arousal, the brigands were slow to respond, staggering up with their engorged shafts bobbing before them as they fumbled for their swords. The man already standing was quicker, snarling as Gerard pulled the wanton wench from his arms. His blade flashed out, and Gerard caught it against his, whirling the massive broadsword one-handed to leave a gash across the brigand’s chest.

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At the clash of swords, cries rose in the darkness, the entire encampment stirring with alarm. Cursing, Gerard grabbed the girl’s wrist, dragging her from the firelight before the others could attack, hauling her between the tents into the clear blackness of the night. She stumbled behind him, crying out, and roughly Gerard clamped a hand over her mouth, pinning her against him as he sheathed his sword. She struggled in his grasp, her voluptuous body pressed tight against his, and Gerard gave thanks for the heavy chain mail that kept all but the dullest impression of her touch from him. Even in the dark night her naked breasts glimmered, starlight chasing their proud, generous curves. His shaft bucked painfully beneath his clothing and before he could help himself, Gerard thrust one hand into the raven tangle of her hair, dragging her head back as he crushed his mouth to hers. Blood roared in his ears and the world seemed to tilt around him. Her mouth tasted of honey and pomegranates, intoxicating and sweet. Thrusting his tongue deeper, he devoured her, his senses singing as she melted against him, her warm, heavy weight pressed against his chest, his thighs, his groin… No! Roughly, he thrust her from him, spinning her so he could clamp a hand back over her mouth, preventing her from crying out. Behind him, he heard the shouts and footfalls of the brigands, searching after them in the darkness. Effortlessly, he seized the girl up, swinging her into his arms and bearing her swiftly back to the cart. “Be silent,” he gritted, and hacked a length of leather from the donkey’s lead. Quickly, he knotted her wrists behind her and shoved her against the cart, raising his head to listen. The night roiled around them with cries and the sound of horses’ hooves. Torches bobbed in the darkness, drawing swiftly closer. Cursing, Gerard fumbled for the donkey’s harness then abandoned the attempt as the search grew closer. Saddling his destrier with sure, deft movements, he grabbed up the waterskin and his pack and slung them before the pommel. Swinging himself up, he reached down for the girl who 27

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stood staring up at him in shock. Lifting her up with one powerful heave, he kicked in his heels and set his horse into a gallop.

***** Toward daybreak, Gerard finally slowed their pace. They had ridden into a low, arid range of hills with no light to be seen but the high, sharp stars. By their light he studied the girl seated before him, looking down at her to see the curve of one cheekbone behind the tangled mass of her hair, her breasts straining the rent in her garment like water bulging the sides of a failing dam. Her dress had ridden up above her knees and her bare thighs gripped the horse on either side. His groin was an agony of thick, throbbing heat. His balls were like lead, so heavy and swollen they felt ready to burst. Every lunging stride of the horse had thrust the girl back against him, teasing his hardened shaft ’til it felt like a battering ram. He’d gritted his teeth, dug his heels in harder and somehow hung on. Now the scent of her drifted up to his nostrils, musky and sweet, a mingled combination of perfume and sweat. She smelled so enticing he wanted nothing more than to taste her. Imagining the slick honey of her sex surrounding his tongue, Gerard bit back a moan and pulled the horse to a halt. Gingerly, he swung his leg over, groaning aloud as the motion pressed his swollen balls against the hard leather of the saddle, and slid to the ground. For a moment he stood looking up at the girl, her skirts hiked up around her, her breasts exposed to the glimmering predawn air. Jerking his gaze away, he muttered, “Cover yourself.” “I cannot. My hands are tied.” Her voice was soft, caressing his ears, and he growled as he sliced impatiently through her bonds with his knife. He glanced away as she raised her hands, refusing to watch her pull the fabric back over her chest. Gazing southward, he pondered his choices. They had lost the cart and the donkey, no great disaster. The food was a greater loss, but one that could be remedied. He had coin for the journey and there was food to be had even in these dry hills. Unless…

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Unless he wanted to return to Acre and admit defeat. The thought was a temptation so great that for a moment he merely stood there, swaying slightly with the battle raging inside him. The pain of his arousal clutched at his groin, clamoring for relief. Would it not be better, wiser, to return to the Priory and confess his weakness? Believe me, my lord, there is none other among my knights so well armed against the temptations you foresee. Those words steeled his resolve—not because he felt particularly secure against her charms but because he recognized the truth of them. If he, Gerard d’Amiers, could not bring her safe and untouched back to France, no knight could. Roughly, he lifted the girl from the horse, noticing for the first time that her feet were bare—as was likely everything else under her sheer raiment. That too could be fixed by the coin in his purse—but would it be safe to take her near a town? She was without doubt the most sensual creature he’d ever seen. Any man looking upon her would desire her, especially in her present disheveled state. They would have to keep away from the roads, he realized, make their way torturously, step by step, through the empty spaces of Outremer and along the northern coast of the Mediterranean. Taking her by ship was out of the question. And she would fight him, he realized. Would seek to evade him as she’d done last night, to indulge her wanton carnality. Turning back to her, he lashed her hands again. She stood passively as he bent to bind her feet also, then unsaddled the horse and used its blanket to make a nest for her in a sheltered nook of the hills. Carrying her to the bedding he’d prepared, he lowered her down, averting his gaze from the lush mounds slipping again from her torn dress. “Sleep if you can. We’ll go on when it’s daylight.” Turning away from her, he hobbled the horse and carried the saddle to a spot four yards away from her. Using it as a backrest, he settled against it, his drawn sword placed over his bent knees. 29

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“Where are you taking me?” In the dimness, she was no more than a small, huddled shape against the sand. It was easier to talk to her thus, when he couldn’t see her. The question startled him— surely du Sable had told her their destination? Then Gerard remembered the bruise on her cheek. Perhaps he hadn’t. Certainly no law required that he do so. As his wife, she was his property, and he had every right to send her wherever he saw fit. Nevertheless, Gerard answered her. “To France, my lady.” “Where is France?” Her tongue stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar name. “North and west of here. Thousands of miles. It will take us months to reach it.” She fell silent. After a moment, she said, “I am hungry.” “Too bad, my lady. There is no food.” He could feel her gaze on him and shifted uncomfortably. “What is your name?” she asked. “I am Gerard d’Amiers.” “Gerard.” He liked the way she said it, with a faint huskiness that sent a shiver down his spine. “I am Cytharea. Have you heard the name?” He shook his head. Although he’d never heard it before, he knew immediately he wouldn’t forget it. Like a whisper, like a caress, the sound of it slid into his awareness. Cytharea. His balls clenched and he tightened his grip on his sword, willing the lust beating in his loins to recede. Instead it grew stronger, gripping him with talons of silk. The awareness of her, so near in the dusky darkness, her smooth thighs and breasts bared to the night, teased at his senses. Firmly, he closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep—but instead, in the darkness of his mind he saw her again, surrounded by the brigands, rolling her hips before them in open invitation…

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He groaned—he couldn’t help it. In his imagination he saw her pinioned between them, her lush body displayed to his gaze, servicing them with an eagerness that made his shaft beat against his belly. He pictured her sucking them, one after the other, swallowing their come with avid delight. He imagined her whimpering in pleasure as they spread the cheeks of her buttocks, violating her tight nether passage as well as her cunt, filling her until she cried out in ecstasy. And always, always as they rutted and thrust, her clear, deep eyes stared unwaveringly into his, seeming to call to him wordlessly, Gerard, Gerard. With a start, he lifted his head and realized he was kneeling beside Cytharea, his hands tugging at his sword belt to pull it off. Horrified, he yanked his hands away, staring at her in wonderment and fear. She lay below him, her eyes open wide, the torn edges of her dress barely covering the taut points of her nipples. “Please,” she whispered, her voice tight with yearning. “Please, I am hungry. I must feed. You must touch me…” “No.” Standing, he drew himself up to his full height, towering over her. The frenzy in his loins churned like molten lava—but everything else inside him was stone. Especially his heart. Most especially his heart. “No, my lady. You may escape me. We may both die on our journey to France. But I swear to you, by the holy Son of God Himself, that I will not lay one finger on you. I will slay myself first.” “Then you will slay me too.” Her mournful whisper followed him as he strode away. He ignored it. Gripping his sword in both hands, breathing hoarsely as he struggled against the need within him, Gerard knelt on the sand and prayed as he had never prayed before for strength.

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Chapter Three As the weeks passed, Cytharea became more and more desperate. What sort of man was this Gerard? No mortal male had ever resisted her before—never certainly for as long as this one had. She watched him from under lowered lashes as he strode mile after mile beside the horse, torn between awe at his strength and despair. He was careful to tie her up every night, freeing her only briefly to eat and care for herself. He hunted each dawn, bringing back desert hares, ground squirrels, once even a lizard. As they made their way into the mountains, both plants and game grew more plentiful. But the pinching hunger inside her had nothing to do with a lack of food. She grew wan, then thin, even as the knight himself grew daily grimmer and more silent. Every time he had to touch her, his jaw clenched like a vise. What could she do? She couldn’t escape him. In these barren lands, even if she could get free she would perish long before she found other men to feed from. Day by day her need grew more acute, until she could feel the edge of hunger like a knife along her nerves, sharp with a desperation greater than she’d ever known. Now she thought longingly of Saladin’s hareem, of the great palaces and temples where she’d been a prisoner, yes, but also revered. Had that captivity really been so bad in comparison to this grinding, gnawing emptiness? Right now she would have traded an eternity of freedom for even the rough attentions of the brigands. She dreamed at night of the faces of men she’d coupled with, clenched in an ecstasy she’d never once felt as their seed jetted from them, hot and thick, splashing against her skin, filling her mouth, her cleft, her anus… But the rush of renewed vitality would have been ecstasy enough. The stern, silent man who walked always beside her, holding the reins of his horse—how much strength must pulse through his veins? As her hunger grew deeper 32

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she found herself staring at the firm column of his neck, seeing the pulse throbbing just beneath the skin… Even with bound hands and feet, she was certain she could crawl to where he lay sleeping at night and sink her teeth into his throat too quickly for him to stop her. What would that be like, she wondered? How strong would the energy flowing through her be? Would it shock her at last to the same edge of bliss she’d seen on the faces of all the men she’d had between her thighs? It would keep her alive, certainly—but it would also mean she was bound to him for all time. Bound to a man who would barely even look at her, much less speak her name. No. She would die first. As the days passed, those words came to seem more and more like a promise. Finally there came a cool, clear evening when the moon, which had waned and waxed and waned again, rose full and luminous behind them as they followed a twisting path made by wild goats down out of the Dinarides range. A vast plain lay before them, undulating in gentle swells, broken here and there by woodlands in the distance. The air was gentler here, softened by breezes blowing up from the distant Mediterranean. By now Cytharea was so weak that even with her hands unbound she could not have dismounted the horse by herself. Even so, the softer air revived her, carrying rich, spicy scents from faraway shores. The moon behind them bathed the plain with its silver, magical light even as the last rays of sunset painted the sky to the west. Tonight. She must do something tonight. Or by the morrow, she knew, she would be too weak to make any attempt to save herself at all. As the shadows deepened, they came to a pool among the last scattered outcroppings of the mountains. It was broad and shallow, cloudy with lime, and Cytharea eyed it longingly as Gerard lifted her from his massive warhorse and set her on her feet. 33

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“May I… Would you free my hands and allow me to bathe myself? There is nowhere for me to run to in these hills,” she added, a trace of bitterness in her voice. It was the truth and they both knew it. Nor could she run in the condition she was in. After a moment he nodded curtly and untied the thong around her wrists. Then he moved away to unsaddle the horse and make camp, a routine she knew so well by now she could follow his progress with her eyes closed. A jingle of metal—the buckles on the girth strap. A heavy thump—the saddle hitting the ground. The tromp of his boots as he left to seek firewood. Cytharea drew a deep sigh and let her head droop. She had only one chance—she must feed from him. But how, in her weakened state, could she possibly seduce the man who had withstood her for weeks on end? Her knees were wobbly as she clambered cautiously over the rocks, bracing herself on boulders as she made her way to the pool. It glimmered in the moonlight, an errant breeze stirring the surface, sending ripples of silver over the water. Standing on a flat rock at its side, she fumbled at the rope that served her as a belt, almost crying in her frustration as she tried to untie it. He had fashioned her a rough tunic from an extra surcoat, glowering fiercely as he’d stitched the white cloth with its blood-red cross into a garment that would fit her. Shrugging the heavy cloth from her shoulders, she let it fall to the rock and stepped out. Beneath it, the remains of her dress were no more than rags, and she tore the flimsy thing from her body—it was less effort than lifting her arms to pull it off. Sinking down to a seat on the rock, she lowered herself carefully into the water. It was still warm from the sun, and soft with lime. It came up to just below her knees, here at the edge. Farther out it was probably deeper but her limbs trembled already from the exertion of climbing over the rocks—she didn’t dare go deeper. Using one of the torn shreds of her dress, she sank down into the water ’til she was sitting on the bottom and washed herself slowly. She was appalled at the thinness of her arms and legs.

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It didn’t matter how much food she consumed—without the vital fluids of a mortal man, she would waste slowly away until she withered and died. It wouldn’t be much longer now, she suspected. Why would he not come to her? Why would he not lie with her? No man she’d ever met, married or single or priest or king or saint, had so much as hesitated to delve between her thighs. Why then did this one man in all the world refuse her? Refuse even to touch her if he could help it? He was cruel—cruel and heartless. There had been nights when she’d begged, pleading brokenly for him to touch her… As if stung past endurance, he’d risen abruptly, stalking off into the night and leaving her utterly alone. Bound. Helpless. Starving. After all this time, she still knew almost nothing of him beyond his name. He would not talk to her beyond the barest essentials of their journey. She was nothing to him—a burden, a belonging to be delivered to the one who had taken her. Raymond du Sable. The one who had told Gerard she was his wife. A bitter amusement roused in her at the irony of it all. The one thing that had made being a captive tolerable was being well fed. But the man who had taken her captive this time had turned her over to this cold, unfeeling knight, either not knowing or not caring that his coldness might kill her. How was she to reach him? How to seduce him into giving her what she needed? She couldn’t do it. She had not the strength. And so she would die in these vast, empty lands. Dropping her head down on her bent knees, Cytharea wept in the moonlight.

Returning to camp with an armload of wood scrounged from the low, stunted bushes that dotted the plain, Gerard saw the girl in the pool clearly. She was huddled over her knees, her bony shoulders heaving as she sobbed. He stopped, struck by the contrast between her appearance now and how she had looked not two months before. 35

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The lushness of her body had disappeared. Even her black hair hung lankly, as if the curl had gone out of it. Why had he not noticed these things sooner? Or had he noticed and simply not wanted to acknowledge the changes? It couldn’t be the food—poor as their diet was, nevertheless it was hardly so scanty as to produce such a change in her so quickly. And he had always made sure she ate first. The girl her saw now was no wanton seductress, irresistible and corrupt. She was merely a young, frightened woman, bone-thin and crying. As he watched her, the emotion that stirred within him was not lust, but pity. They were more than halfway back to France…but for the first time Gerard wondered if she would survive the journey. Then you will slay me too. Her words came back to him, tugging at his conscience— but they were a lie. The lie of a whore, so eager for the pleasures of the body that she would risk her very soul to gain them. He glanced again, uncertainly, at the girl in the pool. Then he turned heavily away and knelt to lay a fire.

***** Twenty minutes later, the hare he’d trapped earlier that day was spitted and sizzling nicely over the flames when he heard a cry from the pool. It was so feeble he almost didn’t catch it above the crackle and hiss of his small fire. “Gerard…! Gerard, help me…” Standing quickly, he saw Cytharea draped over the stone, half in and half out of the shallow water. Bounding down over the tumbled rocks to the pool, he stooped and gathered her up. She weighed no more in his arms than a child, and her face was so gaunt that as her head lolled back, the moonlight cast deep shadows under her cheekbones. Her eyes glittered from within sunken pools of darkness and Gerard cursed himself silently—how could he have refused to let himself see? He had been so 36

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angry at her for the desire she’d stirred in him that he’d barely been willing to look at her. Even though, he realized, that maddening arousal had been slowly diminishing, fading from a constant, searing torment to no more than a low, steady ache. Then you will slay me too. There was something here, he admitted at last, beyond his understanding. Wrapping her in the surcoat he’d given her, he bore her to the fire, where she sat huddled close over the flames despite the warmth of the night. He offered her a haunch of the rabbit and she shook her head weakly. “Cytharea, you must eat.” “No.” She stared at him, and he noted again how sunken her eyes were. Her cheeks were hollowed by the moonlight and her collarbones protruded above his cast-off surcoat like twigs. “I… It is not food I need.” A tear slid down her cheek, gleaming orange from the fire. Gerard swallowed and looked away. “My lady, I am sorry. I do not know what to do for you.” “Yes, you do.” She wiped the tear away absently, not looking at him. “You do, but you won’t. You will let me die instead.” Part of him wanted to pretend he didn’t understand her—but it was just the two of them, here in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles yet from their goal. And Cytharea was dying. He believed that now. Gerard cleared his throat. “What you ask is a sin, Cytharea. You ask me to put my immortal soul at hazard. The pleasures of the flesh—” “Pleasures?” She laughed bitterly. “What pleasure? Do you think I enjoy it?” He glanced at her, startled. “But… You…” “I do what I must to survive, that is all. I have never enjoyed it. Never.” Her gaze met his, clear and direct. In those deep-ocean depths, he saw no trace of a lie.

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“We’ll ride faster then,” he muttered. “We’ll get you to France, back to your husband…” “He is not my husband. He stole me from Saladin, just as Saladin stole me from another.” “Raymond? The cousin of the king?” Gerard shook his head sharply, trying to clear it—the shocks were coming too quickly tonight, too fast for him to handle. Why would Raymond have lied to him about such a thing? “Why would he steal you?” She shrugged listlessly. “For the same reason all men do, I suppose. To possess me. To have the use of my body.” The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable but Gerard ignored it for the moment, caught up with the question her words had raised in his mind. Why, if Raymond desired her, would he have sent her back to France with Gerard? It made no sense…not unless he’d foreseen the same difficulties in having Cytharea aboard a ship full of sailors that Gerard himself had. Yes. That must have been it. Raymond had determined to send her by land, while he could leave later by water and still arrive back in France before them. Then he thought again of her bitterness. I have never enjoyed it. Never. But then why…? He hardly knew how to frame the question in his own mind. Luckily, Cytharea answered it without his asking. Staring into the flames, she spoke, her voice a low, mournful murmur in the vastness of the night. “I am not what you think me, Gerard. I am not human.” At his sudden start, her lips twitched in an unhappy smile. “Will you slay me now? Spit me upon your sword or cast me into fire?” Her eyes met his, dark and haunted. “I know a little of your religion, you see.” Then her gaze dropped to his hand—which, he realized, had closed about his sword hilt at her words. Flushing, Gerard dropped his hand. A spasm of pain crossed Cytharea’s features, almost as if she’d hoped he would draw it. Returning her attention to the fire, she continued, “I was born of Aphrodite, the goddess of Love, and a mortal man.” 38

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He stared at her, appalled. What she spoke was sheerest heresy. Sternly, he replied, “There is only one God, Cytharea.” She laughed. “Tell that to my brothers.” “Your brothers?” Her bony shoulders moved in a shrug. “They’re not truly my brothers. They’re the children of the other gods. Ares. Apollo. Hephaestus… But we are all godkin. All cursed to be neither mortal nor divine. For centuries I have been kept, by one man or the next, a prisoner to his lusts and appetites. But the essence of their bodies keeps me alive. I must have it, or die.” The images her words wove made his heart clench in pity. He believed her. God help him, but he believed her. Driven by her very nature to couple over and over with men who cared nothing for her, not even enough to give her pleasure in return. Even Brigette had at least given him that much. Given it and demanded it as well… “I cannot,” he said softly, truly regretting his decision. But his vows allowed for no other answer. “I cannot give you what you need, Cytharea. My God forbids it.” “Then your god has no mercy.” She glanced at him again, her eyes hard and yet sorrowful. “It would be kinder to take up your sword and strike me down where I sit. Because you will kill me just as surely, either way. What does your god say of murder, Gerard d’Amiers?” He flinched, recoiling in horror from her hard gaze. Immediately it softened, and she shook her head. “Forgive me. That was unfair. It is not your fault, any more than a man who sees his brother wounded in battle and has not the skill to save him.” She reached out and touched his cheek lightly, as if trying to smooth away the horror she saw in his face. “Truly, Gerard, it will not be murder.” “Will not”. Not “would not”. Abruptly, he pushed to his feet and strode away from the fire. Once past its light he stopped, staring out at the plain. Behind him, the moon had risen higher, coating the world in a thin sheet of silver.

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She had told him nothing but the absolute truth. She would die if he did not bed her. It is not your fault—wasn’t it, though? Wasn’t it? When he had not only the means to save her but the skill as well? Fornication was a sin—but to let her die when he could save her? How would Heaven judge that act? Then your god has no mercy. Her words rang harsh in his mind. And they were false, patently so. He knew what Jacques Moires, his marshal, would have said. Jacques would have said her death was the will of the Lord; that if He wished her saved, He would save her. But had not the Lord placed him here at this moment? He was a God of mercy, whatever Cytharea thought. Would He condemn Gerard to damnation for taking pity on her? Gerard could not believe it. And even if so, was it a greater sin than coupling with Brigette had been? He turned, looking back at the small, wan figure huddled by the fire, his cast-off surcoat clutched around her shoulders like a robe. No. Even if it damned his immortal soul, he would not let her die.

Cytharea looked up as the knight strode back into the firelight. His face was clenched in determination and her heart sank in her chest. He would let her die. She bowed her head, hiding her tears—then gasped aloud at the rasp of metal on metal as he drew his dagger. Not let her die, kill her. He was going to kill her. She found, in that moment, that she was not half so resigned to her fate as she had thought. Struggling up on shaking legs, she sought to evade him. The surcoat he’d wrapped about her slid to the ground as he caught her easily, holding her in a grip of iron as he shoved the dagger into his belt. Then he swung her up into his arms, carrying her naked back down to the pool.

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She was too weak to fight him. Almost too weak to care. He set her down on a flat stretch of stone at the edge of the pool. She lay limply, staring up at him as he reached for his belt—and unclasped it, letting it fall. Laying the dagger to one side, he pushed back the cowl of his chain mail. During their journey, his hair had grown out somewhat, covering his shaven skull and hanging lankly now at all angles. His beard, long and full, trailed down over his surcoat. He was huge, towering over her, a grim, silent figure against the night. She was startled when he lifted the white cloth with its red cross over his head, folding it carefully before placing it on a nearby rock. He glanced at her, his eyes unreadable, and her questions stilled on her lips as he bent forward, tugging off the heavy chain mail, which fell like a tunic almost to his knees. In a rattle of silver, it too slid to the stone. “Gerard…” He turned away from her, his hands tugging at the ties at his throat. The thickly padded undertunic he wore beneath his mail slid from his shoulders, and Cytharea gasped aloud. He was standing with his back to her, wearing nothing but his braies and boots. The full moon was directly behind him, outlining the powerful shape of his form. His massive shoulders were dusted by its light, and she could see the twin columns of muscle that flowed up his back. He was beautiful. So beautiful it took her breath away. He also, she realized abruptly, stank. After so long on the road together, she’d ceased to notice such things. But now, freshly washed herself, she could not ignore the rancid odor he exuded. Turning, he caught her expression and his lips quirked wryly as he sat on the flat stone beside her to tug off his boots. “I am forbidden by my Order to bathe. Bathing is a vanity, an exaltation of the importance of the flesh.”

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He looked younger, sitting so beside her, his broad chest naked in the moonlight. His torso was lean and corded with muscle. She could see the white slash of an old scar across his rib cage. The high bridge of his nose made her think of a hawk’s beak, and his lips beneath the tangle of his whiskers looked soft and full, pulled slightly into a frown as he stared at the water, his hazel eyes dark with shadows. Then he sighed as if shaking off his thoughts. Glancing at her, he even smiled briefly. “Of course, I am also forbidden by my Order to consort with women. Were I not escorting you to France by the order of my superior, I would not be allowed to so much as speak to you.” With those words, he slid himself forward, letting himself gingerly down into the pool. “But…” Confused, Cytharea stared at him as he submerged himself completely. The water was deeper here, coming up to his waist she saw as he surfaced, spluttering and blowing. For a moment she thought of the knife, lying within easy reach of her… But what could she do with it, even if she had it? Hold him at knifepoint and force him to make love to her? He’d take it from her as easily as a man taking a plaything away from a child. “But I thought you said it was a sin for you to bathe.” He splashed toward her, reaching for the knife, and she froze in sudden terror. “It is an even greater sin,” he replied, “to lie with a woman. But that is what I am going to do, Cytharea.” A gratitude so deep it pierced her heart flowed through her as he moved back out into the water, raising the knife to his short, tousled hair. “No! Wait.” He paused, glancing at her questioningly. Cytharea flushed. “I…I want to see your face, Gerard.” He stiffened, appearing more affronted by this request than by all her pleas to touch her. Then, with a small, rueful chuckle, he raised the knife to his beard and began trimming it close. “After everything else, I suppose it can make little difference.” 42

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She watched him slowly cut away the thick growth of his beard, wincing inwardly at her presumption. Scraping his cheeks carefully, he ducked under the water again. When he emerged, Cytharea caught her breath in wonder. He was so handsome! His mouth, now fully exposed, was broad, his lips full. His brows seemed more forceful now with the beard gone, and his cheeks were lean. His neck, corded with muscle, flowed smoothly down to shoulders pebbled with drops of water. Glinting in the moonlight, they cascaded down his body as he strode toward her, ripples of silver spreading out across the water behind him. The sodden fabric of his braies, riding low on his hips, clung to his powerful thighs. Above the edge of the coarse-woven cloth, a tangle of chestnut hair trailed from his navel to his groin. The curving muscles of his chest were also flecked with hair, his nipples tight, gleaming with wetness. She too was wet, she realized, a furtive dampness forming between her thighs as he rose above her, dripping water onto the smooth, flat rock. He was so beautiful she almost wanted to hide herself from him, ashamed of her wasted appearance. Lowering himself to his knees beside her, he reached out to touch her face almost wonderingly. “Cytharea.” Her name on his lips was a whisper, no more. Something clenched in her heart at the sound—had any man ever spoken her name so? Perhaps, once or twice, into the darkness of their beds after they had lost her. But never to her. Never like this. Never with eyes filled with moonlight and kindness. “Tell me truly, Cytharea, will you die without this?” She nodded wordlessly, almost crying. It was true. Her body would perish if she did not feed. Her hunger gnawed at her, sharp and consuming—and yet, she felt suddenly, even if she was not starving, still she would die if he did not touch her. Her skin ached for his caress in a way it had never yearned for any man. And there was a heat between her thighs she’d never felt before. “Please,” she whispered, her voice small and desperate. “Please…” Raising thin, trembling arms, she reached for him. But he caught her hands and she cried out in 43

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disappointment—until he placed them flat on the swell of his chest. His heart thundered within it, and again Cytharea was painfully aware of the rush of his pulse, his blood beating through his body, seductive, enticing, so very tempting… She bit her lip, terrified of giving in to the craving inside her. She had claimed proudly that she would die rather than bind herself to any man. But the hunger inside her was so very, very great… “Shh, Cytharea,” he murmured, as if sensing her desperation. With one hand, he brushed her black hair back from her face. “Shh.” Bending low over her, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. Instinctively, she arched her neck, lifting herself closer to those soft, gentle lips.

She was more beautiful to him now than she had ever been. For all the gauntness of her face, there was a strange purity about it that tugged at his heart, holding him spellbound as she lay below him, her eyes closed, her head lifted to the caress of his kiss. He touched her cheek and the warmth in his groin strengthened—not with the maddening lust he’d felt before, but with something richer, gentler, something almost exalted. Tenderly, he traced the line of her face and saw her lashes flutter open. She stared up at him wonderingly, her deep blue eyes almost purple in the moonlight. Her lips parted and he leaned down again, brushing his own against them. They were petal-soft and warm, opening to the gentle prodding of his tongue. The warmth in his belly ripened into hunger as he tasted her, exploring deeper, brushing his tongue against hers. She whimpered lightly, almost like a child crying in the night, and Gerard slid one arm around her, lifting her emaciated body against his own. She clung to him, her arms twined around his neck, and for a moment he simply held her, feeling her heartbeat flutter against his chest, his own pounding deep and smooth beneath his ribs. Burying his face in the silken tendrils of her hair, he murmured, “Oh Cytharea.” 44

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Gently, he lowered her back down, turning away to peel off his braies. He heard her breath tighten as his shaft sprung, full and erect, into the moonlight. It was strange, so strange to be naked before her. Indeed, to be naked at all, to feel the warm night air caressing his bare skin. His nerves tingled, more alive than they’d been in years, sensitive to every shift and play of the soft breeze. The silver light flooding down around them seemed to sanctify everything it touched—the water, the rocks, the tumbled mountains behind them. He breathed deeply, enjoying the faint, spicy scent on the air, feeling an almostforgotten sense of freedom flow through his limbs. When had he last felt like this? How many years? It was as if he was a child again, his heart yet untainted by lust or jealousy or the rage of betrayal… He looked down at his body, at his shaft standing out from the nest of curls at his groin, for once not despising the sight of his own sex. Tonight it had a purpose beyond the corrupt uses to which Brigette had put it. Tonight, it would save Cytharea’s life. A single pearl of liquid glimmered in the slit at its tip and he reached down, touching his finger to it. Strange that such a thing could be so vital. Still on his knees, he turned to Cytharea and brushed his dampened finger over her pale lips. Her nostrils quivered, like a horse scenting water. Her eyes glued to his, she extended her tongue. As he touched his finger to it, she moaned. Her tongue circled his finger, gathering every trace, and her breath came faster, her chest heaving. “More,” she pleaded. “Oh please, Gerard, more…” Her head lifted, her neck arching as she strained toward his shaft. Leaning over her, he braced himself on his hands, positioning himself so all she need do was turn her head… Blindly, like a babe nuzzling at a teat, she closed her mouth around his cock head and suckled it desperately. Gritting his teeth, Gerard held himself still, feeling the heat of her lips tugging at his shaft. Weakly at first, and then more and more ravenously, she devoured his cock, her mouth taking in more of him, the pressure of her jaw as she 45

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swallowed and sucked sending shockwaves down through his heavy, hanging balls. Already he could feel his juices flowing from him, seeping out and into her mouth, the taste of them seeming to spur her into a frenzy. Raising her head higher, she engulfed him to the root, moaning deep in her throat as she plunged herself forward, again and again, drawing hard on his shaft each time she pulled back. His arms quivered and his thigh muscles jumped. The pressure of her mouth seemed to tug at his very core, drawing lines of fire from his lungs, his heart, his knees, his throat down into his groin and then through his cock into the hot, liquid cave of her mouth. His balls swelled further, taut and distended with the seed inside them, the essence she so desperately craved. Biting his lip fiercely, he stared down the length of his torso to where his shaft disappeared between her lips, watching her nose brush his curls as she sucked him even deeper, her throat working greedily… With a groan, he let her take him, let the need inside him crest and spill over in great, pulsing bursts, flooding her mouth as his eyesight went dim, the world disappearing into a white, shining ecstasy. Like a starving thing, she tugged at his bucking shaft, swallowing each spurting jet of his come, whimpering all the while in delight. Her teeth teased him lightly and his cock was still hard when he at last drew it back, panting as he watched her lower her head to the ground, her eyes closed, her lips curving in a small, satisfied smile. Her cheeks, which only moments before had been sunken and pale, were flushed and dewy, her lips plump and pink and sticky with his fluids. Her tongue darted out, licking them, and she made a small noise deep in her throat, almost like a purr. Then her eyes, warm and lustrous, gazed up into his. The gratitude in them was almost more than he could bear. “Gerard…” He smiled slightly and laid a finger to her lips, forestalling her words. “Do not thank me yet,” he whispered. “Oh Cytharea, I have so much more to show you.”

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Her eyes widened as he rose to his feet, reaching down to draw her up before him. Burying his hands in her hair, he stooped down to kiss her, relishing the salty taste of his fluids on her tongue. Touching his own to it, he teased her tongue forward, then closed his lips around it and sucked it into his mouth.

Cytharea moaned, a weakness totally unlike the feebleness of hunger turning her knees to water. Her limbs trembled and something fluttered in the pit of her belly at the gentle, tugging pressure of his mouth around her tongue. It made her wonder what it would feel like to have him sucking other, more tender parts of her body… His mouth moved to her neck, his lips trailing down the column of her throat. It made her shiver, a delightful heat blooming deep within her. Quivering with a tension she’d never known before, she watched, puzzled, as he sank to his knees before her. Leaning forward, he laid a gentle kiss on one upright nipple and she whimpered, lifting her breasts to him. His hands were large and strong. They cupped her breasts, squeezing them as he drew first one nipple then the other into his mouth, his tongue laving the tips until they burned with fire. Her head lolled on her neck, her hands lifting without her volition to press his head more firmly against her mounds. His tongue swirled over them, teasing their aching fullness. Then he turned his attention once more to her dusky nipples, tugging one between his fingers as his teeth lightly grazed the other. What was this madness building inside her body? Her hips rocked forward in answer to a need she didn’t understand. No man had ever made her feel like this, made her burn for his touch for no other reason than simply to feel it. She stared down at his face, lax with arousal as he pulled and suckled at first one breast then the other, drawing her nipples into his mouth as if he could never get enough of her… Then he sank down onto his haunches, his hands sliding down the warm curve of her belly. He stared at the downy curls of her sex, his hazel eyes filled with a hunger

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like that inside her body. Gasping, trembling, she stood before him, waiting for him to do whatever he liked to her. Lightly, he drew his fingers through her chestnut curls, exposing the slick, pink flesh hidden beneath them. Parting her swollen nether lips, he slid a finger through her inner folds, gliding it over and over her secret opening until she felt she might scream if he didn’t enter her. She shifted, spreading her legs wider, and saw a smile curve the corner of his lips. Then he leaned forward and closed his mouth around the engorged nub at the top of her sex, and the night burst into swirling fire. She clung to him, her hands resting on his broad, powerful shoulders, unable to control the shudders that racked her frame. His tongue lashed the sensitive ridge of flesh, sending delicious tremors racing straight to her core. Her passage clenched, aching for something, anything inside it. As if reading her thoughts, he drove one long finger deep into the blazing heat of her channel. Cytharea threw her head back, feeling her hair cascade down like silk over her bare skin, conscious of the heavy, aching weight of her breasts, Gerard’s free hand cupping her buttocks, dragging her harder against his teasing mouth. She gasped as his plunging finger withdrew, spreading her flowing juices between her thighs, and then moaned as it pressed against her other opening, slowly muscling deep into the warmth of her buttocks. The sensation was exquisite. She arched her back, pushing back against his invading finger, inviting it deeper. Groaning against her mound, he plunged his finger in fully, stroking it in and out of her as he suckled her nub with a violence that made her pant and moan. Closing his mouth around it, he lashed it with his tongue, driving his finger into her again and again, speeding his strokes as her cries climbed higher, higher… Screaming his name, she felt her body go rigid, her buttocks clamping around his finger, her hot channel gushing with juices. A pleasure so sharp it was almost agony 48

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spiraled along her nerves and she cupped his head, drawing it tighter against her as she ground her hips against his swirling tongue, moaning with every wave of sensation throbbing through her. At last she slumped against him, her knees trembling, grateful for the arms that closed around her waist—she would have fallen without them. She shrieked slightly as he stood, lifting her with him, until her legs were wrapped around his hips, her sex nestled close against the solid swell of his shaft. Sliding her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips to his, lost in the feel of his tongue delving deep, playing against her own. Their mouths locked together as they tasted and thrust, devouring each other. His hands gripped her buttocks, working her up and down against his jutting shaft until she could feel her impatience rising to meet his own. Finally, his biceps bulging, he heaved her upward then lowered her back down onto the huge, pulsing thickness of his cock. It impaled her completely, thrusting so deep she cried out in wonder. He groaned in her ear, murmuring her name over and over, his buttocks tightening beneath her calves as he stroked himself inside her. His thickness stretched her open in a way she’d never experienced. She wanted more of it, and more… “Gerard,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with desire. “Yes, Gerard, take me. Harder. Please…” Following some instinct she didn’t wholly comprehend, she pressed her groin tighter against his, feeling the hard, flat plane of his pubic bone mash against her nub. Fire flared again inside her and she clung to him, her breasts dragging against his chest as he pounded into her, spearing her so deeply she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. His arm muscles tightened into rocks as he lifted her and thrust her down, slamming her onto his cock with a fury that made her head spin. She could feel his whole body tensing, his breath harsh and ragged, his shaft thickening even further as he hammered himself up into her blazing flesh. Panting his name, she ground her hips

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against his, feeling the hot spike of her need searing through her womb, her passage, the burning tips of her breasts… He roared, his back arching, his cock slamming into her so hard she thought she might faint. It throbbed inside her, flooding her passage with hot spurts of his seed, and her body absorbed it hungrily, quivering on the edge of its own delight. He pressed in deeper, his groin mashing against hers, and with one last short, hard jab, he sent her hurtling again into a white, mindless ecstasy where there was nothing, nothing in the world but his hardness inside her, his lips hot on her neck, her breasts aching against him as her womb clenched and she cried out in joy.

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Chapter Four Cytharea stirred sleepily, aware of the warmth of Gerard’s shoulder beneath her cheek and a languorous soreness throughout her body. In all the centuries of her existence, no man had ever shown her what delight lovemaking could be. Lifting her head, she looked down at him, tracing a finger along his lower lip. It was puffy and red, as if bruised by her kisses, and she kissed it again tenderly before drawing back to study his face. Already, a faint fuzz of whiskers was beginning to coat his cheeks and jaw again, covering the pale skin that contrasted oddly with his tanned brow. His chin was firm, with a slight cleft to it, sweeping back to meet his broad cheekbones. Even asleep there was a certain grimness to him, an essential iron beneath the softness of his skin and mouth. She gazed at him, wondering at both his strength and his softness—for what other man had ever resisted her so long? And what other man had made taking her such a delight? She smiled, remembering the night before. How he’d lowered her into the pool, his hands moving over her as he’d washed her gently, teasing her again to a shuddering peak within the circle of his arms. How he’d stood behind her, his hands on her hips as she’d braced herself against the stone lip of the pool, feeling him thrust into her beneath the water’s surface. How he’d turned her over after, lifting her onto the rock and burying his face again between her spread thighs, devouring her sex until she’d shuddered and peaked, amazed that there could be, anywhere in the world, a man who could make her feel such things. And then he’d driven himself into her again. Her body hummed with renewed energy, sated and replete. Yet still she craved him, even now, her passage clenching again as she remembered him inside her, her nub

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throbbing, wanting to feel his touch. For the first time, the idea of belonging to a man didn’t dismay her. She would be his prisoner, yes—but her captivity, she thought, would bring her such joy… Turning her head, she gazed around from under sleepy lids as she snuggled close against him. Her Gerard. Her grim, gorgeous knight. The pool sparkled in the sunlight and small animals scurried in the distance. She could even see now, in the clear light of day, a cave among the tumbled rocks above them. Everything they needed was here. And it was beautiful, with the plain sweeping away westward, the breeze rustling the distant trees… Gerard stirred beside her and opened his eyes. She smiled and he pulled her down to him a moment, holding her against his chest, his lips brushing the top of her head as she listened to the slow, steady beat of his heart. Then he tilted her chin so that she looked up at him, shaking his head in amused wonder. “I still do not quite believe it, but yes. You look much, much better this morning, Cytharea.” “Thanks to you,” she murmured. He cupped her cheek lightly. “Sin or no, I could not let you simply die here. And you should now have the strength to make it to France.” “France? But we have everything we need right here, Gerard. Couldn’t we stay here, at least for a while?” He gazed at her, his hazel eyes puzzled. Then they darkened. “Cytharea. What we did last night was solely to keep you alive. I know not what lies between you and Raymond, but I have sworn an oath to deliver you safely to him.” She drew back, more shocked than if he had slapped her. After last night, after everything, he was going to take her to Raymond? He couldn’t. He couldn’t! No man who had once coupled with her had ever willingly released her. She stared as he rose, stretching for a moment before turning away. He didn’t want her. The truth of that stabbed through her, making her heart ache in a way it never had before. He didn’t want her. 52

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“Then let me go free, at least,” she pleaded. “Do not take me to Raymond. Not to him! He frightens me, Gerard. There is something about him—” “He is cousin to the king,” Gerard cut her off shortly. “He will treat you with kindness, Cytharea, I am sure.” “He will keep me in chains and never let me go. Is that what you want, Gerard? You wish to see me his prisoner?” “What I want and wish has little to do with it,” he muttered. “I have given my word.” “You word! Your word! You and your vows! And you will sacrifice me to them as if I were nothing. Better you had taken your dagger and slit my throat last night!” Crying, she spun from him, springing across the rocks and running across the plain.

With an oath, Gerard lunged after her—but she was too far ahead, already out amid the low, stunted bushes. Swearing, he ran to his horse, vaulting naked to its back. Digging in his heels, he drove the massive battle charger after her. He had coupled with her for one reason and one only—to save her life. It had been an act of charity, no more, giving her what she required… Four times? Did it truly take four times to give her that, Gerard? Scowling, he spurred the horse faster. Had she really believed that just because he’d set aside his vow long enough to preserve her, he would therefore cast aside all his oaths so easily? The thought galled him. All the more so because one weak, corrupt part of his heart wanted exactly that. She had been revived before he had even entered her, her face flushing with new vigor even as she’d swallowed his seed. No, it had been his hunger that had taken four climaxes to sate enough to fall asleep on the flat stone beside the pool. And which was stirring back to life even now. She ran before him, fleet as a deer, her bare bottom flashing in the sunlight. Her hair streamed out behind her and he was

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consumed by a desire to spur his horse past her and wheel it around so he could see the lovely rise and fall of her heavy breasts as she ran… His cock rose, bobbing against his belly as the horse cantered forward. His balls, full again already, dragged heavily against the rough fur of its hide, and the need in his groin was as fierce and hot as the night he’d stood in the darkness, watching her parade her body before the brigands… She swerved as he rode up beside her and Gerard turned the horse with the grip of his thighs, leaning down to grab her as he urged the beast in a wide arc. Hauling her upward, he dragged her in front of him. She kicked out, struggling in his arms until he forced her down over the horse’s neck, her thighs splayed on either side of him and her buttocks tight against his raging erection. The wetness of her sex rubbed against his balls with every stride of the horse, and he looked down at her upturned bottom, her furred, swollen lips, the slick, secret opening concealed between them. Damn her! She wanted to be taken? Then he would take her. Kicking his knees forward, he forced her thighs wider, baring that delectable slit. Grabbing her buttocks, he thumbed open her folds and with one hard, fierce thrust, buried his shaft inside her to the hilt.

Cytharea gasped as he took her, his cock impaling her all the way to her womb. Clinging to the horse’s neck, she could do nothing but hang on for dear life as Gerard urged his mount to greater speed, sending it pounding across the plain even as he pounded into her. Every forward lunge rolled her back against Gerard’s hard thighs, his shaft sinking into her with a delectable roughness. The musky, pungent scent of the horse filled her nostrils, its warmth pressing against her belly and groin. And still Gerard hammered into her, again and again… It was wild, intoxicating. The feel of him riding her, the feel of the massive horse straining beneath them, the wind whipping over her naked skin as they galloped, the 54

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very world flashing by… The horse’s coat teased her nub unmercifully and Gerard’s hands gripped her buttocks, working her back and forth along the length of his shaft. She felt stuffed to the limit, possessed utterly, held pinioned between earth and sky by the iron and silk of his cock inside her.

Gerard clenched his teeth, trapped by the sensations coursing through him. The feel of her sex gripping him was like a velvet fist, hot and slick and unbearably delicious. The weight of her body pressing down around him was like nothing he’d ever known— it increased the need in his groin ’til his head spun with fire, his balls hard as rocks with the seething load building up inside them. Every stride of his destrier pressed Cytharea’s delectable bottom back against him, engulfing his shaft in her searing flesh. He could come right now, in great, steaming spurts, and at the same time he wanted to ride her like this forever… Bending low over her, he pushed her thighs even wider, crying aloud to his steed as he urged it faster. The destrier pounded over the plain, its hoofbeats filling the air like thunder. Cytharea moaned beneath him, her voice spiraling up into hungry, broken cries as she shuddered and gasped, her passage squeezing his shaft in rhythmic throbs. He pounded even harder, riding her from one peak to another until she trembled uncontrollably, her entire body racked with spasms, her voice breaking as she sobbed and moaned and begged in desperate, fractured whimpers. Her pleas fed the fire inside him, pushing his frenzy into a madness where there was nothing but the need to take her, again and again, to plunge himself blindly into the hot, sodden grip of her sex… Roaring, he climaxed in searing bursts of ecstasy, breaking over him like a thunderstorm, his balls contracting so hard the world darkened around him as his seed flooded her passage in great, gushing waves. The motion of the horse rocked her against him, wringing every shudder of sensation to its limit, until at last he collapsed down against her back, panting and spent.

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Slowly, the great horse eased its headlong flight, its passengers lolling limply as it slowed to a trot, then a walk, then finally stood still. Sick with self-despisement, Gerard slid his softening shaft from her body and dismounted. Cytharea sprawled along the horse’s back, her legs dangling loosely in utter exhaustion. His own knees trembled as his feet hit the ground but Gerard drew himself upright, tasting brimstone and ashes. What madness of lust had made him take her like that, coupling like mindless beasts on horseback? No claim or pretense of Christian charity could disguise what he’d done. It had been savage, ruthless. He’d slaked his lust on her as shamelessly as Brigette had slaked hers on him. And Cytharea had loved it. She had come for him, again and again, her lush, ripe body clenching his shaft, her voice cracking as she’d begged him for even more… She was corrupt beyond redemption, an utter wanton. And he… Scowling, Gerard grabbed the horse’s mane, leading it slowly across the plain back to their campsite. Cytharea gazed at him silently as he lifted her from the destrier’s back, tugging his discarded surcoat down over her head. Then, wordlessly, he bound her hands again, ignoring the tears that brimmed in her eyes as he knotted the leather firmly around her wrists.

* * * ** By the time they’d reached the rolling hills of Burgundy, his beard had grown in again. Gerard was grateful for the mask it provided his features as he rode into the courtyard of Raymond du Sable’s castle in the dark of a late summer night. Torches flared in sconces around the courtyard, illuminating a line of horses near the north wall, indicating that the lord had guests. Alerted by the gate guard, du Sable himself came out to meet them, watching in satisfaction as Gerard dismounted then lifted Cytharea down from where she’d sat behind him.

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She had grown gaunt again, her wrists thin as twigs under the leather ties. Gerard kept his head bent as he removed them, unwilling to meet her gaze. No doubt by now she would be eager for Raymond’s affections, however much she’d claimed to fear him. He scowled at the thought. What did it matter what she chose to do? He had his own soul to worry about. “So. You have brought her, Gerard. And untouched, I see. I’m not sure if I am more pleased or disappointed—I’m afraid I’m going to owe your marshal for a rather large wager.” The unctuous complacency in his voice set Gerard’s teeth on edge but he merely nodded, avoiding Cytharea’s glance as he turned back to his horse. Raymond laced her arm with his. “Come, Cytharea. You must be famished from your journey.” His emphasis made Gerard pause. “One moment, my lord.” Raymond turned, his head cocked inquiringly. “How do you know I’ve left her untouched?” The lord froze, his clever face suddenly guarded and still. Then his mouth curved in a smile that looked as genuine to Gerard as a child’s wooden sword. “How? Because you are here, my dear Templar. While I can easily believe that even a man such as yourself might slip a bit from perfect grace, I find it impossible to imagine that having done so, you would then cast her aside or try to conceal your crime.” “Why did you tell Jacques she was your wife?” Raymond laughed easily. “That was for your protection, Gerard, as well as mine. For all the vaunted chastity of your Order, I knew you would be less tempted if you believed the wench to be married. Despite her current appearance, I am fully aware just how tempting she can be.” Despite the amusement in his voice, Raymond’s gaze was hard and direct, watching him narrowly. Once again Gerard breathed a prayer of thanks for the concealing shadow of his beard.

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Keeping his face impassive, he bowed slightly. “I thank you, then, for your consideration.” But as he straightened, his gaze met Cytharea’s. A silent yearning flickered in the ocean-blue depths of her eyes. He will keep me in chains and never let me go. “One more thing, my lord,” he said quickly, before Raymond could turn away. “If she is not your wife, then what do you want with her?” This time there was no missing the contemptuous humor in Raymond’s eyes. “My good knight, it is hardly a subject to be discussing with a man sworn to chastity. Come, Cytharea.” Taking her arm again, Raymond du Sable led Cytharea into the castle, leaving Gerard standing uncertainly by his horse.

Raymond was actually grateful for Cytharea’s weakened state. Remembering the effect she’d had on him all those months ago at Acre, he had rather dreaded having her here. Like a wise tavern keeper, he had no intention of sampling the wares by which he would make his fortune. She was hardly at her best tonight—and he knew the cause. He’d read enough of her to learn how she languished without the company of men. He would have to find someone to supply her needs before the meeting tomorrow. Why not de Guerre? Why not, indeed, he thought. The duke was already here, and proving resistant to his schemes. One night with Cytharea, Raymond thought, would crumble his resistance like sand. Smiling at that solution, he guided her toward the sumptuous chamber he’d prepared for her, furnished with such things as a lady might like. The bed was broad and covered with silk. A high, narrow window looked down over the du Sable vineyards. But the lock on the door was massive and secure, and the chain attached to the heavy post of the bed was not there for purposes of decoration.

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Kneeling, Raymond snapped the shackle around her ankle, caressing the skin of her calf unthinkingly before jerking his hand back as if burned. Clearing his throat, he stood abruptly, drawing back outside the radius of movement the chain would allow. “My maids will bring you bathing water and food. And perhaps later I will have a visitor for you as well. Would you like that?” She stood silent, her head down, her black hair falling in lank, dusty curls around her face. “Cytharea?” Raising her chin, she watched him warily. “What does it matter what I like?” “But I want you to be pleased. I want you to be happy here.” “Why am I here?” Raymond considered. What harm would telling her do, after all? She couldn’t escape. But he’d spent too many years working toward this moment to risk it now. “You don’t need to know that. But I do promise you will be well fed. I know a bit of you, you see.” With a small, playful bow, he left the room. Cytharea heard the heavy lock turn in the door and sank down on the bed, too numb to even feel despair. Gerard had left her. Almost ’til the last moment, she hadn’t quite been able to believe he would. He’d made her feel things no man ever had, shown her what ecstasy a man’s body could bring—if he cared enough to bother. Tears prickled her eyes. She’d been convinced he did care. He’d been so tender with her, so passionate—and even his roughness had been a delight beyond anything she’d ever imagined. Closing her eyes, Cytharea felt again the great horse lunging beneath her, thrusting her back again and again onto Gerard’s thick, rock-hard shaft… How could he not have wanted her? How, when even now everything inside her burned for his touch? For the first time in her life, she desired a man—truly desired him.

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And he did not desire her in return. The irony of it tore her heart and she laughed bitterly, looking around her gilded cage. Her opulent prison. It was one more place like a hundred she’d been kept in before. Nothing changed. Only the names and the places… And her. She was different now too. Gerard had made her different. She wanted to hate him for having left her, but she found she couldn’t—because he had changed her. She had learned as much from his strength of will as she had from his tenderness. And it was the lesson of strength she remembered now, in her prison. She could not escape. She knew that. But escape was not the only way, Cytharea reminded herself, to gain her freedom. Firming her resolve, she drew her shoulders back as the door opened again, waiting to see what strength of will she had inside her.

***** Checking his horse on the dark slope, Gerard glanced back toward the castle. Lights burned in the upper windows, above the black bulk of the outer wall. Was she standing at one of those windows now, looking out at the night? Or was she already tumbled into du Sable’s bed, spreading her thighs as readily for the lord as she had for him? Gerard scowled, turning forward again to ride on. He had no reason to linger—his business here was done. He will keep me in chains and never let me go. Is that what you want, Gerard? His wants and wishes were immaterial. He’d done his duty, and now… Staring dully at the road ahead, he sat slumped in the saddle, remembering the way she’d smiled up at him, lifting her hand to cup his cheek as he’d moved inside her, slowly, tenderly. Why did the memory not repulse him, as every thought of Brigette now did? Why did he hunger for her, right now, even knowing what she was? What do you want, Gerard? He realized he had no answer. 60

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Every so often as he’d ridden away from the castle, a messenger had flashed by, his horse’s hooves flailing in the pale moonlight as he galloped away on some urgent errand. Wrapped in his own thoughts, Gerard had paid them little heed, letting his horse amble along at a walk—but now he wondered what news was so urgent that du Sable sent out messengers in the dead of night. There was too much here that made him uneasy. Raymond’s facile explanations, these hurried midnight riders… And most of all, the memory of Cytharea, not as he’d last seen her but even thinner, more frail—a lost, frightened girl sitting alone in a pool, crying. This was foolishness, he told himself sternly. She was a jade, a temptress, an inhuman creature. Far better to leave her in Raymond’s hands than free to tempt the souls of mortal men. Stiffening his resolve, he gathered up the reins, preparing to spur the horse into a swift canter—and found he could not do it. The more he tried to harden his heart against her, the more it ached with the memory of her gentleness, her softness, her vulnerability. What was the truth of her? Was she a foul, soulless creature, evil by her very nature? He wanted to believe it, and yet… And yet how could something so evil make his heart ache with longing? He didn’t know what to think anymore. He didn’t know what to believe. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t make himself leave. Clucking to his horse, Gerard spurred it into a trot—not down the road, as he should have done, but up amid the hills and slopes of Raymond du Sable’s vineyards, looking for a place to camp for the night.

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ankle, Cytharea braced herself for whatever punishment he might mete out in retaliation, but instead he stalked to the door of the chamber and threw it open, bellowing, “Du Sable!” His shout rang through the corridor and Cytharea heard hurried footsteps approaching. She caught a glimpse of Raymond’s pale face, tight with fury, before he closed the door—but even through the heavy oak she could hear the duke’s irate words. “What kind of game are you playing, du Sable? That hellcat nearly had my eye out, damn her!” Raymond’s murmur was low and conciliatory. “Trust me, my lord, I—” “Trust you? Trust you? The man who plots to overthrow his own cousin? I’d sooner trust a nest of vipers—and sooner bed one too than that bitch of yours.” The heavy tread of the duke moving away from the door was followed by a frantic plea from Raymond. “My lord de Guerre!” The fear in his voice gave Cytharea a certain grim satisfaction. It didn’t last long though, as the door slammed open again and Raymond entered, his face twisted in a smile that did little to hide his rage. “Bravely done, Cytharea,” he sneered. “Brave…and foolish.” Before she could flinch, his hand flicked out, striking her hard across the face. With a cry she fell back then immediately drew herself upright, trying as best she could to hide her fear. “Am I your slave then, my lord? To sleep with whomever you tell me to? Is this the reason for which you stole me from Saladin?” “What do you care what man you feed from?” The look Raymond shot her was sharp with curiosity and sudden suspicion. Cytharea flushed. She hadn’t cared, not truly. Beyond the fact that some men were kind and others cruel, it had made little difference to her over the centuries whom she had coupled with. For the first time, the thought brought with it a stab of shame.

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And now, in another sense it still didn’t matter—whoever Raymond presented her with, however many men he brought to her, none of them would be Gerard. The pain of that realization tore at her afresh and she bit back a sob. In that unguarded moment, Raymond grabbed her arm, using it to yank her upright and then pinning it behind her back. “Do you realize what you’ve done, Cytharea?” he hissed. “De Guerre is the most powerful lord in northern France. Without him, without his forces, it will be doubly difficult to wrest the throne from Philip.” Cytharea stared at him, grasping for the first time the scope of Raymond’s ambitions. His eyes glinted with cunning as he hissed at her, “You will sleep with the men I tell you to, Cytharea. And you will bind them to me. Once having had you, they will be so desperate for more they will do anything I ask. Anything! Do you understand?” She did, and her stomach roiled at the idea. In all the centuries no man had sought to use her thus, to wield her like a weapon against his fellows. She’d been right—Raymond was evil. And she would never give in to him. Never. As if reading her thought, he smiled slowly. “Ah, Cytharea. Do not be even more foolish than you have already. I would prefer you help me willingly, but…” His smile turned cruel. “On the other hand, the thought of you bound naked and helpless might induce even me to sample your charms. And I’ve never yet heard a gagged woman say no.” Despite all her resolutions, Cytharea blanched. The image he painted in her mind was horrifyingly vivid. Loosing her arm, he shoved her onto the bed and stepped back, seemingly unaware of the erection tenting his braies. “Think about it, Cytharea.” Reaching down, he scooped a wet cloth from the tepid buckets of bath water and flung it at her. “And clean yourself up. I want you looking your best for the lords arriving tomorrow.”

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Still smiling, he strode to the door. “Would you like to know how many of them there will be, Cytharea? Or would you rather I surprise you?” When she didn’t answer he laughed aloud, locking the door firmly behind him as he left. Shivering, Cytharea curled into a ball on the bed, trying to fight off despair.

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Chapter Five The rumble of horse hooves woke Gerard from an uneasy sleep. In the darkness the night before, the best he’d found for a campsite had been a small clearing in a concealed copse not far off the road. Now he left his horse tethered and worked his way through the trees to a point near the road, screened from it by a dense mat of bushes. A group of riders thundered by, heading for du Sable’s castle. They were heavily armored, their pennants bearing the colors of one of the lesser nobles. Gerard stared after them, puzzled. Why would a minor lord ride to visit the king’s cousin with his men in full battle gear? Before the dust of their passage had even settled, another company appeared. This time Gerard caught the proud, beaked profile of a Normandy duke at their head, followed by a half-dozen other nobles, each under their own banners. Why were the lords of France gathering at du Sable’s castle? Intrigued, Gerard crept closer, close enough to catch the quiet exchange of two minor lords riding at a sedate pace well behind the other companies, their own followers staying a respectful distance behind them. “Any idea what this is about?” This from the rather sour-faced man on a large black destrier, his chain mail jingling slightly as he rode. “None whatever,” the second man replied. He was dressed in a rich tunic and embroidered surcoat, with only a sword at his hip for arms. “But with Philip still gone from France, who am I to disobey a summons from the king’s cousin?” “Mayhap the fact that Philip is still gone will have somewhat to do with this meeting,” the first muttered. “Du Sable is an ambitious man.” His companion shrugged. “And since when is that news? It’ll take more than Raymond’s ambition to unseat Philip.” 65

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The two men passed on as Gerard stood, stunned. A rebellion against the king? Du Sable plotting to take his place? Was it possible? He shook his head, trying to clear it. True, he had been gone from France for over eight years. He had little idea how political divisions ran these days. But still, an attempt to overthrow Philip would be met with fierce resistance. Unless… Suddenly, he found himself remembering the sight of Cytharea, dancing in the center of a circle of brigands. He remembered how they’d watched her, transfixed by her beauty, stroking themselves as she’d gyrated before them, holding them spellbound… Almost before he could identify the dread creeping along his veins, Gerard found himself running for his horse, careful to keep out of sight of the men riding past.

***** Cytharea waited, marshalling her determination. Soon, she knew, Raymond would come for her. She could see the lords he’d summoned gathering in the courtyard, company after company of men riding in behind them. She would not go with him. She would not allow him to make her a tool for his schemes. She would die first. The thought of dying was easier now, somehow. For centuries she’d been content merely to survive—but Gerard had changed that too. He had taught her what joy lovemaking could be, what joy life could be. But now her joy, brief as it had been, was gone. She would never feel that again. And without it, she no longer had any desire to live. She lifted her head as the lock clanked loudly and the door opened. Raymond stood in the doorway, his eyes burning with a banked excitement. This was the day that was to fulfill all his plans, Cytharea could tell. He fairly trembled with impatience as he strode toward her. Unlocking the chain from around her ankle, he took her arm, tugging her toward the door. 66

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“No.” Bracing herself, she dug in her heels. He could drag her, of course, but she would not go willingly. Snarling, he swung back to face her. “No?” “No.” She drew herself upright. “I will die before I let you use me in such a manner.” Rage clenched his features. Then as suddenly it was gone, smoothed away beneath an unctuous smile. “But this is foolishness, Cytharea. Once I am the king, I can give you anything you desire. Money. Power. Safety. I will make you my queen, Cytharea. Surely that is worth something?” She stared at him, revolted, and his eyes hardened. His smile twisted into something more perilous. “Then if I cannot tempt you…” Holding her in a grip like iron, he drew his dagger with his free hand, slashing a line across his other forearm. Switching his grip on her, he raised his arm, the crimson drops welling from the slash. Cytharea cringed back as he thrust his arm at her face, smearing her cheek with his warm, wet blood. Turning her head, she averted her mouth, clamping her lips tight. Raymond smiled cruelly. “Ah, I see there is something you want, after all. The choice is yours, Cytharea. Help me willingly or…” He pressed his arm against her closed lips, letting his blood trickle down her chin. She writhed in revulsion and terror until finally he released her. Stumbling to the water left by the maids, she frantically scrubbed at her face, washing the blood away. He knew. He knew everything. Oh Fates help her! What was she to do? “Now come, Cytharea. We have guests waiting.” With a mocking cordiality, Raymond gestured her toward the door.

***** It had been simple enough to shave his regrown beard. Simpler even to find a solitary rider straggling behind his company and render him unconscious with one deft blow. Stripping off his own armor and surcoat, Gerard had donned the man’s uniform 67

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and left him hidden in the bushes. Then he’d mounted his destrier, riding close behind the company and passing without challenge into the courtyard of the castle. In the milling confusion, it had been easy to slip inside the castle unremarked. Now the lords were filing into a large inner chamber, and Gerard held back, weighing alternatives. He had little fear that Raymond would recognize him without his beard, but only the sixteen or so nobles were entering the room. He could not possibly hope to pass as one of them—yet the formless dread inside him would not let him withdraw. Somewhere in his heart, a terrible thought formed. What if Cytharea had known of Raymond’s plans from the very beginning? What if she hadn’t been the pitiable captive she’d appeared but a willing accomplice, making her own bid for power through Raymond’s treachery? Gerard had little doubt that she was a central part of Raymond’s strategy. What if her seeming fear of du Sable had been no more than a sham? Like a man unable to resist prodding a rotten tooth, Gerard turned the possibility over and over in his mind. If that were true, then she was as evil and corrupt as he’d ever believed—and he was a fool for having believed her. And if it wasn’t… One way or another, he had to know the truth. Glancing inside the room as he walked past, Gerard saw the nobles milling around a long wooden table, laid as if for a feast—and beyond them a balcony, running along the upper part of the walls. Nodding with what he hoped was appropriate casualness to the two guards stationed outside, Gerard continued on down the hallway as the door boomed shut behind him. Then he quickly turned into a smaller side passage, searching for the stairs leading to the balcony. At last he spied a tapestry hung in this narrow hallway that held no other decoration. Pulling it aside, he slid through the door concealed behind it and wound up

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the dark, cramped steps. At the top he crept, hunched low to avoid observation, to the wood slats of the rail and peered through. The chamber below was dim, lit only by torches flickering in sconces around the room. No window or any other opening pierced the walls besides the main door and the smaller one through which Raymond now appeared. Gerard’s heart hammered in his chest as he saw Cytharea behind du Sable, following him silently with her head bowed. She was swathed in brown robes, her face almost hidden by the cowl shielding her features. Almost without realizing he was doing so, Gerard scrutinized her closely. But even though she was only twenty feet from his hiding place, in the semi-darkness he couldn’t tell if she was still as gaunt as she’d been when he’d left her last night. Raymond gestured genially to the long table set in the center of the room. Roast fowls waited upon it, and breads and cheeses and goblets of wine. The lords took their seats along either side as Raymond moved toward the head of the table, whispering to Cytharea as they approached. From his short, sharp gestures, he seemed to be ordering her to some action, an order she appeared to be ignoring. She stood silent and passive but with a curious tension to her stance, which made Gerard think she had resisted being brought here—or perhaps it was only his own hope that made him think so. In the dim light, he almost failed to notice the bandage around Raymond’s left forearm. “My lords,” Raymond began, keeping his hand clamped tight on Cytharea’s arm, “we will have ample time to discuss the issue that has brought us all here. Some of you I have spoken with already, and know your minds on the subject. Others of you I hope to sway to my cause over the next few days. For now though, as my guests, I hope you will partake of my hospitality and enjoy the feast and entertainment I’ve prepared for you.” Practically hauling her up, he lifted Cytharea to the tabletop and stripped her robe from her.

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Gerard’s hands fisted in anger as he saw the dark bruise high on Cytharea’s cheekbone. Her face was pinched and bloodless, her eyes dark with hopeless fear. Naked to the waist, she knelt on the table with her head bowed and her arms crossed tightly over her chest, looking like one more dish served up for the lords. Which was, Gerard thought, precisely the truth. Rage pounded along his nerves, and something hot and painful clenched in his chest at the sight of her, so thin and pale. Bands of brass and silver hung loosely on her scrawny arms. Her hair tumbled down around her face. A belt of precious gemstones hung low on her hips, strips of diaphanous gauze half-concealing her thighs. Even gaunt and half-starved, she was so beautiful it made his throat ache in longing. It was clear she hadn’t fed yet—he remembered with painful clarity how quickly she had bloomed under him, practically glowing with health even as she swallowed his seed. He’d seen plants like that in the desert, things that looked like no more than dead twigs until the rare, passing rains. Then they would swell to life with a rapidity that was nothing short of miraculous. Had Raymond purposefully kept her hungry? Glancing again at the ugly bruise on Cytharea’s cheek, Gerard sincerely doubted it. The memory of the last glance she’d given him, her eyes dark and somber and full of yearning, washed through him, and Gerard flushed with sudden shame. How could he have been so blind? Had it ever truly been her sensuality he’d despised? Or had it been his own? “Oh ho!” one of the lords chuckled. It was the sour-faced man Gerard had overheard earlier. “What toy is this you’ve brought back from your travels, my lord du Sable?” The note of lust in his voice set Gerard’s teeth on edge. “A very special one.” Raymond’s smile was like the sweep of a scythe—sharp and deadly. “I’m quite certain you’ll like her. Drink up, my lords, and enjoy yourselves.”

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Leaning forward, he whispered something in Cytharea’s ear. She shuddered in response and jerked herself upright on the table. She was so painfully thin Gerard could almost count her ribs. But even so, her beauty held him spellbound—as it did every other man in the room, he saw. Standing waif-like and forlorn, she stared around at the men, her eyes wide with terror and despair. He could see it in everything about her—the droop of her neck, the slump of her shoulders, the way her hands hung, empty and unavailing at her sides. There was no mistaking her reluctance. “Dance, Cytharea,” Raymond hissed. Lifting a goblet, he toasted her mockingly. “Dance…or drink.” Why that should be a threat, Gerard had no idea—but he saw Cytharea blanch in sudden terror. Like a puppet, she jerked her arms over her head and turned in a slow, awkward circle. One of the lords pounded his fist on the table approvingly, and Gerard saw her flush. She turned away from the lord, her hands raised unenthusiastically over her head—and froze as she stared directly into Gerard’s eyes. She saw him. There was no doubt of it. Her eyes flared with hope, gleaming with sudden tears, and Gerard cursed himself. How could he ever have thought her evil? There was such openness in her expression, an almost child-like innocence… Had she ever asked to be what she was? Had she ever even had a choice in the matter? Quickly, he raised a finger to his lips then sketched a circle in the air, hoping she would catch his meaning. She did. Raising her arms higher, she turned back to face the lords before any of them noticed her brief paralysis. Throwing a last, warning glance over her shoulder at Gerard, she danced. Without music, without even a drummer, she stomped her heel on the table, making her naked breasts jiggle in the lamplight. As one, the lords stared at them, their eyes glued to her taut, dusky nipples. Running her hands down her sides, Cytharea worked her hips in a slow, lazy roll, the strips of gauze revealing and then hiding her thighs, occasionally giving a brief glimpse of the soft black curls covering her sex. 71

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Licking her lips, she stared at each man in turn then threw her head back as she whirled before them, arms flung outward, her hair flying. Then she stopped, folding her arms over her breasts, peering at the men playfully from under the fall of her hair. Crouched behind the rail of the balcony, Gerard was as enraptured as the rest. He watched, unable to tear his gaze away as she let her lips curve in a smile and slowly slid her hands down her arms, revealing inch after inch of her stunning cleavage. His cock throbbed inside his braies, his heartbeat thundering in his chest. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think… Which was, he realized suddenly, exactly what she wanted. Remembering that swift warning glance, he gritted his jaw, willing himself to close his eyes, to look away. Her hands moved even lower, revealing the topmost edge of her nipples. With a groan, Gerard turned his head away. She was holding them spellbound specifically to give him a chance to rescue her. And he must—if Raymond was allowed to tie these men to him, the crown of France would be lost. Unsheathing his sword, Gerard stood and swung one leg over the rail. It was a ten-foot drop and they would certainly hear him. Would their lust-ridden confusion hold them long enough to give him a chance? Keeping his eyes carefully from Cytharea, he swept his gaze over the assembled lords. All of them—even Raymond— were staring at her in slack-jawed delight. Some of them already had their hands in their laps, surreptitiously pressing and stroking the erections that strained beneath their clothes. From the corner of his eye, Gerard saw Cytharea raise her hands to her breasts, squeezing and fondling them. Gerard heard a man moan. It was now or never. Swinging himself over, Gerard plunged to the floor below, letting his knees give as he hit the ground. Pain shot up his legs but he let himself roll, coming up in a crouch near the table as Raymond swore, his head snapping around. Before he could draw his blade, Gerard lunged for the table, grabbing Cytharea’s wrist and pulling her down behind him. With a roar, the men around the table sprung to their feet, their faces twisted in fury. Their reactions were slow though, their wits still 72

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befuddled. Pushing Cytharea ahead of him, Gerard ran for the main door. If he was quick enough… Something slashed against his back and Gerard spun, just in time to catch Raymond’s backstroke on the flat of his sword. Alerted by the shouts and the clash of swords, the guards outside heaved the massive door open—only to freeze in shock at the sight of Cytharea, her breasts exposed, standing in the doorway. “Gerard!” she shouted. Thrusting Raymond back, he spun and knocked aside the blow aimed at him by one of the guards. Then he grabbed Cytharea and dashed through the opening. Men were milling about, nervous and confused. He plunged through them, dragging Cytharea behind him. Hampered by their own numbers, they couldn’t stop him, and Gerard burst out the door with Cytharea right on his heels. No alert had reached the courtyard yet. Unable to battle his way through the throng inside, Raymond was likely still trapped in the chamber. Distantly, Gerard could hear his shouts but already he and Cytharea were running for his horse, ignoring the startled cries of the men around them. “Close the gates!” Raymond’s bellow rang across the courtyard and Gerard glanced back as he slung Cytharea up into the saddle. The king’s cousin was standing in the open door of his castle, shouting orders for all he was worth. Vaulting to the destrier’s back, Gerard dug in his heels. The horses of the Templars were massive, bred to carry a man in full armor for days on end. More, they’d been trained for battle, fighting as fiercely as the warrior monks themselves. His steed lashed out, shattering the skull of a man who tried to apprehend them. Then Gerard kicked in his heels, spurring the warhorse toward the slowly closing gates. With a fierce whinny, the horse threw itself at the gap, shrieking in fury as the heavy gates clipped its withers. It stumbled then recovered, galloping madly down the hill with Gerard and Cytharea safely on its back.

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But just as Cytharea turned to smile up at him in triumph, bowstrings twanged behind them from the castle wall, and agony seared through him as an arrow took him squarely in the back.

Gerard’s eyes blazed in sudden pain and Cytharea bit back a scream as he slumped in the saddle, falling heavily against her. “The reins!” he hissed. Spinning back forward, she grabbed them from his hands, which flopped strengthlessly with every pace of the horse. “Now ride!” he commanded. She did the best she could, flailing her bare calves against the horse’s side. Seeming to understand, the great beast plunged forward, lengthening his stride as he ran flat out. Cytharea could feel Gerard sliding behind her and grabbed one of his arms, tugging it firmly around her waist. His grip tightened and she breathed a sigh of relief as he grunted in her ear, “Turn here.” They were down below the crest of the hill, hidden for a moment from the castle’s view, with a thick stand of young birch to their left. Inexpertly, she yanked on the reins and the horse reared, neighing. Gerard’s hands slipped from her waist. Dropping the reins, she grabbed him, feeling herself tilt perilously as the horse dropped again to all fours. Then it shot into the trees, nearly unseating them both, and wove between them ’til at last it stopped of its own accord beside a small stream. Sliding from its back, Gerard fell heavily, and Cytharea scrambled down beside him. Blood was welling from the wound in his back, staining the rich green tunic he’d stolen from the page. The arrow protruded from between his shoulder blades and Cytharea stared at it, tears blurring her sight. Hesitantly, she wrapped her hand around the shaft and Gerard nodded. Quickly, before she could falter, she closed her eyes and pulled. Gerard roared in agony as the arrow came free, ripping the wound larger in passing. Fresh blood spurted out and Cytharea clamped her hands over it, trying to 74

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stop that deadly flow. She felt Gerard shift, trying to roll over, and pressed against his shoulders to keep him still. “No, Cytharea,” he muttered. “It is no use. Help me turn over.” As gently as she could, she helped ease him onto his back, shocked at the way his face blanched beneath his tan. Lines of pain furrowed his handsome face and his hazel eyes were clouded—but he lifted a hand to her cheek, cupping it gently, and smiled at her. “I am sorry, Cytharea. I misjudged you. There is no evil in you—no more than in the wolf or the fox that must hunt to survive. It is only the human foxes who are evil. Go. They will be coming after you, but take my horse. He’s trained to fight. And he’s good at finding goat paths, as you know.” His smile thinned as his jaw tightened in pain. “No. I won’t! I can’t leave you, Gerard. You’re hurt, you’re bleeding—” “I’m dying.” He cut her off sternly. “The wound is mortal, Cytharea. There is nothing to be done.” She looked down at her hand laced with his, their fingers both coated now with his blood. It was sticky, half-dried, seeming to glue them together. She shook her head stubbornly, refusing to meet his gaze—but in the stillness they both heard the rumble of horse hooves from the road, the shouts of the men pursuing them. The hunters thundered past the place where they had turned off—but how long before they realized their mistake and backtracked? “Not long,” Gerard said grimly, reading her thoughts. “Now go, Cytharea. You are free.” Pulling his hand from hers, he laid his head back and closed his eyes. Uncertainly, she rose and went to the horse, which nuzzled her, as if sensing her distress. The beast’s coat was warm against her naked breasts, warm and rough, just as it had been the day Gerard had taken her on its back…

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The memory of that wild ride swept through her, remembered sensations searing her body. With a cry, she spun back to Gerard’s still form. Freedom? What was freedom without love, without tenderness, without passion? Without Gerard? Sinking to her knees, she bent low over him. No. No, he couldn’t be dead! He mustn’t be. He had to live. He had to live for her. For her and for always! Sobbing, she felt frantically for a heartbeat, unable to still her own cries long enough to distinguish one. No, it couldn’t be too late! Wrapping her arms around his limp body, she pressed her cheek to his, praying for strength. Then she turned his head, exposing the strong column of his neck, and sank her teeth deep into his vein. There! It was there—a low, sluggish throb against her lips as blood welled from the wound, filling her mouth. It was salty and hot, making her moan with the taste of it. She swallowed eagerly, writhing against him, her whole body seeming to fill with energy beyond anything she’d ever felt before. Hardly aware of what she did, she straddled his body, her full, heavy breasts pressed against his chest, her sex riding his groin as she sucked at his neck. It is true, she thought, her brain whirling with ecstasy—she could never go back to what she’d had before. Not after this. Not after the bliss crashing through her veins, making her feel more alive than she’d ever felt before… Why did Gerard not respond? Her bite was supposed to make a man immortal, tying him to her just as she was to him. Had he been too far gone? Too close to death? His chest was too still under her body, his limbs too lax… No! She couldn’t stand it. Lifting her head, she pressed her mouth instead to his sweet, gentle lips, sobbing as she kissed him, over and over. His blood smeared both their faces, mingling with her tears as she forced her breath between his parted lips. No, Gerard, do not leave me. Do not leave me! You left me once—do not leave me again!

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Cytharea… Her name was like a sigh in his mind. She heard it as clearly as she heard her own thoughts. Gerard! Do not leave me! I need you! Cytharea… With a small jerk she felt all the way to her bones, his heart lurched back to life inside his chest. Laughing through her tears, Cytharea clung to him, pressing her head against his ribs to hear that warm, steady beat. His arms closed about her, gathering her close. Cytharea. “Yes,” she whispered. “Oh Gerard, yes.” Other parts of him, she realized, were coming back to life as well. His shaft, full and thick, pressed firmly against her mound. Lifting her head, she found Gerard gazing at her from under heavy lids, his hazel eyes dark with sudden heat. His hands slid down her back ’til he cupped her hips, tugging her slowly up and down the straining length of his shaft. She moaned softly and his lips quirked in a smile. “What have you done to me, Cytharea?” he murmured. “One moment I was dying, and the next I feel like I’ll die again if you don’t take me inside you.” Her womb clenched at his words, a hunger so fierce it made her dizzy tearing along her nerves. Was this what men felt when they looked at her? This desperate, almost greedy need to couple with her that she was feeling now? She clawed her fingers into his chest, growling deep in her throat as she ripped his tunic open. Gerard’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. Pulling her close, he kissed her, long and deeply. Then he whispered in her ear, “Ride me, Cytharea. Take me between your legs and ride me hard.” Lust slammed through her groin. Scrambling backward, she moved down his thighs just far enough to yank his braies open and free his huge, hard shaft. Raising herself over it, she stroked it through her curls, amazed to find she could barely close

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her fingers around it. His hands settled on her hips and with a cry, she threw her head back, thrusting herself down, impaling herself on his thick length. He groaned below her, his jaw tight as he strained to hold back. She didn’t want him to hold back. She wanted to make him climax, right now, wanted to push his body into bliss even as she found her own. Pulling herself up, she raised his hands to her breasts, saw his eyes go even darker as he cupped their fullness, flicking his thumbs over her sensitive nipples. Then she plunged downward again, making him arch in ecstasy. His balls, full and taut, pressed against her bottom and she tightened the cheeks of her buttocks, squeezing them gently as she rode his shaft, pounding herself down onto him with all the strength of her need, thrusting his cock into her roughly, hungrily. His hands tightened on her breasts, his fingers tugging at her nipples and she ground her hips against his, corkscrewing him inside her. His breathing grew harsher, groans spilling from his throat and she rocked her hips forward, working her mound against the hard, flat plane of his groin, rubbing her nub against him with a steadily growing frenzy. He felt it too—his fingers clamped around her nipples, sending jolts of mingled pain and delight straight to her core. His cock filled her so deeply she felt like she was being split delectably in two. She hung over him, quivering, feeling the need inside her coil tighter, tighter… Then she threw her head back as he surged up below her, his thrusts lifting her into the air as his own need rushed through him. Crying out in rapture, she clung to his shoulders, letting him slam himself up into her again and again, splitting her open, stoking the craving inside her until the tension in her groin shattered, sending fire licking through every inch of her as he filled her with his come. A shout rang through the woods and they froze, panting, their bodies still locked together. They stared at each other—until a horrified giggle burst from her and Gerard’s mouth curved into a barely restrained grin. “Quick,” he whispered, and lifted her off him. On wobbling knees, she dashed to the horse, grateful when she felt

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Gerard’s large, strong hands around her waist, lifting her up. Then he sprang up behind her, grabbing the reins, and spurred the horse deeper into the woods. Even as they rode, she could feel Gerard’s shaft against her bottom, flexing every time she moved against him. His breath rasped in her ear as he urged the horse faster, his hands trembling where they rested against her belly. Finally the sounds of pursuit faded behind them, and still they kept on, weaving their way through dense stands of trees. The tension trembling through him confused her—weren’t they safe now? Surely no one could track them through this! Then, with an oath, he pulled the horse to a stop, helping her down and then hauling the saddle from his destrier’s back. The massive beast swung his head around as if puzzled at Gerard’s actions. So was Cytharea—even more so when Gerard lifted her again to the horse’s back. She heard a rustle of cloth and then he mounted again behind her. As she settled against him, she realized he was naked, his cock pressing all the way from her tailbone to the small of her back. “We cannot stop yet,” he murmured, trailing one hand down over her rounded belly to let his fingers play through her dense, black curls. “We can’t stop, but I can’t wait any longer. You have bewitched me, Cytharea.” She glanced back at him, amazed by the naked emotion in his voice. His hazel eyes gazed into hers with the same firm, almost grim determination with which he’d once clung to his vows. “You are mine, Cytharea. Mine and no one else’s.” Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, almost frightened at his fierceness. Bending his head down, he kissed her as the horse walked forward through the thinning trees. Dizzily, Cytharea looked around when he finally released her to see a broad, open meadow between thickly wooded hills. There was no one in sight. No pursuers. Not even a cot hold.

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“Can we not stop now, Gerard?” she asked almost plaintively—indeed, his kiss had made her as hungry for him as he was for her, judging by the way his shaft throbbed against her back. “Not yet,” he murmured. “We have a long way to ride. There’s a pool I know of, with a cave nearby… It’s beautiful there in the moonlight.” She drew in a breath, remembering their campsite. Remembering how much she’d wanted to stay there, with the plain spread out below them and the soft scent of the sea in the air… “But it’s a long way ’til we get there,” he added, his voice low and thrilling in her ear. With his thighs, he pushed hers farther forward, spreading them wider, and she felt the thick, solid curve of his cock head nudging against her exposed sex. As he bent her forward and leaned down over her back, he murmured, “A long way, indeed…and I’m going to ride you all the way.” With a happy cry, Cytharea wrapped her arms around the destrier’s neck, feeling the great horse leap forward as Gerard buried his shaft inside her in one swift, delicious plunge.

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About the Author An award-winning author who received three CAPA nominations in her first year of publishing, Sierra Dafoe has been writing for as long as she can remember, beginning her career with the classic tale “Tommy the Turtle” in second grade. She has since expanded her repertoire of animals and now pens sexy werewolves, dragons, and other shapeshifters. She also enjoys vampires, sci-fi, epic actionadventure, and the occasional foray into the Middle Ages. Sierra lives smack in the middle of New Hampshire’s White Mountains with her incredibly tolerant hubby, her thoroughly obnoxious cat, and her twelve-year-old puppy.

Sierra welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.

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Also by Sierra Dafoe Built to Last His for the Taking Make Me

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