Sinful  

An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

www.ellorascave.com

Sinful

ISBN # 1-4199-0637-2

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Sinful Copyright© 2006 Nathalie Gray

Edited by Mary Moran.

Cover art by Syneca.

Electronic book Publication: October 2006

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 .

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.

Content Advisory:

S – ENSUOUS

E – ROTIC

X - TREME Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated S-ensuous.

S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. E-rated titles might contain material that some readers find objectionable—in other words, almost anything goes, sexually. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry in terms of both sexual language and descriptiveness in these works of literature.

X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Stories designated with the letter X tend to contain difficult or controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

SINFUL

Nathalie Gray Author’s Note

Dear Reader, Allow me a quick detour before you get onto the highway. It’ll be short and—hopefully—interesting. War and religion have long been buddies. The idea that one man can serve both his sovereign and his God and not demand twice the pay is neither new nor the sole jurisdiction of the Catholic Church. During the Middle Ages when crusading had become a popular sport—and we need to thank Pope Urban II for that—several orders of these religious knights were formed. One only needs to think of the Knights Templar or Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem. Then there are the lay brothers, as with Gautier, Sinful’s hero. Lay brothers are devout, hardworking men who through a formal and private promise give their loyalty to the service of the Holy Order with which they affiliate. They follow the rule of prayer as closely as their individual circumstances and prior commitments permit. They are not ordained priests and wear different uniforms than their religious brethren. Also, during the Middle Ages and as per the Code of Canon Law, when there was a shortage of priests, lay brothers were sometimes called upon to perform certain services such as marriages and contrition of charity—what was later called penance or confession. Barring an incredible convergence of cosmic powers beyond my control—but I’m working on it—this story isn’t a historical record. When I wrote Sinful two and a half years ago, I proudly dredged any wickedness it may contain from my own turbulent mind. Sinful wasn’t intended to mock, ridicule or offend anyone from any given denomination. An optimist at heart, I sincerely believe no one’s faith should be brittle enough to be affected by the ramblings of an overly imaginative mind. Most of all, I’d like you, dear Reader, to remember that Sinful is a love story. It is not intending to represent actual factual details of the Church language or customs of the times…and…oh yes, it’s a work of FICTION.

Chapter One A storm pounded outside her window. Rain ticked against the glass while the wind howled like a dying beast. Charlotte filled the page of the ledger with her tight scrawl and drew an oblique line under the very last entry. After signing the document, taking half the reserved space, she dated the entry and put the quill back in its holder on the worn desk. Baroness Charlotte Bourbon-Condé gleamed Prussian blue before it darkened and dried. Charlotte leaned back in her chair and sipped the last drop of amber liquid from the copper siphon. Sweetness on the tongue and spicy aftertaste in the throat. Just right. The single-barrel bourbon was her first batch on her own, started during the summer of forty-eight, eight years ago, right after both her parents had died of ague—before Jean-Louis had left for the crusade, not to be seen again. The usual sting made her eyes water. She kissed the ring her brother had left her, which had once belonged to their father. It only fit her thumb, yet she could not stomach the idea of having it fitted to her fingers. Jean-Louis would return and claim it back. What would he say if the thing no longer fit him? She surely could have used her brother’s help these days but would walk about town naked before she would admit it. Still, this latest batch’s success was assured since her twice-removed cousin and his entourage practically treasured whatever came out of the Bourbon-Condé distillery. That the Duke Charles of Valois, the old paternal uncle to three kings, drank her bourbon, made it possible for her to sell it at a handsome price, which in turn turned a thick profit and provided for her province, her house and her employees. Never mind that people whispered at her back! Yes, she was a twenty-six-year-old single woman who ran the largest distillery in Europe and until Jean-Louis returned from the crusade, she would remain the head of the Bourbon-Condé family. Husband or not. Charlotte yawned. A monastic silence owned the darkened distillery. She massaged her neck as she rose from the desk and paced blood back in her legs. From her vantage point on the mezzanine, she could survey the large warehouse, its lower floor divided into tiered ricks, which held a row of barrels each. A narrow passage down the middle much similar to the aisle in a church allowed access to the barrels. Lovers’ Lane, according to her overseer. Charlotte scowled at the thought. Though she had never actually stumbled upon anyone so occupied, she did not doubt the dark corners’ enticing shelter. Charlotte yawned wide and stretched. She still had other accounts to fill. She best start now before Armand arrived and did them himself. Her overseer’s handwriting was even worse than her own. And he always complained as he filled the ledgers about the cost of such and such item or how much

precious water flowed in the oars of the distillery. She sat back at the desk and pulled the other ledger close. With balmy smells of wood barrels and their caramel-scented contents drifting up to her, Charlotte leaned over the book and began another long list of entries.

***** “Mistress Charlotte.” Armand’s voice floated through her mind with the ethereal grace of a ghost ship on an oily sea. He repeated her name. Her grumbled reply did not satisfy him for he shook her by the shoulder. Dark brown curls fell over her face. She blew on them. “What?” she mumbled, lifting her head and rubbing saliva from her cheek. She had fallen asleep at the desk. Again. “You should turn in and get some true sleep, mistress. I’ll make sure the batch goes out smoothly.” “I’m sure you would, Armand, but this one’s different. You understand.” He said he did and retreated a couple of steps when she stretched and unfolded her tired frame from the chair. She stood almost as tall as he did—much taller than most women. She usually looked down at other females. Not factually of course, but figuratively. Then again, maybe she did both… Armand’s wizened face tightened. “He was here again, mistress. I told him that I couldn’t find you.” A cloud masked his already dark eyes. He tried hard to keep the disdain from showing but there it was, plain as salt on a wound. “Guilabert?” As if she needed to ask. Armand’s lips twitched. He nodded. Guilabert. Now there was a different sort of man. Darkly handsome with a wit keen enough to cut through steel, he had a thirst for life that made him exciting to be around. Yet since his return from the crusade almost a year ago, he had in his head to marry her and would not let go. Surely, the long time away from home had dulled his memory. He’d been the one laughing at the idea. Never in front of her parents of course, who loved him as their own, but did privately when only the three inseparables were present—her brother Jean-Louis, Guilabert and she. Charlotte had been torn between her affection for the handsome young lad and her friendship with Jean-Louis and her childhood friend. Despite her parents’ insistent appeals that she marry the family friend and be done with it, she hadn’t voiced her penchant in case things started happening too fast. Not that she’d never been intimate with

him. Fortune’s good graces, she had lost her virginity to him and his to her, but it was years ago. Children’s games. Then her parents had died and with them, any hope of her finding solace in Guilabert’s arms as both her brother and his best friend had left to fight for the Holy Land. She had stayed behind, had waited as the years effectively doused any flame that might have lived for the dark-haired handsome man. And since his return, well, she hadn’t been able to reconcile the driven but appealing lad with the stern knight who came back from Jerusalem. “I’ll go home to freshen up but I’ll be back for the shipping. I want to be there when the horses take those barrels away.” A knowing smile tugged at Armand’s thin lips. “No master distiller wants to miss his first batch leaving home.” Master distiller. He had never called her thus before. Feeling more validated than she had ever been, Charlotte nodded and climbed down the narrow steps leading to the main floor. Keeping to the right of the central alley, she rolled down the sleeves of her tunic and crossed her arms. Bright late summer sun hailed her. Workers nodded or saluted her as she passed and headed for the stable. She knew they spoke behind her back. “Ice Queen.” “Iron Maiden.” “Steel Daisy.” She heard them all. She had to be—for the family, for the business. And for my sanity. Running things as a female caused an assortment of difficulties Charlotte could have done without, but keeping an austere exterior had worked to her advantage until now. Though it apparently had no grip on overconfident Guilabert. Perhaps because he held hope she was still the impressionable girl he’d left behind. Lemony smells of coniferous trees and heady scents of horses accosted her. She managed a tired grin. If mankind meant trouble, animals meant peace. And she much preferred to be around the latter. Less worry. Less heartache. She rounded the corner of the vast warehouse and crossed the crushed gravel path. Crystal gurgles from the river floated to her. Charlotte smiled openly then was quick to suppress it. Nothing stirred her as rushing water. How she had worried her parents when Guilabert, Jean-Louis and she would out dive one another from the rocks overlooking the cascade. What fun! She rarely visited their favorite spot now. She had neither the time nor the heart to indulge in such simple pleasures. The groom must have spotted her coming down the path for a horse was ready by the time she neared the stable. “My thanks!” she called to the unseen groom. Fretting under its saddle, the blue roan quivered into a brisk trot as soon as she deposited her bottom. No need reining it back—she felt up to a good ride herself.

She barely touched its flanks, but it knew right away its rider wanted speed, yearned for release. It kicked into a fast trot then a leaping gallop. Thundering down the hill, they devoured the path and left dust in their wake. Charlotte yelled at the top of her lungs. Between trees to her left, the river flickered past, like silver coins spinning against a green velvety background. It blinked as if telling a good story. It had stories to tell, that river! The Bourbon-Condé family had been making their namesake whiskey for generations, whiskey prized by the upper crust of society, French and foreign. They had dammed the river, using its force to work the machinery then its essence to make the bourbon now so famous. Even the horses benefited from the limestone water that kept them strong and swift. The manor poked copper pointy roofs over the crest of trees and Charlotte slowed her horse. She sighed when she looked down at herself. Dew and mud splattered her boots and hose. Constance would have something to say about it for sure. As much as her husband Armand was good-natured, head servant Constance was all vinegar. Charlotte’s scowl deepened when she spotted a lone rider by the side of the road. The dark destrier was hard to miss, as was its rider. Charlotte shook her head. So the knight was back in the region again, probably housed at his friend’s home not far from Montmorency. Guilabert still wore bits of armor. Not that it did not suit him, on the contrary, for the burnished plates gave him quite a stunning look. Yet it had been a while now since his return from the crusade. “Guilabert,” she called with a small wave. He waved back, his gloved hand moving high over his head. He maneuvered the huge dark horse about and slid off its back, armor and all, with the ease of a dancer and the strength of a bear. Her heart would have leapt at the sight only a few years ago. Not now. Not anymore. “No helm today, Guilabert? You’re losing your edge,” she remarked with fake levity. He let the quip pass with a nod of his dark head. The tight curls made him look much younger than his late twenties. His eyes though betrayed his age, especially since his return. The hazel orbs looked colder, had lost the gay sparkle from before the crusade, although he accused her of the same. And he was right. She had changed. She had hardened. Charlotte squinted in the sunlight when Guilabert approached and meant to seize the reins from her hand. Her horse neighed and shook its head away. A crease carved the man’s high brow. “Your mount needs taming,” he said in his milky baritone. She dismounted a foot from Guilabert. Flicking the reins over her horse’s head, she shrugged. “What brings you down about these parts? Is Lussier getting lonely?” She knew full well the answer but wanted to give him a chance to prove her wrong.

His glove creaked when he balled a fist. A step brought him a hand’s-breadth away from her. He leaned in and inhaled deeply. “You still smell of up there,” he said, pointing with his chin at the hill behind her. “Like caramel and cinnamon, sweet and spicy. And just as intoxicating.” “Stop your games.” “They’re not games, Charlotte. Not to me.” There was steel in his voice and in his eyes. She shivered when he extended a hand and caressed her chin. How she had yearned for his touch before he had left and continued to hunger for it while he was gone. At first anyway. In the almost eight years he’d been gone, with no note except the quick greeting he’d scribble on her brother’s letters, the tiny flame had sputtered and died. Then she’d received no more letters. Now that he was back—with no news from Jean-Louis other than “he’s fighting the enemy”—she should be glad he still held affection for her, but something had changed in him. Something had soured. Darkened. The young man she’d known was dead. “I’m sending out my first batch today,” she replied lightly. Trying to keep Guilabert from his goal was as futile as trying to divert a river from its bed—it worked, but only for a short while. Playing along, he nodded. “Are you? I’m sure it’s…delectable.” How could a man use such a common word, render it so sinister yet so seductive? Heat rose in waves out of her parted tunic. She fought to keep her breathing regular, did not want him to see the effect his words had on her. If her heart was forever closed to him, her body was not immune to his dark charms. Traitorous flesh. As if he sensed her struggle, he leaned in and let his mouth hover over hers while he inhaled her breath. His lips were a glistening invitation, poised over hers, a whisper away. She sighed and lowered her head, breaking the spell. “It wouldn’t work…” He grabbed her shoulder. “Do you enjoy tormenting me?” “You’re tormenting yourself. I already told you—” Guilabert’s lips landed on hers in a bruising kiss. He straightened hurriedly and took a step back. “There was a time when I didn’t have to beg for a kiss from you.” His tone was a keen blade sliding against her heart. True, there had been a time, and it was gone. Along with her freedom to do aught about it. “It’s different now. I have the distillery to think about, the affairs, and it’s taking all my time.” He laughed that cold laugh so uncharacteristic of the friend she remembered.

“Ah yes, no need for a husband when you have all those men at the distillery to keep you satisfied. Which one do you visit the most, I wonder.” Charlotte wanted to slap the sneer from his face. Arrogant brute. Instead, she willed her anger to subside. Guilabert had undoubtedly suffered during the crusade and she should do well to remember. With time he would find a woman who would be good to him. And he’ll leave me alone. They’ll all leave me well alone. The men in her life left her—that is what they did. Her father, her brother and now her friend, even though he stood right in front of her. “Naught to say? That’s not like you.” She forced a casual grin and shrugged. “I know you. You don’t mean what you just said.” “You don’t know me now, Charlotte,” he snapped back. Then, as if feeling remorseful, he shook his head. “And I don’t know you either. You’re distant, cold. Can’t it be as before? I’d be a good husband to you. Your parents wanted it, so does Jean-Louis. I’d take care of you and provide everything you need.” “I have everything I need,” she replied, trying too late to keep the edge from her voice. Guilabert raised an eyebrow. “It’s wrong for you to work so hard and so long. To always be surrounded by men. It’s not natural.” “Because I’m a woman?” “Of course.” He said this without any trace of amusement. Charlotte could have slammed her boot in his arrogant, oh-so beautiful face. The gall! “While you and Jean-Louis were at the crusade, I was the one running the distillery. I took care, and still do, of everything. The Bourbon-Condé name prospered and continues to do so under me. Don’t forget that.” As if a cloud had passed over his soul, his eyes darkened to slate gray and Guilabert crossed his arms over his plated chest. His family crest, a hawk rampant over azure, gleamed like liquid fire. “And you shouldn’t forget that Jean-Louis is older. He’s the true owner of the distillery. Not you.” “Go to hell.” “I’ve been there already.” She meant some acid remark, something cruel and to the point. The lump in her throat barred everything else but air. And even then.

Guilabert’s expression remained glacial as he mounted his horse and pulled on the reins. “I still keep hope that you’ll do what’s best for your family. You need a man to protect you, Charlotte. A woman alone isn’t safe in this world.” Charlotte lowered her gaze when he passed so he would not see the hurt. Anger bubbled up her throat. How dare he lecture her on what role a woman should play? While he and Jean-Louis had chosen, chosen, to fight some distant war, she had had to remain at home and make sure they still had a home to return to. Men left, dropping responsibilities and duties on women’s shoulders, but when they returned, they wanted to take it all back as if naught had happened. She knuckled the tears from her eyes. “‘You need a man to protect you, Charlotte,’” she parroted under her breath. Like the Devil she did! What—whom—exactly, should she be protected against? A shiver tingled up her neck. Perhaps she should let Armand know. Her overseer could place sentries at night about the distillery. She always worked so late. The thought left as soon as it registered. Foolish woman. Guilabert would say anything to make her change her mind. It was not the first time. Yet she could not deny the icy glint in his eyes nor the weight of his words as they settled into her gut. No, she thought, she would not tell Armand, but she would be more careful from now on and carry a weapon. Just in case…

***** “A plague on him,” Charlotte grumbled as she chewed on the lead plummet. No use trying to concentrate, she could sit there no more. Every sound made her twitch—every smell was suspicious. Guilabert had succeeded in turning her in to a nervous wreck. It had been two weeks already but their conversation still lingered. Like a stench. Charlotte pushed away from the desk and leaned back in the chair. Her ring gleamed on her left thumb and she lovingly traced the ruby in its crest. Tears welled. Charlotte willed them away and looked out the window. Summer was almost over but the air was hot and humid tonight. Underneath the tunic, her undertunic clung and made her feel uncomfortable and cross. With a long sigh, she snapped the ledger shut and pushed it at arm’s length. She should go home.

Keeping her senses acute for any sign of danger, Charlotte barred the office on the mezzanine and stepped down the narrow stairs into the darkness of the main floor. There she kept her hand on the hilt of the dagger at her waist as she navigated the ricks of barrels with practiced ease. When she stepped outside, a warm breeze caressed her neck and face. Naught save the occasional night bird stirred the air. A crescent moon glowed high in the sky. Charlotte made her way to the stable, but as she drew near a flash of silver caught her attention. To her right, between trees, the river twinkled invitingly. She was so warm, the river so alluring. Perhaps she could revisit their old hiding place where they used to jump off rocks into the frigid river. It would be just like old times. Only she would be alone. The familiar sting burned her eyes. How she missed Jean-Louis. He would put Guilabert back in his place, he would trust her with the business. He had left it in her hands after all eight years ago. The river twinkled again. Charlotte grinned. A little swim would do no harm. Keeping her hand on the dagger, she entered the woods edging the nearest bank of the river and followed the well-worn path upstream. Workers milled here during the day, but she knew the whole length of the narrow path, not only the wider end. As the moon shone overhead, casting bluish light in dappled pattern through the leaves, Charlotte marched upstream. When she recognized the little bent tree that announced the end of the main path, she slowed and slipped between a pair of large maples. Here though, Charlotte had to step over and swerve around many obstacles. She could not remember there having been so many. A few branches caught her across the face and chest, but she mostly made unhindered progress through the woods. To her right, the river still glimmered like a jewel. Its water would be a cool caress, she knew. Soon, a sound rumbled in the distance. The cascade drew nearer. Charlotte grinned. If she remembered correctly, then that strange-looking rock right over there announced the end of the path. The sound of the cascade intensified. Not the thunderous roar of her impressionable youth but a solid growl just the same. She rounded a bend in the river and stopped. There it was. Dimmed with the years and not as majestic as she remembered, it was still their cascade. Her cascade now. She could not keep the grin from her face as she fought the last clingy branches and emerged onto the uneven, rocky bank. The river coursed narrow here, but swift. Anyone who fell in its water would be swept downstream. There was a bowl-like dimple about twenty feet in diameter at the base of the cascade where they used to dive. It looked too shallow to dive in now but still deep enough for a good swim. Knowing the High Road passed somewhere over the cascade, Charlotte kept to the trees and pulled her boots, hose and tunic off. What of the dagger? She was loath to bring it into the water for

fear of ruining it. With a sigh, she wrapped the belt over the dagger and its sheath and hid it under her hose. She was about to step into the water when the sound of tumbling rocks froze her. Quickly, Charlotte crouched by a small boulder not nearly large enough to hide her. It was all she had close by. Liquid drums thrummed in her ears. She was half naked! Apprehension tingled up her spine. Her dagger was already too far behind. She would not reach it without attracting attention. By the silvery light, she spotted a form moving through the trees upstream barely twenty paces away. This had to be someone coming in from the High Road and not from the smaller one running through her land. Who traveled at this time of night? Her answer came in the guise of a dark form scrambling down the bank. A man judging by the size of the shoulders. He dropped a large sack at his feet and slid some pieces of garment over his head. Charlotte slapped her hands over her mouth when a naked torso appeared from under the garments followed by a pair of legs. A very naked man turned in her direction and walked right into the dimple of river meant for her. The beating of her heart accentuated, painful, arrhythmic, until she had to press her palm to her chest. Good God, he was completely naked.

Chapter Two As much as Charlotte wanted to back away, gather her things and leave, she was frozen in place as if the soles of her feet had been nailed to the ground. This was dishonorable. She should at least lower her gaze. Yet the helpful moon provided more than enough light to reveal the man’s muscled form. More glorious a male body she had never seen. Not that she had seen many. In his early thirties perhaps, with a thick upper body and muscled legs. The hair was very pale and straight, cut about the nape of his neck, almost as a monk but longer. Wide, rounded shoulders gleamed when he bent forward and splashed water on himself. He straightened and Charlotte spotted a gleam of gold on his thick chest. Perhaps she could cough politely to let him know he was not alone. Yet doing so would break the riveting scene now displayed for her. Charlotte felt her nipples harden beneath the undertunic. Guilt prickled her skin. She would not want to discover she had been spied upon during such intimate moments and this man undoubtedly felt the same. She meant to tear her gaze away, she truly did. Yet Charlotte continued to stare as the oblivious man walked deeper in the river, in water up to his waist. He sighed in contentment. After he splashed water on his arms and shoulders, he dipped his head back and disappeared under the surface. He emerged soon after, his body glistening in the moonlight, his hair plastered back

on his skull in a way that only served to emphasize the perfect proportions of his firm-looking and fit body. With short, quick strokes, he rubbed his arms and chest, his neck. Charlotte was in a sweat trying to fight the rising desire clawing at her. As though fighting a fever, her skin pebbled. She should leave. Now. It was so wrong. As if his senses had alerted him to her presence, he turned toward her and froze. Panicked, Charlotte jumped to her feet and took a step back but misjudged and lost her balance. With a yelp, she staggered back and landed among rocks. The sound of splashing water cut through the pain of the sharp stones digging in her backside and palms. Oh God, he was coming for her! Floundering to her feet, she stifled another yelp when a hand closed like a bear trap over her upper arm and pulled her to her feet without apparent effort. Not that her wiry frame weighed much but still, she was taller and heavier than most women. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to pry but I was here first,” she stammered, hating herself for it. How the townsfolk would be shocked to see their “Ice Queen” stammer like a débutante. She turned to face him and could not help but marvel at his exquisite stature. He was even more striking up close. Water like crystal beads dotted his skin. A small gold cross gleamed on his chest. Good God. What is that? Charlotte gasped audibly. Thin silver lines crisscrossed his muscled torso and shoulders. Whiplash scars. A lot of them. Other scars, some appearing old, others older, made a map of his skin. She tore her gaze from his chest and planted it on his face. “There’s enough water to go around,” he replied gruffly. Eyes so pale as to look cut from ice stared at her unblinkingly. I should say something. I definitely should say something. Charlotte chanted the mantra in her head but could find no words. The ache in her belly intensified and seeped down between her legs to a sex growing slicker by the moment. Her thighs began to cramp painfully. Shame made her avoid his gaze. Feelings she thought long buried surfaced, poked out from underneath layers of bitterness and isolation that years spent alone fighting the current had caused. Lust blazed like a merciless sun. There was nowhere to hide from its stabbing light that illuminated every dark and sordid corner of her soul. An image of the splendid man making love to her flashed in her mind’s eye. Under the undertunic, her nipples hardened into pebbles. They must have shown through the flimsy fabric. He would think her an indecent woman. She wanted to groan in despair. Yearning very close to pain gripped her. How she wanted to taste this man, to let her hands roam over his compact body.

What was she thinking! She needed no man. She did not even know him. He might have been a robber for all she knew. Or worse… Still the silence dragged on. He must have sensed her uneasiness for he narrowed his eyes and released her arm. When she lifted her gaze to him, her breathing accelerated. So she was not the only one wrestling against lascivious thoughts. Lust blazed in his pale eyes, made the ambrosial lips gleam temptingly. A deep sigh swelled his chest. His own struggles looked greater still for he audibly gritted his teeth and looked away. Without her meaning to, she caught herself peeking down the length of him. Oh my. She pressed her lips together when she discovered he looked as aroused as she felt. Charlotte glanced up just in time to meet his gaze. He opened his mouth to say something but clamped it shut again. Without warning, he leaned in and planted a swift, light kiss on her mouth. Fire spread through her face, down her throat, into her belly. She did not even know him. She should push him back. Scream and kick and thrash. She was tall and strong and had dealt with men all her life. Her dagger. Perhaps she could push him away and run for her weapon. She could use it, and well. He retreated at once, looking as shocked as she felt. Their gazes met and locked. A lifetime of words could not have expressed more than that single look, the depth and intensity of his gaze, the unspoken passion stirring beneath the hard exterior as he fought to contain or even perhaps deny it. But she’d seen the warmth even if she instinctively knew the man would never acknowledge it. The warmth and the passion, a thirst for life suppressed long ago. He was trapped inside his own body. How she knew all of this with a single look, Charlotte could only guess. Two things she understood—he would not harm her and she could mend the hurt she saw. Then again, she hurt just as acutely from the same privation. As two starving people reaching the feast at the same time, she recognized that they could nourish one another, appease the loneliness. Even if for a short while. To her amazement, her hands appeared on his scarred chest. When had she decided to touch him? I’ll push him away. That’s it. Then make a run for it. That’s what I should do. He’s a stranger. The scars were satiny ribbons under her fingers. Instead of pushing him away though—she suspected she’d never really had any intentions of doing so—she snaked her hands over his shoulders and behind his solid neck. Such glorious skin, like silk left under a hot midday sun. How her flesh had become traitorous in the span of a moment. She could no more push this man away than move a boulder. The latter sounded even more plausible right at that moment.

Her inviting gesture seemed to spur him on. He sighed as he encircled her waist in his strong arms and pressed her close. He seemed desperate to merge them both into one person, as if he’d long denied himself, spent years, his entire life, renouncing his own needs. Charlotte let him arch her back, feeling his hardness against her lower belly. He was so hot. His warmth seeped through her undertunic. She shivered. How could this man awaken her body with only a kiss? She swore she could feel herself melting within his fiery embrace. A hand both rough and gentle left the small of her back and traveled up her side. Her heartbeat spiked to a full gallop now. His hand… He cupped her breast and squeezed slightly, hesitantly. Charlotte gasped and arched farther back to stare at him. His raw masculinity overwhelmed her. Every feature seemed chiseled by a master’s sure touch, from high brow, straight jaw to perfect, arched eyebrows. Except for his nose, which had been clearly broken sometime in the past. She meant to say something but he dove for her mouth and silenced her with a deep kiss. Charlotte parted her lips to allow his fiery tongue access. His lips felt supple and warm against hers. A blaze rushed up her belly and stirred the skin of her breasts into tight goose bumps. Through the thin fabric, the heat of his hand tightened her nipple. Leaving her mouth, he trailed kisses down her throat. All she could do was stand there and offer as much skin as she possibly could. Some baroness. A soft moan escaped him when she dug her nails in his back while simultaneously parting her thighs to allow one of his in between. Her sex rubbing against his hard muscles produced a twinge of pleasure sharp and intense…and profoundly forbidden. He pulled away with a strangled moan. She almost fell and stumbled back a step to regain her balance. He rubbed a hand over his face with a look of guilt and distress that twisted his countenance. Despite the poor light, she saw his eyes welling, as though a dam had been breached and all the misery in the world was pouring out through his eyes. Hair stuck out in tufts between his fingers when he curled them into a tight fist. The man had knuckles the size of walnuts. He hissed a long breath. “It’s… I can’t.” She wanted to say something, to tell him—to beg him—to continue, that to leave her this way was cruelty. No words found their way up her throat. Instead, she stepped forward and put a hand over his scarred chest. His torment touched her, stirred her heart. He seemed so bent on denying his flesh, something Charlotte knew very well. She drew near. He would have taken a step back had he been able but a ridge of small boulders was blocking his path so he stood his ground. A look of panic flared his eyes. Charlotte let her hand slide down his arm and grabbed his hand. A working hand. “We don’t know each other but just for this one moment, let’s forget who we are.”

Clutching his hand in hers, she moved into the water until it reached her waist before turning to him and waiting for his reaction. He’d followed placidly then turned to meet her gaze when she stopped. The water stiffened her already hard nipples, made her tremble. He put gentle but calloused hands on either side of her face and leaned in so he could rest his brow on hers, as if he needed the support, needed something to hold on to. A man so strong leaning against her for support stoked the already blazing inferno in her belly. With skill she did not know she possessed, Charlotte slithered trembling fingers through his hair and down his spine, eliciting a series of ragged breaths from him. Alternately firm and tender, she caressed his back down to his bottom, circled his hips then snaked back up along his belly where scars had not spared a hand’s-breadth of skin before ending her journey on his jaw, which she cupped while she stared into his icy blue eyes. He visibly tensed. As if unable to deny himself any longer, he gripped her by the shoulders and brought her against his chest. Thick muscles corded and dislodged the small golden cross from between his pectorals. She raised her chin to meet his lips. For the first time in her life, Charlotte was able to quiet the scolding voice in her head, the one that had denied her pleasure and companionship—the one that insisted she be the Iron Lady in charge of the Bourbon-Condé empire. She let herself go. Completely. Trusting. With water caressing their bodies, she pressed herself against him, made room once more for his leg between her knees. His kiss began slow and leisurely then became more insistent, more passionate. She responded to his tongue’s probing with her own. Small moans of pleasure escaped them both. While he caressed her face and neck, she let her hands venture farther down his hard front until she reached the base of his member. A shiver shook him when she stroked it. The man pulled back again, but this time she could tell he did not mean to leave, only to look at her. Carnal hunger blazed like a firestorm in his eyes. With trembling fingers, he unlaced the front of her undertunic and pulled the opening wider apart. Then he stood there, admiring her form, drinking her in. He could have been a starving man gazing at the most exquisite of feasts, yet still unable or unwilling to allow his body satisfaction. Perhaps he was shy? As though she were not awkward herself! She could have laughed at the situation had she not been trying to remain at least partially under control. Charlotte loosened the undertunic even more, which exposed the crease underneath her breasts. When she looked down at herself, she saw a tiny sliver of areola exposed to his ardent gaze. God, she wanted, needed, to taste his mouth on her flesh. Everywhere. Anywhere. Extending a hand, she cupped his chin and guided him down to her chest. He did not need more encouragement and avidly enveloped her nipple with lips so hot Charlotte gasped. Against the cold water stroking her skin, his blistering mouth contrasted pleasurably. He enfolded her in a tight one-arm

embrace while his free hand kneaded her breast and his mouth devoured her nipple showing partly through the thin, wet linen. Raising her face to the sky, she let him satiate them both. With fingers she strove to keep gentle, she raked his hair back from his face while keeping a constant pressure against his nape. A sharp twinge of heat announced he’d nipped her. A gasp escaped Charlotte, which seemed to trigger a feeding frenzy in him. Her mouth opened in a silent O as she encouraged his feast of both her nipples. He held her breasts in hard hands, gathering them in the middle so he could taste them both in quick succession. Urges so base she could barely contain the thought assailed her. She wanted him in her. Now. Charlotte pushed him at arm’s length and scanned the area. A somewhat flat rock protruded from the river, near the foot of the cascade. Understanding her intent, the man preceded her there and hoisted Charlotte up onto the rock then climbed on himself. When she sat on the rock, Charlotte was shocked to realize she felt no awkwardness, not even a grain of embarrassment at being half dressed in front of a complete stranger. A very naked, very aroused stranger. Leaning back on her elbows, she slid her legs apart a little bit wider and stared hard at him. Those luscious lips of his parted at the sight of her gleaming wet curls and he leaned in, placing an arm on either side of her hips. While he licked with feverish abandon her breasts and throat, he maneuvered her so his glistening member was poised over her. Suddenly he stopped and stared. Did one last, desperate doubt plague him still? Then she understood. Not doubt, confirmation. Without words or other signals, she felt he was asking for her approval, was making sure she still wanted this, offering her one last time an honorable retreat. What a strange, considerate man. For reply, Charlotte latched on to his strong back with both hands and forced him down. Her strength seemed to surprise him. His elbows buckled while his weight drove the air out of her. He was much heavier than he looked. With a hand visibly shaking, he guided his member near her entrance and slowly, very slowly, introduced his searing flesh to hers. Charlotte stopped breathing as heat diffused from her engorged sex through her whole belly. A tremor shook her. Finally, his shaft filled her tight channel completely and the man stopped moving. For several heartbeats he lay there very still, inside her to the hilt. His mouth was poised over hers, a hair’s-breadth away. His breath smelled of lemons and sage. Heat started to spread to her legs, the urge in her belly to heighten. What was he doing? She rolled her hips forward but he did not budge. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he started to retreat. The head of his member felt so close to the opening she feared he was leaving for real. He did not. With a long shuddering breath, he entered her again, not stopping until he filled her completely and their skin connected at every point.

Charlotte stared up at him in wonder. Then a heartbeat later, she understood. A wave of heat blasted up from her distended folds, in a straight line to her navel then tingled all the way up to her nipples. Before she had time to voice her pleasure, he did it again, harder, faster. With impressive strength, he wound an arm under her middle and arched her up. A ripple of pleasure coursed over her stretched skin. God! Another thrust, this one so deep she gasped audibly, practically lifted her off the rock and with the acute angle, the length of him rubbed along her bud. She felt wetness other than river water slicking her sex. He must have felt the difference for his drive became more ardent, more desperate, as if he fought against time itself, wanted to take as much as he could before he was abruptly torn from her. Each jab heaved her higher into the strong arm he kept wrapped about her waist. Simultaneously, he gave a mighty push and sucked hard on a nipple. His shaft rubbed and crushed her sensitive pearl, triggering tiny jolts of pleasure and forced Charlotte to let out a ragged cry of bliss that would have shamed her any other time. She did not care right then. Propriety and demureness could go to hell. And she, well, she would be in heaven. A long shudder rocked his hard body and with a lengthy sigh that sounded as though it’d never end, he rolled onto his back, pressing her against his chest to keep his pulsing member inside her. He buried his face in her thick dark curls. Wrapping her arms around his head, she leaned over and rested her weight completely on him and stayed thus for a long time. Blood had long ago ceased to flow to her feet and they tingled. Sweat, water and both their essences joined them. As much as their hurried coupling had satisfied her, Charlotte felt remnants of fire still burning low in her core and knew she hungered for more. Slowly she began to gyrate over him, kissing his wet hair, his forehead, his eyelids for his eyes were closed. The broken bridge of his nose, the exquisite mouth, corner to corner, even nibbling on his bottom lip, then Charlotte moved down to his strong chin and neck, which she play bit, then to his jaw. One of his hands traced serpentine shapes along her hip before his other joined it. Shivers stiffened her hold around his member. His eyes flared wide. Gone was the misery, the desperation. Instead, pure, untainted desire shined there. She could tell he wanted her again. So did she. He parted her undertunic wide so he could wrap it down her shoulders and underline her breasts with it. Charlotte allowed his mouth to cover a nipple by leaning over and offering it to him. A moan left her when he gently suckled. Clutching him with her sex, she pulled upward then slid back down along him. Then again. And again. Adding pressure, increasing momentum, with a twist of the hip here, a throaty moan there, Charlotte soon had him silently twisting beneath her and felt formidable for it. To have such a strong and intense man between her legs, a stranger no less, made her giddy with her

own femininity and for that dazzling moment, she thought she could do anything, accomplish whatever she set out to do. Even love a stranger. When he grabbed her waist and arched his hips under hers, she cried out and threw her head back. Though he lay underneath her, he was managing to pump hard enough to lift her knees off the rock. His fingers digging in her flesh, the man pushed deep. Then he pushed deeper. Unlike their previous lovemaking, when he’d taken her with urgency and near desperation, Charlotte could tell he was now pacing himself for the long ride. Thrill at their forbidden affair added an intoxicating effect to the mix. Spreading her thighs as wide as she could and not caring that she was scraping her knees against the rock, she rolled her hips rhythmically, reaching behind her and using his knees as anchors. Fire lanced through her opening. When he abandoned her waist so he could clutch at her breasts, what began as a startled gasp turned into a hoarse sigh then one long, uninterrupted whimper. Even more honey spilled out of her, coated his member. With a violent shudder that nearly jettisoned her, the man flopped back down onto his back and bucked with astounding force. Their simultaneous, ragged cries startled a night bird, which flew away with a piercing keen. She panted so hard that she could barely force her dry throat to swallow what little saliva was there. Between huffs, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly before letting his head loll side to side. Charlotte took a moment to admire her nocturnal companion. Such perfect form of body. He was fit to paint. When he opened his eyes to look at her, a flicker of smile lifted his mouth but was subdued right away. For support, she brought her left hand onto his chest. The ring flashed in the moonlight. He stared curiously at it. For a moment, she regretted not having hid her ring in her boots. What if he decided to steal it from her? She doubted she could take on such a strong man. He only looked at it though, as if surprised to see it there. Then she understood. She may be a baroness but she wore her hair unbound and a man’s undertunic—and ill-fitted, for that matter. How could he know she was of the nobility? Charlotte bent over his chest and kissed his nipples. The tiny gold cross flashed. She ran a gentle finger over it and looked up into his face to find him staring at her. The pain had returned to the pale eyes. He looked away as he gently but firmly forced Charlotte off him. Without a word and avoiding her gaze, he rolled onto his side and slid into the cool water. With her heart still pounding a mad cadence, Charlotte followed suit and used the gentle current to wash herself of his seed. Everything burned and pulsated down there. She felt herself blush. Wondering at the man’s strange behavior, she retrieved her hose and tunic and splashed over to the spot where she had kicked off her boots. Meanwhile, the man had retrieved his things and was hurriedly wrestling them back on. When she turned to him, hesitant, shifting from one foot to the other, he looked ready to talk. He must have changed his mind for he shook his head, looked up into the night sky and let out a great sigh.

“God, forgive me,” she heard him whisper. A weight settled in the bottom of her stomach. She did not look up when he retrieved his pack, slung it over his shoulder and proceeded to climb back up to the road.

***** Charlotte stifled a groan of pain when she bent down to rub the dogs. Her encounter with the strange man had left her bruised and sore. Pleasurably so. Guilt was quick to poke some sense into her. How could she have done such a thing? With a complete stranger, no less. The folly, the sheer recklessness of it, flushed her cheeks. She had never, ever, been so irresponsible. Regret gnawed at her soul. What if he had attacked her, robbed her? What if he had killed her? She would have been found sprawled by the river’s bank, exposed to the most personal level for all to see. Charlotte groaned in misery. A whimper brought her back to reality. The three massive bloodhounds fought one another for her attention and Charlotte had to get down on her knees to make sure they all received their fair share. The female as usual shouldered her way closer, a wide sloppy grin pulling her russet skin. Charlotte smiled at the dogs’ antics. After a while of petting and wrestling her only friends, Charlotte sensed another presence. In the doorway leading inside the mansion stood Constance, Armand’s acid-tempered wife. The simple delight of her dogs’ companionship dimmed somewhat and Charlotte stood. She stared hard at Constance until the older woman uncrossed her arms and left. Charlotte may be half the head servant’s age but she was the mistress and owed nothing to anyone, especially not to a sourpuss like Constance. If she felt the urge to get down on all fours to play with her dogs, she did not have to ask anyone’s permission. The groom appeared around the corner of the large stone mansion, a grin on his face and a large pewter bowl in his hands. At once, the dogs forgot their precious mistress and nearly knocked the young man off his feet as they competed for the spot closest to his legs. “The poor dears are starving, yes,” he said, giving Charlotte a wide grin. She would have liked naught better than return the favor but could not bring herself to. Her conduct was too fresh, her shame too acute. For the span of a moment, the dogs had helped her forget her torrid encounter with the man at the cascade. The young man set the bowl down and wiped his hands on his hose. “Father Simon is here to see you, mistress. He’s in the library.”

Charlotte hid the apprehension this news caused and nodded. Not that she disliked the old priest. In fact, she quite liked him. For as long as she could remember, old Simon had been the town priest, tending to the souls and spirit of her townsfolk as well as her own family. His kind ways had soured toward her of late, ever since Guilabert’s return. Charlotte tried to tame the scowl creasing her brow as she made her way through the ancient mansion and toward the library. Musty smells of linen and leather filled her nostrils when she stepped into the darkened room. Father Simon stood with his back to her, admiring the same old book he had been admiring on his every visit there—a plants compendium older than even him, bound in tan leather with faded gold trim. “My offer still stands,” she said to his back. He turned and offered her a sad smile. “Its home is here.” “If you change your mind, I’d be glad to know the little book found a more appreciative home than mine,” she replied, entering the room and coming to stand a few paces from the old man. He wore his Sunday best today, she noticed. An official visit? “I know how you dislike dallying,” he said, rubbing his thin beard with a hand so gnarled it resembled a talon. “Sir Guilabert sends me.” She grimaced mentally. Guilabert was getting more energetic with his proposal to have enlisted yet again the help of the old priest. “He knows my position, as do you.” He nodded. “He would treat you well. Your parents would have loved for you to marry him. Perhaps they should have done more than ask you to consider.” Charlotte took a deep breath. “Father…” “I know, child, forgive me. Your parents gave you the choice and, God rest their souls, that decision is still yours to make. I’m only suggesting that Guilabert already knows the region and its people. He is fairly well-liked.” “Was fairly well-liked. He’s changed. Anyway, he’s never wanted me, not then and certainly not now. It’s the name he’s after.” She had figured it out shortly after Guilabert’s return. He had mentioned in passing how lucrative the Bourbon-Condé name was and how fortunate she was to be heading it. The cold glint in his eyes had not set well with her, not at all. Guilabert had never been rich, or not as rich as her family, but her parents had treated him as one of theirs, bestowing on him gifts and endowments much above what he ever would have received from his kin. Shortly before fever had killed them, her parents had even arranged to buy a piece of the neighbor’s land for Guilabert to own and run. But it hadn’t been enough,

for to further his fortune and name, Guilabert had gone to the crusade, acquiring there what he lacked here, standing. Reputation. To put credence to her words, Father Simon’s face tightened around his wrinkled mouth. She knew he thought so as well. Anyone with half a brain could see it. Guilabert wanted more than just to marry a baroness, he wanted to accede to the higher spheres denied him by lineage. But not just Guilabert. How could she trust any man when she had the business to care for? How could she ever find love with such notion lurking at the back of her mind, the fear that they would only want her fortune? Since trust had never come easy to her… “You don’t deny it,” she remarked. He shook his head. Then after some obvious internal struggling, he drew near and leaned in to her. “You have family in Spain. Go to them, visit for a while. Armand would take good care of the distillery in your absence. I would help with the books.” The earnest tone to his voice stoked her curiosity. And her ire. There was a note of warning there. “Why do you want me to leave?” “There’s no fooling you, dear. Just like your mother. Tall and strong. And stubborn,” he replied with another sad smile. “Sir Guilabert is a driven man, Charlotte. While he was in the Holy Land fighting for our Lord he acquired much more than battle scars. He has friends in high places. High indeed. Only God knows what he did to deserve them…” Anger bubbled close to the surface. She hated riddles. “Come out and say it, Father Simon. What is Guilabert up to?” He took a long ragged breath. “Should one highly placed in the Vatican decide that it would be best for an orphaned young woman to marry, said young woman would not have much of a choice. A cardinal could be convinced to sign an edict…especially since…well, Jean-Louis hasn’t returned—” “So if my brother is considered dead, I get to be sold to the highest bidder?” She forgot herself and let her voice rise, something she always tried to avoid. The last thing she needed was to have people gossip about how she could not keep a hold on her temper. Hysterical females. Possessed. Demented. She had seen it happen to other women—their assets seized or transferred to male relatives, their holdings gone. Charlotte would not let this happen to her. Control yourself, she repeated in her head. He is trying to help you. “No one says that he’s dead, dear child. Oh God, what a fix we’re in.” Simon’s voice sounded flat and tired. He looked about and sat in a narrow chair. His wispy hair brushed over his liver-spotted brow when he ran a hand through his bangs. “Please, Charlotte, as a favor to an old man, leave Montmorency, leave France. Let Guilabert’s temper cool. Perhaps in a few weeks, a few months, he will have seen his folly for what it is. And by then you’ll be twenty-seven.”

Leave my home? Charlotte almost choked on the idea. She had to take a long, long breath to calm her nerves. In the end, her cold logic took over. She had not conducted prosperous business with a dozen nations only to be cowed by an envious man. “I won’t relinquish my name, my responsibility, because of some man’s bruised ego,” Charlotte said, heat rising to her cheeks. Men, all of them, were such arrogant, power-hungry tyrants. Well, she would teach them. At least, she would teach one. “I’m not leaving, Father, and if Guilabert wants to bring the Pope all the way from Avignon, I’ll see that His Holiness gets a nice bottle of my finest.” The old man paled considerably. He looked down at the cross resting on his black cassock. “There are things in the Church much more terrible than the Pope.”

Chapter Three Charlotte woke with a scream struggling to escape. Sweat slicked her limbs. She sat and breathed in deeply. What had she been dreaming about? Something to do with water—it was all she could remember. Seeking comfort, she lay back down and turned on her side. With shaking hands, she hugged herself. A mental image flashed before her eyes—male hands, strong, with knuckles the size of walnuts. The three-day-old memory brought on a pang of regret so acute, so stinging, Charlotte let out a ragged sigh. The memory of his touch caused shivers up her spine. “And a rip in my soul,” she added under her breath. Yet, the worst part was she could tell no one about it. The burden suddenly felt too heavy to bear. This shed a new light on the fact she had no friends with whom to share her pain. Her eyes stung with tears. She ran the largest distillery in all of Europe, had done so since she was eighteen. She owned lands both in France and abroad. Hundreds, thousands, worked for her, directly or less so. And she had not a single person she could call friend. Charlotte kicked the coverlet from her legs and threw the cushion across the room. Her heart beat a mad cadence. What had this man done to her? Could it be his touch had caused as much damage as bliss? She climbed off the bed and paced the room. She felt like kicking something. Scanning the place, she spotted a small stool. As she stalked up to it with the full intention of sending it crashing out of her way, a flash caught her eye. Through the glass pane and over adjacent roofs the church’s steeple gleamed like liquid copper, its slender cross a beacon of golden light. She froze. She could tell someone.

Charlotte was dressed within moments. Work hose, undertunic, the infamous man’s tunic Constance wanted to burn, the wide belt and high boots—Charlotte stepped out of the mansion resembling much more a male worker than a baroness. After church, she would go up to the distillery and lose herself in work. It always dulled the pain. Surely this new sort would be no different. After a short ride down to the town proper, Charlotte slid off her mount and stepped into the little darkened church. This early in the day, no one had seen her coming. Father Simon was always here at the crack of dawn. She rushed up the middle aisle, barely genuflecting when she reached the first pews and ran into the confessional. Charlotte waited, wringing her hands. Her sudden arrival was sure to have been heard by the priest. If his eyesight was failing, his hearing was not. A small sound caught her ear. Footsteps. She took a deep breath. Trying to sort out her thoughts, she paid little attention when the door to the next cubicle was opened and closed. The small, latticed panel was slid a couple of fingers wide. “What ails you?” Charlotte sat frozen in place. This was not Father Simon’s voice. A much younger man sat in the next cubicle. What to do? She took a deep breath and meant to speak but no words came out. She lowered her gaze to her trembling hands. What would she tell the priest? She had lain with a stranger? She had allowed her weak flesh to dictate her conduct? She cursed inwardly. “God can hear you even if I can’t,” came the reply. A hint of humor lined the words and made Charlotte smile alone in the dark. Perhaps she could still tell this man. “I’ve…um, I’ve sinned.” Original. She scolded her lack of courage. His patient silence bolstered her. She licked her lips. “I’ve committed the sin of lust. I’ve been intimate with a man not my husband.” “Have you told your husband?” the man asked. “I’m unmarried.” A short pause. “Will you tell his wife?” Charlotte could have punched the wall in dejection. “The truth shall set you free,” they said. “I don’t know him, Father. I had never met him before that night, three days ago.” This time, a sharp intake of air was heard followed by a long silence. Was he trying to identify her? Or the man? Was he searching for an acceptable punishment to give her? Sweat pearled on her

temples. She took a deep, frayed breath and looked up into the darkened confessional. Tiny dots of light pierced the latticed ceiling. “I see. Do you still lust after this man?” the man asked finally. His tone was careful, modulated, letting no emotion sound through. Yet she could tell this was a loaded question. No judgment though, which was strange. She had to admire his self-control. Had she had any measure of it herself, she would not be in the trouble she was now. “No,” she lied. No use making it worse. “You lie very poorly, which is a testament to your character, I guess.” Now there was emotion in the remark. Mockery. She felt herself blush. “It’s true. I still…well, I try to forget him but it’s just… I’m not in the habit of bedding strange men, Father.” Of bedding men at all. The last bit held much more edge than she intended and the man seemed to take his time to absorb the words. “Lust is said to be enslavement of the senses and I don’t need to remind you how wicked a master it is—” “I’m not a slave to anything,” Charlotte blurted out before snapping her mouth shut. What was wrong with her? “Forgive me. Please go on.” “Then you are in complete control of your senses, are you? You would stop it if you could. If you were presented with the same situation, would you lie with him again?” “Of course not,” she replied weakly. A long sigh was heard from beyond the lattice. Movement in light and shadow indicated the man had changed position. “You truly are, my lady, an awful liar.” After a while debating whether to share her heart with this stranger or not, Charlotte took a long, steadying breath and nodded to herself. “It’s true, I’m afraid. Presented with the same situation, I would probably succumb again. Not because he was a man of great outward beauty—which he was—but because there was so much loneliness in his eyes, so much pain, that I couldn’t not reach out to him.” Silence greeted her words. When he spoke again, her confessor sounded tight and suddenly in a hurry to leave. “Perhaps you have seen things that weren’t there at all.” “Perhaps.” “Fair enough. However, you must deny yourself, deny your weak flesh. I sense that the guilt alone is adequate punishment. Perhaps a donation to charity would ease some of the burden while benefiting the less fortunate.”

Charlotte caught herself nodding in agreement. Clever man. The problem was, she could not forget her companion from the cascade. His flesh was still seared on hers, as though he still touched her, caressed her. Stop it. “I’ll make sure to follow your words, Father,” she said, rising. After he gave her his blessing, Charlotte exited the cubicle, making sure to slide out of the nearest door she could reach. What if he tried to see to whom he had just spoken?

***** Later that day, Charlotte sat at work, absentmindedly running the lead plummet over her lips while gazing out the tiny window. Rain hit the glass pane like tiny rocks. The day was so dark she had lit all the candles. Quivering light chased shadows to the far corners of the office and up the thick rafters. She pivoted on the chair and scanned the main floor beyond the balustrade. Workers busily crated another batch. When two barrels hit each other, the workers hurriedly checked up at the mezzanine to see if she had seen them. She had. Charlotte wanted to laugh when the men winced, cringed and took extra care with the rest. If they only knew what their feared baroness had done. She wondered what her indiscretion would cause should it become known. Would the townsfolk, who liked her and the generous wages she generated, fear her more? Less? Would she become more human in their eyes? Perhaps they did not care one bit. She grinned. “I was beginning to wonder if it was gone forever,” Armand said as he climbed the last few steps. “What?” “Your smile, mistress, I hadn’t seen it in a while. Thought mayhap you’d lost it somewhere or that my wife had stolen it…like everybody else’s.” Charlotte smiled widely. “If she hears you, there’s naught I could do to protect you. You’d be on your own.” She indicated the stool next to her chair. “I can’t, mistress. Actually, I’m here to tell you that something’s wrong with the river. The level’s never been this low at this time of the—” “Mistress,” called one of the workers—Renaud—a bear of a man who could lift an entire barrel all by himself. Charlotte nodded. “Sir Guilabert and the priest are here, mistress. That knight would like to see you.” That knight.

She doubted Guilabert would appreciate being called “that knight”, but she did not mind, especially since his recent transgression. “I’ll be down in a moment.” She looked outside at the torrents slamming against her window. What could be so damned important Guilabert would drag poor old Simon out in such weather? She would make sure to remark on it. Someone had to tell the arrogant man he wasn’t lord around here. Charlotte would be glad indeed to inform him. Armand’s face tightened at the news. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. “Let it out before it burns a hole in your cheek.” He snorted. “Sir Guilabert is here a lot. I don’t like it one bit, if I may say so, Mistress Charlotte. Like he’s scouting the place, spying, yes.” She agreed with a nod. “Well, I intend to be your bitter-disposed master for another long while, Armand, don’t worry.” This seemed to cheer Armand considerably. He grinned and hooked his thumb at the window. “I’d be glad to let him wait outside for a bit longer, mistress, but he’s got old Simon with him. Be a shame to let him get soaked too.” “I agree. Have them wait in the bottling room, would you?” When Armand left, she stood and rearranged her work attire, making sure the dagger showed prominently at her belt. If she was to shock Guilabert with her crude dress and deportment, she may as well go all the way. A woman dressed in men’s clothes and armed. She allowed herself a small grin of mockery. Just so she would not shock poor Simon too much, she bound her brown curls back with a bit of twine lying about. She should cut it again. The bangs hung too close to her eyes and the curls brushing past the nape of her neck bothered her. A quick tug to the too-long belt made sure the tunic fit half correctly. She knew she could pass for a man, given distance and humble light, but she had to sacrifice her femininity. Her stature and mien allowed that extra bit of authority she sorely needed. With a sigh, Charlotte climbed down the steps. A few workers peeked at her as she navigated the maze of ricks and narrow alleys. Saluting one here, stopping to chat with another there, Charlotte reached the bottling room just as Armand was receiving Guilabert’s drenched cloak. Damn, she cursed mentally. His friend was there as well. As if he sensed her gaze on him, the friend in question, a short and solid man named Lussier, turned to her and bowed. She acknowledged him with a curt nod. This one, she would enjoy putting in a barrel and shipping off to a very far, very cold place.

“Why you’d drag poor Father Simon out in such foul weather is beyond me, Guilabert,” she snapped. “Gentlemen,” she went on, coming into the cavernous room. She noticed Simon was not there yet. Perhaps he had stopped on the way in to speak to one of the workers. In which case, she had a while to give Guilabert the verbal lashing he deserved. Her booted feet clacked against the slate floor. The echo ricocheted in the domed room. Large oak and copper-belted vats took an entire whitewashed wall. A table filled with bottles, some waiting to be filled, separated her from the rest of the men. She made a point to go around it and stand among them. She did not want them to think she would use a barrier to separate herself from them, to protect herself against them. She needed no protection. They needed it—especially Guilabert and his foul-mouthed, ever-present sidekick. And since Guilabert seemed to be indeed housed at Lussier’s home, she’d be seeing a lot of the two. Too much so for her taste. “Baroness,” Guilabert said, bowing slightly at the waist. She raised an eyebrow at the use of her title. He never did that. Except in their youth, to taunt her or make her mad. Armand bristled and gave a good shake to Guilabert’s dripping cloak. “What a day, my lady. Suited for ducks, I’d say,” Lussier put in loudly. The man had only two tones—loud and louder. She shrugged. “Suited for dogs as well.” Her abruptness seemed to take some pluck out of Lussier’s plumage. He flushed right up to his chestnut hairline and looked at Guilabert, who did not seem at all stumped by her gruff words. He even offered her one of his lopsided grins. The one she found particular cause to detest. “I’d like you to meet someone,” he said, extending a hand to her, as if trying to convince her to come to him. Ha. She leaned back against the table, arms and ankles crossed, and made sure the large ruby ring showed well. Just a reminder to all they were not dealing with just anyone but a baroness, even if this particular one wore humble garments. Guilabert pivoted and motioned for someone she had not noticed standing in retreat. This one, a man wearing all black from close-fitting robe to boots to long cape, peeled his frame from the wall and walked into the light. This was not Simon. Charlotte could not see his face for his hood was pulled low. It still dribbled from his run-in with the storm outside. With large square hands, he pulled his hood back and let it drop on his impressive shoulders. Hair gleamed just like straw-colored silk while icy blue eyes stared unblinkingly at her. When he took a few steps forth, a gold cross gleamed on his chest. Charlotte could only stare in mute shock.

The man from the cascade…he was standing right there in front of her, staring back at her. She must have been mistaken… No. It was him, down to the lush lips and broken nose. “My lady,” the man said. At least, he looked as shocked as she felt. His eyes flared wide like coins and his mouth thinned to a straight, tight line. He lowered his gaze to the ruby ring on her thumb. A muscle twitched along his chiseled jaw. “Brother Gautier comes directly from the Vatican, Baroness. He’s to be our new town priest of sorts, until Father Simon’s return.” Guilabert looked delighted to introduce this stranger, his champion from Rome. After the initial shock of seeing the man from the cascade—Brother Gautier—standing in front of her, Charlotte’s brain kicked into a mad gallop. She understood now. Father Simon had tried to warn her Guilabert had friends in high places within the Church. Simon must have suspected he would be temporarily, or not so, replaced, perhaps even transferred. He had hinted Guilabert met someone during the crusade—a cardinal he had said—someone who now worked inside the Vatican itself. Someone with enough political clout to send a supporter to a small French town and make sure some recalcitrant woman married the man she ought to. Charlotte’s blood boiled over. Would everyone conspire against her so she married Guilabert? “Well met, Brother Gautier,” she replied with fake aplomb. Heat rose to her cheeks. She knew she looked blushed and hoped they would attribute it to hard work. Inside she wanted to scream, throw things, but more importantly, she wanted to hide in shame. To see him looking at her after what they had done was too much. She had been intimate with a man of God. A brother! No wonder she had heard him ask for God’s forgiveness. She felt as though she should beg for it as well. Charlotte wondered if there was a special place in hell for women who had lain with men of God. Perhaps the same place as brothers who had broken their self-imposed vows of abstinence. A groan of despair threatened to spill out of her. Brother Gautier bowed again and retreated to the wall where he crossed his hands inside the sleeves of his black habit. A pregnant silence settled over the group. Armand looked at her then at Guilabert.

Charlotte cleared her throat. “Well, gentlemen, it’s very busy here at this time of the year. I must return to work.” She left the support of the table and hoped her legs would carry her out and back into her office where she could hide her head under something very large and dark. “I’ll see you Sunday, Brother.” She saw his flinch from where she stood. Guilabert shot a quick glance to Brother Gautier, who only nodded and pulled his hood back on. With a nod for Armand, he left, not even looking at her. She hated herself but had to admit a deep frustration that he would not even acknowledge her presence. After what they had shared… A look of vexation flashed over Guilabert’s face. He turned to Lussier and Armand and motioned for both to leave. While Lussier shook water from his cloak and left the room, Armand pretended not to have seen Guilabert’s imperious gesture. After Charlotte gave him a small nod, the overseer snorted and left as well. He cast one last look at Guilabert before he disappeared through the doorway. “Your workers are as undisciplined as your mounts,” Guilabert remarked. “Not undisciplined. They have what is called ‘character’, something your friends sorely lack,” she shot back, not even pretending to be polite. “It didn’t have to come to this.” Slicking his dark curls back with a gloved hand, Guilabert drew near. His male scent reached her and sent tiny shivers up her arms. He cocked his head to one side. “You can still stop all of it.” The only thing she wanted to stop was blood flow to his head. “All of what?” “That man, Charlotte, he’s not of the same ilk as good Simon. Brother Gautier fought in the crusade. In fact, he used to be a chevalier like myself. He was taken prisoner by the Saracens. Some say their prisons can kill a man within a week. Brother Gautier was kept there for over a year.” Charlotte understood now the multitude of scars on the man’s body, the whiplash marks covering his chest. A pang of sympathy stirred her heart. How he must have suffered. Looking pleased with her unusual silence, Guilabert went on. “His ways are much different than that of priests. He knows how to keep folks in line. He knows how to fight a war, how to win one.” “Remind me…didn’t we lose the crusade?” she put in waspishly. Guilabert gripped her by the arm and pulled her close. “Don’t ever make light of things you know naught about, woman.” A new light danced in his hazel eyes. And it frightened Charlotte. Guilabert looked…demented. “Take your hand off me,” she snarled, pulling against his steel grip.

He let go and she stumbled back against the table, knocking a few bottles to the side. Armand materialized it seemed out of thin air and took a threatening step toward Guilabert. Warning flashed in the wizened eyes. Renaud stood in the doorway as well, his bull’s neck flushed in repressed anger. “Everything all right, mistress? Should I call the boys?” Armand asked, a quick glance at Renaud behind him. She shook her head. “Sir Guilabert was just leaving. He has a lot of work to do, doesn’t he?” Guilabert growled some reply and ripped his cloak out of Armand’s hands before storming out without another word and under the weight of the overseer’s glacial stare. Renaud turned about and followed the knight out of the bottling room. “I’m well protected,” Charlotte put in with a shake of her head. “Pray tell Renaud that Guilabert is armed.” “I’ll make sure to mention it to him.” Armand’s face split in a sardonic grin. “Now, I swear that Brother Gautier looks more like someone guarding the door to a slummy inn than a man of God. What sort of brother has a broken nose, I ask! Too bad he’s in bed with the knight, I could use a pair of shoulders like his.” “He looks strong indeed,” she commented weakly. She knew very well just how strong for having tasted his vigor herself. Heat rose to her cheeks.

***** That Sunday, Charlotte arrived at church in her best gown. Gone were the work habit and loose hair. Instead, she had let a maid do her hair up in a twisted braid with several chosen strands left to dangle along the nape of her neck. She wore a dark blue gown without trim and comfortable shoes. She would not be the best-dressed woman in assistance but for her, it was a huge stretch. A very small part of her wanted Brother Gautier to notice her though she would have denied it to her last breath. Charlotte smoothed the front of her gown after she stepped off the uncovered coach. Armand and Constance stepped off after her, with the wife scolding the husband for letting the “mistress get down on her own”. Charlotte would have said something to defend her overseer but preferred to let Constance vent her ire. She had been of particular sour humor the last few days. As soon as she turned toward the church, she spotted him among the crowd. Only a man of God would wear such stuffy clothes in the heat of early September. Then again, he would have stood out even without the dark garments, with hair so shiny and pale and a face carved by a master. And those eyes—like chips of ice.

Stop it. With a grin, she realized she was not the only woman who had noticed him. A cluster of them huddled close by, exchanging surreptitious remarks behind their hands. Charlotte took in a deep breath when she approached the two steps leading inside the small rural church. Over the years, she had had many requests to build another larger one but Simon and she had preferred to donate most of the tithe instead of putting it aside for a grander building. Until townsfolk would stand outside to attend mass, she would keep the little church the way it was. She spotted Brother Gautier staring at her. Someone spoke to him and he turned away. She used this break to slip inside the building and take her seat in the first pew. Armand and a still-bickering Constance sat next to her. Polite “how do you do” and “fine day, mistress?” floated up to her, which she returned with as much courtesy as she could fake. News of this man’s task was no doubt the talk of the whole province. They probably had bets placed on whom would win—the champion sent from the Vatican or their stubborn “Iron Lady”. Guilabert came in with Lussier tailing him. She had to give the pair their due, they looked splendid with their wool tunics and capes. Guilabert’s was a dark shade of green, which brought out the light in his hazel eyes. Even Lussier looked good. A snort of frustration escaped her. She turned away when Guilabert’s gaze settled in her direction. When a thick crowd had filled the darkened church, Brother Gautier glided up the middle aisle, two serving boys struggling to keep pace in his wake. He stepped up the dais with vigor, turned and spread his arms wide. “My name is Brother Gautier. I have been sent from Rome to Montmorency to care for Father Simon’s parish while he is away. Though I am not a priest, I have been granted by my cardinal permission to speak homiliaria, hear contritio and perform the sacrament of matrimonium.” His quick glance was followed by a few others in the pews as some pivoted to look at her and nod. Given permission to speak homilies, hear penance and force a woman into marriage. She wanted to sink under the earth. He then went on with his address. His strong voice filled the small place but not annoyingly so. Then Mass began and with it, Charlotte’s most humiliating struggle with her emotions. She spent the entire time trying to tear her gaze away from him. The way he moved made her blush several times. When his strong fingers tore a piece from the bread and brought it to his lips, she thought she would keel over. He exuded such raw masculinity that she caught herself in a fever of envy at the golden cup he raised to his mouth, and could only stare mesmerized when he licked his lips and dabbed the corners with a linen serviette. A wave of heat rose out from the opening of her gown. She wanted to watch and leave at the same time. Good God, how could a man move so gracefully, given his muscled body? Charlotte sighed.

“Everything all right there, mistress?” Armand whispered from her right. She nodded. “Just tired.” As if to add credence to her words, Charlotte’s weary mind floated out of the church, over beyond the trees. She knew what was coming yet she could find neither the energy nor the will to deny herself this small guilty pleasure. She had cause for so few. Mentally, she went back to the cascade. Gautier—Brother Gautier, reminded her brain—was there as he had looked that night, gloriously naked, his fit body glistening with water droplets. The pads of her fingers tingled as her mental self reached out to touch his shoulders, his scarred chest, the place where his neck connected to his collarbones. In her fantasy, Gautier leaned closer and kissed her gently. His hands reached for hers, pulled them up over her head so he could disrobe her. Charlotte willingly obliged, feeling liberated, guilty, aroused all at once. As much as she tried to stifle it, her fantasy took flight. His mouth visited her everywhere, lipped and sucked and kissed, triggered lust to the core of her being. While he gorged on her, she clung to his sturdy shoulders, rubbed a thigh along his and tried to mold herself to the man who had so easily awakened the woman in her. Gautier dove for her exposed breasts. Never had she experienced such vivid fancy. Even the taste and smell of his breath felt true. Lemon and sage. His tongue and lips and teeth reduced her nipples to throbbing garnets while Charlotte let her hands rove over his strong back then down lower where she grabbed both his cheeks hard. River water gurgled around them, over her hips, between her legs, cooling the pulsations his mouth had triggered down in her loins. As if he knew what he did to her, Gautier smiled as he pressed her against him. His member felt hard and hot against her lower belly. Since this was only a fancy, Charlotte cast caution and plausibility to the wind. She changed the location of their encounter to something more appropriate than the outdoors. A bedchamber would do, not her own and certainly not his for she had visited old Simon several times and knew the inside of the small annex beside the church. No, an anonymous bedchamber with a blazing fireplace, dark furniture and thick rugs. So Charlotte fancied herself there instead, with Gautier still devouring her breasts. Backing up until she reached the edge of the bed, Charlotte murmured wicked things in his ear, satisfied though she had no idea what exact things she would murmur to a man that it would be shocking enough to stimulate him. It worked. Gautier braced them with an arm as they tumbled onto the bed. The frame creaked. They rolled onto the feather mattress—she spared no expense on this fantasy—created recesses with their elbows and knees, their heels as they each tried to keep the other beneath. He ended up on top of Charlotte. She let him. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured in her ear as he settled on top of her. His weight was a shelter, his heat a brand.

Silky lips marked her, calloused hands stroked and raided her and Charlotte had to stifle the very real moan of satisfaction. When he backed down along her belly, she grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and anchored him there. Her need becoming pressing, she undulated and arched, rubbed her sex against his middle. She wanted him to fill her again, stretch her. Without further dallying, Charlotte spread her legs wide, knowing she would never do this for real, safe in the knowledge no one would know how debased she acted. Towering between her thighs, Gautier slid her down closer to him. His pale gaze on her, he leaned under and scooped her up. Muscles rippled like iron bands along his forearms. Pelvis a foot off the mattress, Charlotte felt exposed, a fruit to a voracious mouth. She fisted the bedclothes on either side of her, waiting for him to enter her. He did not. Charlotte opened her mouth in a silent O when Gautier, muscles corded tight, lifted her pelvis up, up to his mouth. And he kissed her. There. In her pew, Charlotte shifted then crossed her legs. Her fancy seemed to have taken a life of its own. She had heard of the practice done in the far lands to the east but never would have dreamed of it. Until now—with Gautier. Back in her fantasy, Charlotte stared as he curled his tongue and like a whip, flicked her bud. Heat and wetness spread from her folds to her nether hole. Cramps tightened her buttocks and lower back. With her looking on, he kissed, tongue-lashed, suckled, nibbled, until she was about to till her own skin with her nails. Lowering her to the mattress, Gautier leaned down on all fours and poised his glistening member above the throbbing place his mouth had just abandoned. Charlotte hooked a leg behind him, pulled him to her. Hot and hard, his shaft sank all the way in. She clenched her jaw against the wave of ecstasy she knew was coming. His gaze on her, Gautier retreated to the tip, adjusted his elbows so they’d keep her from moving upward before squeezing his eyes shut and thrusting deep. Charlotte’s arms flew over her head. She arched. She dug her heels in the back of his thighs. He pulled almost completely out again but she’d learned to know his ways and waited for the inevitable plunge. And it came. Puissant, profound. Charlotte melted between her legs. One more thrust then two quick and sharp ones. Almost in a trance now, she rolled her hips to match his push, forced him down harder with her legs and arms clutched around his middle. She wanted him with an ardor that scared her. Fire crackled behind him, casting its orange glow around his head. Just like a halo. Just like a saint. The vision burst in a thousand shards. Charlotte reeled. Ashamed, she was thrown back to the here and now of the packed church, her cheeks on fire. Her breathing came shallow and quick but unheard because of the crowd’s murmured prayer, which she tried to follow but lost the thread right away. How could she have let herself lose control so completely?

Discreetly, she looked about. No one seemed to pay particular attention to her. Up on the dais, Brother Gautier went on with the service, his hand outstretched on one side while the other held a small, worn bible. Latin had never sounded so luscious as in his mouth. Shame at her conduct forced Charlotte to bite the sides of her tongue. If she hurt enough, she might forget the impious thoughts. Shortly after, Brother Gautier finished and extended his arms again so the people could stand and take their leave. Because he was not a priest, she realized her people would have to wait for Father Simon’s return until they could receive benediction. Even better, she thought for Charlotte meant to elbow her way out of the church. She needed air. Right now. Before she could even take a step in the middle aisle, she spotted the celebrant making a straight line for her. She kept her gaze lowered as she tried to slip out. “My lady,” Brother Gautier said, stepping in front of her and sliding his hands inside the sleeves of his black habit. “May I have a word with you?” A jumble of panicked replies crowded her numb brain. A few women stopped to stare. Rumors would be flying high within moments. What if she just ignored him? Could she without attracting attention? The man did not look the kind one could ignore. Resigned, she mumbled something incoherent even to her and he nodded, apparently taking it for an agreement. She cursed silently. Armand came by her side, an implicit gesture that let the brother know Charlotte Bourbon-Condé did not stand alone. She could have hugged the older man. “It’s all right, Armand. You two leave and I’ll walk back. I need the air,” she replied, still staring at Brother Gautier. God, he was handsome! The way colored light from the stained glass hit his high brow made her want to run a hand over his skin. She remembered how smooth it felt under her fingers. Her outrageous fancy flashed in front of her eyes. The small gold cross on his chest gleamed and she lowered her gaze, mortified. Yet at the same time, she couldn’t help herself and wondered if he felt the same. Brother Gautier motioned for her to precede him into the nave where he followed, closing the cleated door behind him. None of Simon’s things were left. The room was bare except for essential church things, a few books on the mural shelf and a walking stick in a corner. That was it. The whitewashed walls looked freshly painted, the table and pair of chairs polished to a high glimmer. “We must talk,” he said behind her.

Her heart sank to her feet. He would not dare speak of their encounter. Strangely though, she felt torn inside. She would prefer to avoid the subject, for doing so would make her more uncomfortable than she thought she could endure. Yet there was this nagging little voice murmuring wicked things to her, things that made her wet in places she would rather not think about. Not in front of him, anyway. Even if she had not refrained from doing so during his service. Appalling. When silence had dragged on for a long moment, he cocked his head to one side. But this was a patient man! To give herself some countenance, she wanted to reply something clever. Wit had never before seeped out of her brain so fast. Weak, treacherous flesh! Charlotte crossed her hands over her front to keep them from shaking. She was a patient woman too. Actually, she was not, but she was stubborn. Silence settled over the small room as though it was a felt blanket. Brother Gautier stared straight at her, his gaze never leaving her face, not even once sliding down the rest of her. She mentally commended him for it, for she hated how men would sometimes talk at her breasts instead of to her. After a while, he seemed to have had enough for he shifted to his other foot and let his hands hang by his sides. “I see that your character wasn’t exaggerated when I was told of you.” “Told of me?” He nodded. “Told of you, yes. ‘Intractable young woman’, I think were the exact words. I’m here at Sir Guilabert de Lissi’s request. My cardinal had me come to this parish so I could better assess the situation.” “Situation…?” “Precisely. To tell you the truth, I’m not usually sent for such…delicate matters. But Sir Guilabert must be very good friends with the cardinal. I guess some have used the crusade to further their ambitions while others were being tortured and kept in rat holes.” The zigzags of whiplash marks on his chest flashed in her mind. A wave of sympathy engulfed her. The venom in his tone betrayed what frustration he must feel at having to come to France to marry some woman to a man whom his superior owed a favor. Yet as much as she sympathized with the brother, her own situation was much more immediate and precarious. “Father Simon has already assessed the ‘situation’. I won’t marry Guilabert.” As beautiful as this man was, she would not sway from her position. “But Father Simon failed to see the Church’s position on it. Since you’re orphaned, it’s—” “What?” she snarled, taking a step forward. This seemed to rock him back on his heels. He balled tight fists at his sides, looking surprised and on his guard, but he said naught.

“How dare you?” she went on, heat rising to her cheeks. “How dare you insinuate my brother is dead? He’s given years of his life to the Church, to fight for the Holy Land. And this is how you repay him? Sell off his home, his sister, while he’s gone?” “The crusade?” he asked, clearly taken aback. “Where is he now?” “I don’t know! I’m here.” “Whom does he fight under?” “Jean-Louis fights under the banner of the Duke of Loise, with the knights of St. Augustine, in Jerusalem. But that was over two years ago.” The mere mention of her brother’s name brought a sting to her heart. Brother Gautier paled visibly. He gave a slight shake of his head and looked away. “St. Augustine’s knights?” The words sounded heavy with meaning, induced fear in her heart and dread in her gut but worse than everything was the look on his face when he spoke. Sympathy. What did he know that she did not? “Tell me what you know, Brother.” Her tone sounded like the warning it was, warning he must have appreciated for Gautier nodded slowly. “They were defeated two summers ago in an ambush. Someone, a traitor, allowed the enemy inside, opened the gates from within. I haven’t heard of any survivors. It was a…a carnage, I was told.” Her ears captured the words and made sense of them but they did not sink in her numb brain. Defeated. No survivors. Impossible. Not Jean-Louis, a master at the blade, a man who could talk his way out of any situation, who could talk his younger sister out of her favorite toy or into a river despite the fact she could not yet swim. He had always been there. His smile. His blood seeping out of him as he lay dead on the ground of some unholy country peopled by demons. The image made her gag. “The duke…he would have written to me…” The stupidity of her remark caught up with her before she had time to finish. No survivors. Being a duke did not hold enemy swords or arrows. “How come I never…no one…” Charlotte looked down at her feet.

The hem of a black habit covered the floor immediately in front of her feet when the man drew near. His hand reached up, hovered for an instant near her forearm as though he meant to support her, offer his help, then it fell back down at his side. “I thought you knew. Everyone who’s been there does. Hasn’t anyone returned recently? They could perhaps tell you more.” A veil of crimson descended over her vision. Charlotte gritted her teeth. He had lied to her. She would kill him. “What was that?” Brother Gautier asked. She must have sneered his name as she was thinking it. “Guilabert.” “Has he just returned as well?” She snapped her head up. Brother Gautier was so close, barely a foot away. “He returned not even a year ago yet told me naught of St. Augustine’s fall, though he must have known. He lied to me.” “Why would he lie?” “He knows I’d stick to the distillery like sap if I learned of Jean-Louis’ death. So by not telling me, he was keeping me in the dark, feeding my hopes. My brother left me the distillery. He left it to me. Because he trusted me. And I’ll be damned to hell if I’ll let some swine dig his claws into it.” Her profane words did not seem to bother the brother. He nodded and took a few steps back. “My position remains the same. I was sent here to see you marry. I won’t leave until then.” “I don’t care about the lofty task you’ve been given by your pompous master, Brother,” she snarled, letting each word drop as she would a stone. “But I’ll tell you this—and you had better listen with all your might—you must rethink your position. I don’t surrender.” His eyes flashed. He looked angry enough to pounce. “Neither do I.” She did not care. She had a dagger and, good God, she was willing to use it! To say mere moments ago she was literally biting her cheeks to keep from fancying this man. Of all the odious things to say to a bereaved woman! She kicked her chin out and circumvented him but he stopped her with a lightning-quick sidestep that blocked her path. They stood practically nose to chin. Charlotte looked up at him through narrowed eyes. Something changed in his demeanor, his face tightened even more. His lips parted while his breathing quickened. She stood transfixed by the sight of him. He broke the spell first by taking an abrupt step back and storming out of the nave, sending the door clattering against the wall.

Charlotte regretted not taking Armand’s offer to wait for her as she was not sure she could hold the tears long enough to make it home. Jean-Louis was dead. She looked down at the ring and kissed it. Guilabert. He would pay.

Chapter Four Gautier’s heart squeezed in anguish when he stomped up the narrow stairs and shouldered open the door to his study. It collided against the wall and knocked him back on the shoulder. With a snarl, he kicked it closed. Puffs of dust swirled on the floor in tiny vortices. Intractable was not even strong enough for her. Willful, pigheaded child! Actually, not a child. A woman. A tall, wiry, long-limbed woman with eyes the color of moist earth and lips like pink lilies. Seeing her by the side of the river, seeing her watching, had driven his journey-burned skin into a fever, his heart into a mad gallop. Never, ever, had he lost control so utterly! Not even in anger, an emotion he knew intimately. He could swear he still felt her skin under his palms. The way her calloused hands had felt on his feverish skin. Calloused hands. On a baroness. If she had not resembled nobility that night, she surely had this morning. Though her gown was by far the humbler and primer of the entire congregation, it still forced him to concentrate a bit more, struggle a bit harder. He had never had to fight so much for inner strength as during the service. The sight of her had all but driven the holy words away. His hands tingled for the feel of her, his mouth for a taste, his member… With a snarl, he shook his head to clear the sinful thoughts. How could he have broken his self-imposed vows this way? He had not always been a man of God but still, not even three years had passed since his donning the habit of a lay brother and here he was, punching the walls to forget a woman. It had not taken him long to succumb to their charms. Temptresses. First things first though, he would meet the knight again and demand to know why he had not been better informed. His cardinal should have apprised him of all he knew instead of calling the baroness “an orphan” and keeping it at that. Details were important. He should have been given every last one. Since the cardinal obviously knew the knight, he must have known Guilabert had just returned

from the Holy Land yet had not told the woman of her brother’s demise. Was this on the cardinal’s orders? If so, then why? Another thing bothered him. Had Guilabert also fought under the Duke of Loise, been part of the St. Augustine knights? If he had, how had he survived when everyone else hadn’t? Gautier hated being made a fool. Above all, he hated not knowing. His thirteen months at the hands of the enemy flashed back in his mind with the pitiless clarity of a lightning strike. The torture, the humiliation, the privations. Above all though, the one thing that almost made him lose his mind was not knowing if he would be killed that day or the next. It was one thing to be tortured for information, for enjoyment, but an entirely different one to wonder, each stifling day and each nightmarish night if someone—anyone—was still looking for him. Gautier often wondered and still did, how long it had taken for his duke to stop looking. How long it had taken his men to abandon faith in their bastard knight, as they’d sometimes good-naturedly called him. For faith is what had kept him going. He still remembered that night, the very worst, when his tormentors had left him battered and ruined, a shell of torn skin and broken bones, had left him to die. Only he had not. He had spent the night praying. Not for merciful death. Never that. He had prayed for life, for the strength to keep going, the energy to resist. He had vowed that night he would become the Lord’s staunchest champion if only He would grant him this one prayer. And He had. Gautier had escaped the very next day. From then on, he had entered the service of God and never looked back. He could have returned to his comfortable life as Brenne’s master carpenter, back in his peculiar status of half noble, half lowborn. As the bastard son of a nobleman, he’d enjoyed freedoms other artisans could only dream of. He even could have served God this way, building cathedrals to His glory but he preferred to fight for his faith, not preach it to others. Then Cardinal Lanteigne and his elite “guardians of the way” had taken him in, seeing how driven he was. Many were the tasks he was given, all of which he fulfilled. But this last one made him start to wonder at his cardinal’s motives. Marriage was a sacred rite, why not send a real priest, one with the right set of skills? Why send someone like him, part brother, part knight…part assassin? Gautier grabbed the long black cape and headed back down the steps. He hoped she had already left. He was not sure he could endure another moment in her presence. His blood was already boiling. With anger. Lust. A low snarl escaped him. The sun was high in the sky when he stepped out of the cool church. Some parishioners were still about, talking, being slothful. He gave them a sidelong look. They left right away, seeing as he did not let his gaze waver even after a good while. Father Simon had been too lax with them. The townsfolk paid a token homage to the Church as it was. By God, their own baroness looked and acted as a farmer. A male farmer at that. Dust rose in puffs around the hem of his cape. He looked down at the road to keep the sun out of his eyes as he headed for the tavern on the other side of town. He knew he would find the knight there with his insufferable companion.

The ramshackle tavern came into view. He wanted to roll his eyes but decided it was a waste of energy. Approaching the narrow building leaning on its neighbor for support, he smelled odors which reminded him too much of the crusade—liquor, sweat and sin. With these three mixed together, a lot of good men had lost their ways. The Holy Land had claimed more than lives, it had claimed souls as well. He meant to push against the door but it burst open and out spilled a pair of drunken men, their clothes ripped and their faces bloodied. He meant to step aside but one of them threw a punch, which caught Gautier on the edge of the jaw. His teeth grated together with the blow. Though inebriated, the man had some clout to him. Gautier sidestepped, seized the offender by the wrist and propelled him back inside the tavern. The sound of cursing and crashing announced the man had landed. On the ball of a foot, Gautier pivoted to his right, which brought him in direct line with the remaining man, who looked more sober and much more antagonistic. A quick punch to the throat had soon floored that one. While the man bent in half, gagging, Gautier gripped the belt in one hand, the collar with the other, did half a turn and let fly. The man joined his companion in the middle of the common room. When he entered, Gautier found both sprawled on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Silence spread in a wide circle about him. Faces blanched and sagged. Someone coughed. “Men who wish to remain on good terms with God don’t fight their neighbor,” Gautier announced in a loud and clear voice. Some mumbled apology or comment was heard in a corner. He scanned the place and spotted the two he was looking for. Two knights put together could not come up with the common sense to stop the men from drinking too much. Gautier scowled. He cleaved a way among the upset tables and overturned chairs and pulled one aside. Not awaiting permission, he slid it back and stood in its place. “Sir Guilabert, Sir Lussier,” he said, not liking at all the smug look on the latter. “Brother Gautier, join us,” Guilabert said, motioning for the chair Gautier had pushed to the side. “I didn’t know men of God shared the needs of laymen to consume liquors and speak of things unholy.” Lussier laughed his hyena laugh. Gautier turned an icy stare on him, which soon silenced the annoying creature. “And I didn’t know knights allowed those who look to them for guidance to behave like beasts.” Guilabert blushed at the temples. He looks drunk as well, come to think of it. A look of pure hatred flashed behind his eyes. Gautier made a mental note never to turn his back on this one. “Speaking of birthright, a man with a status as brittle as yours shouldn’t remind his betters where their places lie. Don’t you agree, Brother?”

So his cardinal had thought good and proper to discuss his lineage with this fool. Gautier tried not to let the sting show. Hadn’t he worked hard to earn His Eminence’s respect and discretion? “The Lord sees no difference between bastards and knights.” Guilabert narrowed his eyes dangerously but said nothing. Lussier looked horrified. “Bastard…? Good Lord, man.” “Be careful when you use that name around me, Sir Lussier. And I don’t mean bastard. I’ve made my peace with my blood a long time ago.” “One only needs to lower one’s principles,” Guilabert put in with a smirk. “Or develop one’s own mind about things.” “Would you like something to, er, drink, Brother?” asked a girl much too young to work in such a place. Her incursion into their conversation effectively neutralized the spiraling rudeness. Gautier wasn’t a man of words but of actions. And taking any against the knight would prove disastrous for his mission. So he bided his time. For now. Gautier forced a friendly smile as he shook his head at the girl. Lussier indicated he was thirsty and winked at her as she made her way back to the counter to get two more mugs. After she returned and placed the overflowing mugs on the table, Lussier made a rude comment and meant a grab for her waist. Gautier reached over the table and gripped the man’s tunic then yanked him forward and put his face very close. Noise levels lowered considerably when he did. “Never treat a lady this way again, sir.” Lussier flushed and tried uselessly to tug his tunic out of Gautier’s hand. “She’s no lady, just a serving wench, one I can up and tumble anytime I want. You’d do well to learn the difference.” “My mother tended tables at an inn.” And she’d been “up and tumbled” by an upstart fool like you. At least, his father had had the decency to take care of his responsibilities afterward and had never left his conquest in want of anything. Except a true husband and father to her son. That, he could never provide. Lussier’s face paled so much Gautier thought for a moment the man would keel over. “Gentlemen, perhaps we should show a bit more graciousness,” Guilabert put in from behind his new mug. He licked foam off his lips. Gautier released a blushing Lussier and straightened. “I must speak to you in private.” Guilabert only shrugged. “Say it here.”

A deep breath was needed to cool his mounting frustration. Gautier crossed his hands inside the sleeves of his habit and toyed with the hilt of the hidden dagger. He would enjoy very much poking a few holes in the detestable knight’s hide. “Under whose banner did you fight while in the Holy Land? And why have you not told the baroness that her brother had died in St. Augustine’s fall?” Now there was a strange mix of emotions. Bewilderment. Vexation. Hostility. Gautier had not expected all of this. Nor had he expected the ripple of gasps and shocked comments his words triggered. Judging from the reactions, the baron must have been well-liked. Unfortunately, the Holy Land could sometimes take a man such as this dead baron, obviously esteemed yet spit back the likes of Guilabert, in full health and with their purses filled with stolen coins. Where was justice? That’s why the Order of Raphael exists. So that justice can visit at least some of them. “I was told you were a man of deed, Brother Gautier, not of question.” “And I was told you were a man of your word.” A long silence followed his remark, during which Guilabert only stared, a tic pulling at the corner of his eyelid. Finally, he cocked his head and let a manicured hand rest on the table. Gautier wanted to stab it to the planks, just to make a dent in the perfect skin. How had a man who fought in the crusade not have a mark to show for it? He had marks. “Fine, I’ll tell you. I fought under the Duke of Loise, but only for a short time as I am a particularly skilled rider and was assigned to the Order of St. John of Jerusalem to protect the pilgrims there. And I knew Jean-Louis had died, of course. Everybody knew of St. Augustine. But I didn’t want to tell Char—the baroness—because as women always do, she would have been too hysterical to deal with, wounded beyond reason. I couldn’t risk that. So I kept the truth from her. To protect her.” Gautier wanted to snort in disbelief. Protect her. “I told her, this morning, after I explained the reason I was—” “You told her!” Guilabert leaped to his feet with the speed and agility of a striking snake. “It wasn’t your place. How dare you interfere—” he stopped himself with visible effort. Sitting back down, he took a long gulp of ale and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “It doesn’t matter. She knows now. Let’s just hope she doesn’t become too frenzied to see clearly.” “I thought she took it rather well, seeing how unprepared she was. In fact, I’d say she took the devastating news better than most men I know. But I did sense a deep murderous urge in her. I must say she looked quite menacing when she stormed out of the church.” For some perverse reason, he enjoyed Guilabert’s nervous countenance. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but there’s a lot of work to be done about here.”

Making for the door, Gautier waited until he was sure everyone would hear him. “Oh and Sir Guilabert,” he called back loudly, “did I mention the baroness was looking for you? She looked extremely cross.” With this, Gautier nodded to the stunned pair and walked outside. He doubted the knight would stay around until the baroness confronted him but it had been worth the look on his face. The two men he had floored were dipping their heads in a large barrel of water by the corner of the tavern. They both nodded hesitantly as he passed. “Keep your head up high to cease the bleeding,” he said to one who bled from the nose. Relieved grins spread on their dirty faces.

***** Dawn barely poked over the horizon. Too early for a Monday morning, even for him. Gautier could tell by the still purple sky visible through the maladjusted shutters. He would fix those later today. An itch forced him to move under the coarse blanket. Sleep still clutched at him, pulling him back against its warm breast. He did not fight it and let the warm wave engulf him. His mind began to wander, to dull, to stray, from the narrow path he chose for it. A sigh escaped him. An image of the baroness floated into his mind with the silent, eerie grace of a ghost gliding in through shreds of fog. She stood only a few paces from him, glorious as a fleur-de-lis, just as svelte, wearing a sad grin and naught else. Just as he remembered her as she pulled him into the water—but minus the undertunic. Stop it. Gautier angrily shifted his feet to let one out into the chilly predawn, hoping to cool his fire. Her face reappeared closer to him. He knew he had his eyes closed. It should be impossible to see her—anyone. It’s only a dream. His mental self turned away so he would not have to stare at her. She followed him. Hands long and strong reached up to his chest to gently caress the skin that had suffered so much. Since his year at the hands of his tormentors, no one, not even himself—especially not himself—had ever touched his chest again, and certainly not the way she had. He shivered. Gautier tried to avoid her dark stare but failed. Control slipped fast. In his mind’s eye, everything began to blur. He could deny it no longer. He was falling. With a mouth that had seared its likeness onto his lips, she lifted her pointed chin and kissed him. Like whispers, her sighs tickled the fine hair around his mouth. He felt his hands reach out to encircle her lean frame. Their bodies fit so perfectly, as though God had built her to be pressed against

him. Beyond his control, his fingers fluttered down on either side of her, following the gentle curves of her hips then her backside. He breathed her name in her ear. She seemed to enjoy it and smiled. A keen pang of shame stung Gautier’s heart. God. Please, help me. Release me. He thrashed against the vision, the dream that held him fast. Powerlessness revisited his flinching body, his quivering mind. Only this time no one was torturing him. The loveliest woman he had ever seen was pleasuring him. Any man would want a dream such as this. Not him. Not now. He meant to reach for the cross on his chest but the small comfort it would have granted him was denied. It was a dream. He could not move. She murmured something he could not hear. A hiss of shock whistled past his lips. What was she doing? Oh God. Somehow, she had gone down on her knees without his realizing it. With a mouth hotter than coals, she surrounded his member. A mad heartbeat thundered in his loins and Gautier opened his mouth in a silent O. Her hands wrapped the base of his shaft and pulled the skin back taut. Ripples of guilt-ridden pleasure expanded in widening circles out through the rest of him. Should she stop, he would die from grief alone. It’s wrong. Sinful. He meant to stop her, tried to plant his palms against her brow and push her back. His shock and despair were complete when he found his fingers lovingly twirling her lustrous locks. He lowered his gaze to watch what she did to him. As if she sensed his gaze on her, she retreated to the very end of his shaft and looked up at him. When their gazes met, Gautier felt a single stitch of pain in his heart. Just one. He recognized there the loneliness and the self-imposed isolation, for he too shared both, denied his flesh the companionship of the opposite sex so he could devote his entire being to his chosen path. He knew the sacrifices she made daily. A kindred soul. And that revelation sufficed to melt what little resistance he had left. The baroness—Charlotte—pulled back and straightened. How lovely she was. He reached out and caressed one of her dainty breasts, which was the perfect size for his palm. She seemed to enjoy this and he brought her closer so he could pleasure her further. Wrapping his head with her arms, she pulled him down to her chest. Gautier had to remind himself not to bite too hard the delectable buds. As if she wanted more from him than his lips, she pulled back and pivoted. Someone else must be controlling his shaking hands! Gautier bit his bottom lip and grabbed urgently at her hips. Charlotte nodded as she pressed her entire length along his front, triggering utter bedlam in his loins. Slowly, leisurely, she bent down at the waist until her derrière looked like a perfect, upside-down heart. The rest of her disappeared below the pearl necklace that was her spine. STOP! PLEASE!

His ragged, unspoken cry did not stir the dream. He tried to look away when he reached down to stroke her slick sex. She was so wet and receptive his member seemed to develop a mind of its own and strove to lose itself in her flesh. This was so unreservedly wrong Gautier let out a groan of despair and lust and impotent rage. Hell awaited him for this. An eternity on coals and broken glass! God. God. God. He entered her. The sheath of her was so tight, their flesh fused. Fire swallowed him up, shaft and everything else. While his hands anchored her to him, he pushed deeper, curled his spine inward to give her his all, knowing she wanted him this way, yearned for him to take her with abandon and force. Or perhaps his wicked mind was transferring all these thoughts onto her. While she moaned in contentment, he shoved in, retreated then plunged again. Like a burning tide, he came and went. He dug his fingers in her hips when her slicked channel began to fist him. Then Gautier started pounding. All these years alone in an empty bed… He sank deep. The months on the road, hungry, tired, chasing vermin that His Eminence had pointed as enemy… Another thrust, this one so potent it rattled his teeth. The friendless days and nights merging into one long, uninterrupted blur that’s harder to control… Gautier groaned as he crushed her sex with his, gripped her hips with almost brutal fingers. If I’m going to fry in hell, I’m going to make it worth my while, damn it! Gautier bit his lip and knocked their hips together ever harder until she collapsed on all fours, which forced him down onto his knees as well so he wouldn’t lose her. Her spine in a pronounced curve, Charlotte threw her head back and cried out under the forceful thrusts. Lust burning him whole, he spread her knees wider with his, used his hands, which he knew were larger than the norm, to create a belt of unyielding bones and tendons around her waist. After pulling out almost completely, Gautier rubbed her entrance, knowing how to stoke her feminine fire to a raging inferno, and when she responded to his attentions with renewed vigor, he stabbed back in. Encouraged by her rising cries of rapture, he hammered and crushed her welcoming flesh, his fingers digging increasingly deeper, his eyes now squeezed shut, bottom lip firmly tucked in. With near brutality now, he pushed himself into Charlotte over and over. He was so close. Close to heaven and hell, caught in a place where he could fall either way in the span of a heartbeat. Lord have mercy, he’d choose a hell with her over a heaven without Charlotte. A heartbeat later, Gautier shuddered as his long-captive seed finally burst from its prison. Charlotte gasped with pleasure. He felt her tremble in unison with him. With surprising force, her channel clutched his shaft hard like a fist. Bliss seemed to overcome them both simultaneously. Had she long denied such pleasures, just as he had?

Her passage, now warm and slick, milked out the last of his seed. She pulled away, rolled onto her back so she could smile at him. Gautier smiled in return and reached out to stroke her cheek. As his fingers connected with her, the image dispersed. Gautier snapped up in his bed with the speed of a breaking bowline. Wetness stuck to his thighs and bedclothes. No need to look down at himself to know what had happened. He’d spilled himself for real. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Blistering shame rose to his cheeks. Leaning forward, he rested his brow against his knees and punched the mattress several times.

***** She had never struck a horse. Until that evening. With a snarl of rage she forced herself to calm down, telling her restless brain the poor animal was galloping as fast as it could. And it did. Froth splattered its face while sweat slicked its flanks. In the heat of late summer afternoon, both rider and mount leaned into the dying breeze. Between the last rows of trees before the town proper, buildings flickered teasingly. Just a short while longer, she urged her animal on. Though the ride was short, the time it had taken them would surely become a record. A few paces then you can rest, brave friend. When the horse veered on a bend in the road, she leaned into its flank, clutching the reins in a death grip. Workers returning home stared as she thundered past. Waves and hails followed in her wake. She had no time to spare. He might be leaving town soon, if not already. Lussier’s home was not very far out of Montmorency land but still, she did not want to ride half a day before getting her hand on Guilabert. He never left town on Sunday, preferring instead to drink it away and wait until the following morning…or afternoon, more aptly. Unless he intended to return to his own home, two days’ ride away, in what used to be the Lanteigne family’s summer retreat. He owned now, thanks to her family’s connections, this part of the Lanteignes’ land and its adjoining mill. To say her father had given this lying bastard credit and coin! Charlotte nearly choked on it. And to thank her family, he wanted to steal their land. As if the sight of their levelheaded baroness thundering through town proved the sight of a lifetime, townsfolk began to gather in the main street. Some stood there uncertainly while others gathered in small clumps. She knew that they knew. Somehow word had gotten out she wanted a word with Guilabert. Who could have told them when she had not told anyone herself? They had come to watch the spectacle of two nobles fighting it out in the street. Well, they would be well served. She had no qualms about giving Guilabert a piece of her mind, no matter how many ears she turned. She had worked on it since meeting Brother Gautier the day before at church but had preferred to wait until she

could vent her anger without bursting into tears. Her beloved Jean-Louis dead. The tavern came into sight as she rounded the last corner. Dirt flew up behind her as she pulled on the reins and maneuvered her horse right up to the door. Coming very close to it, she kicked out and caught the panel on the corner. The door rattled in its frame. “Come out, Guilabert!” she roared as she tightened her grip on the reins. Her horse made a complete rotation on itself as it tried to follow its rider’s insistent heels. The door opened almost at once and the innkeeper’s head poked out. He blanched and nodded empathically. The door was left open while he retreated. No doubt to fetch a drunken Guilabert—but it was Lussier who came out next. The smirk he wore would have turned her stomach on any other day. But today… “Where’s your master?” she demanded, forcing her fretting horse to spin in place once again. Dust rose around her legs. Lussier bent forward like a broken puppet in what he must have thought was a bow. The slight waver told Charlotte if Guilabert was not drunk, his friend surely was. “He’s not here, m-my lady. He left late last night…had some urgent business to take care of.” Charlotte raged at herself for having lost a day crying in her pillow when she should have been there chopping off Guilabert’s toes one by one. “Where has he gone? Your home or his?” Lussier smiled a waspish little smile. “His. There, there, my lady, please don’t enervate yourself over such matter. I’ll tell h-him you were looking—” Enervate? She tried to keep her legendary cool but failed miserably. Enervate? She would show him “enervate”. Yanking on the reins of her horse, she brought the panting animal right up to Lussier. With a half kick, half push of her foot, she sent him tumbling back. He sprawled on the dusty ground with a squeaky gasp. Flushed a furious shade of scarlet, he floundered back to his feet. Patting himself, he cast her a venomous look. “You’ll never address me in such a way again,” she snarled in her deepest voice. “Or as God is my witness, I’ll rend you limb from limb. Now, you tell your master that I demand to see him as soon as he sets foot back into Bourbon-Condé territory. And you tell him that he can keep his champion from Rome off my back or I’ll send him packing as well.” “Will you?” a man asked behind her.

She whirled the horse about to stare down at the brother. He stood a few paces away, hands in his sleeves. A look of resentment flashed in his pale eyes. As though he blamed her for something. What was wrong with him? She rounded on him, not caring if she shocked the townsfolk. “Yes, Brother. This is my land. You’re walking on my dirt, breathing my air and eating the food my good folks provide. Don’t overstep your authority.” With aplomb that shook her, he walked right up to the fretting horse and seized the bridle before she could pull away. Giving a pat to the horse’s head, he wrapped a block-like hand over the leather strap and made a fist. Charlotte refused to try to tug the reins free, knowing there was no hope she could pry them out of his steel grip. Still, she used her stature and all the steel she could put in her eyes to stare him down. “Release me.” Her teeth were about to fuse together. Not relinquishing the reins, he drew nearer. “You would do well to curb your tone of voice. I represent the Lord, whom even nobles must acknowledge and obey.” She felt herself pale, actually felt the blood drain from her face. Anger such as this, she had never known. Bending down, she hissed a “release me at once”, which carved a deep crease between his eyebrows. He let go. “Don’t forget, Lussier, because I won’t,” she threw over her shoulder. Charlotte whirled her horse around, almost knocking the brother aside. She graced Lussier with the coldest look she could muster and avoided looking at Brother Gautier. She urged her horse to a fast trot. She did not look back, though she wanted to. As soon as she reached the town limit, a ragged gasp escaped her. She slumped in her saddle and bit her cheek to keep the tears at bay. Jean-Louis’ inanimate form flashed in her eyes. Had he suffered much? Had someone at least buried him? Had he died alone? Charlotte looked down at the ruby and could not help but liken its crimson color to blood. Jean-Louis’ blood.

***** “See how it barely reaches up to the notch?” Armand asked. Her nod dislodged strands of hair and Charlotte hooked them back behind her ear with a profound sigh. The river reached up only to the second notch, which meant it was lower than even following a dry summer, which was not the case this year. Roots from trees were exposed while the

wheels of the distillery spun slowly. Water usually poured out its sides from the strong current. Today it barely sloshed on the paddles, creating a forlorn squeak that drove Charlotte to the brink. If the paddled wheel would turn just a little bit faster, the awful noise would stop. “What could be causing it? It’s rained regularly all summer, not to mention that storm last week.” “Don’t know, mistress. My guess is that something’s keeping the water from flowing normally, something up north. A beaver dam maybe? Or some debris.” She nodded. “It may be nothing but I’d like to go check.” Before Armand could voice his protest, she raised her hand and silenced him. “I don’t need another lecture on what a woman can’t and shouldn’t do.” Armand’s grin wrinkled his leathered face. “Wasn’t going to, mistress. I just wanted to remind you that Brenne and La Chapelle are both waiting for their batch. We have to work the books before we leave.” She could have hugged him right there and then. Never mind Constance. Charlotte managed a tired smile. “What would I do without you?” He shrugged. “Find another old man to harass the workers. We’re easy enough to find.” They spent the rest of the day “working the books” as Armand called, making sure coins flowed where they should. When evening rolled in and with it scents of pines and musty evening, Charlotte’s neck and back were on fire. And after she returned home that night to a restless and fitful sleep, the next day brought with it the first of the real September rains. These could last for days. She hoped it would be enough to raise the water level but somehow suspected it would not. She was becoming too pessimistic. She met Armand outside. His long riding cloak covered his body and the rump of his horse. The wide cowl was pulled straight up and buttoned almost to his eyes. The wide-brimmed hat he always wore when hunting was crammed low on his head. Rain made him and his horse look greasy. “Good morning, Constance,” Charlotte said to the spectacularly sour-looking woman. A grunted “mistress” was her only reply. Armand gave his tart wife a warning look. She did not even pretend to brighten or be affected. A shiver ran down Charlotte’s spine. Animosity shone bright in the old head-servant’s eyes this morning. Constance must not have approved of the baroness dragging her old husband up north in such weather, but to openly scowl at her employer… Charlotte resolved to mention something when she would return. “Ready?” Armand asked, eyeing her riding outfit as if to make sure all was in place. Readjusting her dagger, she nodded. The long cloak she wore also covered her horse’s backside right down to the shaggy fetlocks. She buttoned it up high and lowered the hood over her head. Though

the air was rather warm, the rain would feel less so when they stopped for the night. No use getting a lung disease on top of things. If she were coughing up blood and looked feverish, perhaps Guilabert would think twice and leave her alone. The thought entertained her for a while as she and her companion rode out of the mansion’s grounds and reached the road leading north. They followed the road in silence, each one lost in his or her thoughts. Charlotte’s brought her to Jean-Louis without fail. Word had now reached everyone in the province and offers of condolences had begun arriving. Closer family friends, of whom she had precious few, offered the relative peace and tranquility of some domain or other so she could take her mind off things and take a break. As though doing nothing would help her forget her brother was dead—had been so for two years. She knew they meant well. Still, all she wanted to do right then was eat, sleep and work. And she would do it all at the distillery if she could. There was always something to do there, always some problem she could fix. Unlike her real life. Shame pricked her again when she thought back on her conduct almost two weeks prior. She had lain with a man of God. Charlotte swallowed hard. As if bedding a stranger and living with the guilt were not enough, now she had to live with the fact he was a brother. Good fortune was just refusing to pay her a visit. “Everything all right there, mistress?” Armand asked. When she turned to him, she caught the shrewd old man staring at her intently. Did he know what she had done? Would he believe her capable of such a thing? “Have you ever done something you bitterly regretted but too late to take back?” She regretted her question as soon as she voiced it. What was she doing, confiding in her employee? He nodded silently. “Sure did. Several times. I should have waited a few decades then asked for your hand instead of Constance’s.” She joined him when he broke into chuckles. Becoming serious once more, he shrugged under his glistening cloak. “We all do things we wish we hadn’t. We’re just human. He understands.” Armand pointed heavenward with his index finger. “I hope so.” She wondered if God understood what she had done. Although she would enjoy nothing better than to blame Brother Gautier for the whole thing, she could not. She had been willing, even convincing him when he seemed as though he would leave. No, she thought, she had played a large part in the encounter. Some blame was his to bear and some of it was hers. Yet what kind of brother, even a lay one, had intimate encounters with strange women? The kind with knuckles like walnuts.

Guilabert had told her he was different, had even been a chevalier. What could have happened to convince a knight to become a brother? According to townsfolk, Brother Gautier used to be a carpenter for some large town. Then why go to the crusade in the first place? Why leave it all behind? Like Jean-Louis. Her brother had left it all behind—the distillery, the dead parents, his younger sister. For what, to dull the pain by inflicting it on others? The things she heard that were done in God’s name in the Holy Land… Charlotte shivered. Whatever had happened to Brother Gautier there, it had convinced him to return home and become a man of God. A special kind of man of God too if she believed Guilabert’s boasting. How special? She was not sure she wanted to know. “We’re there, mistress,” Armand said, breaking her musings. Her mind snapped back to the here and now and she realized it had stopped raining. Wind had picked up too. She shivered and pulled the cloak tighter. Armand’s gaze guided hers to the large milestone separating her land from the Lanteignes’. After a small nod from her, he urged his beast on. They crossed into her neighbor’s domain and continued to follow the High Road, which ran along the river. She could see it to her right, a few hundred paces or so. Under the gray sky, it resembled a giant slate road. The flow was still a bit too thin for this time of year. When they stopped for the night, Charlotte decided to have a strong drink before sleeping. She dreaded the kind of dreams she had been having of late. They all involved the brother and her doing things that would send her straight to hell. It was enough she throbbed in the most intimate of places just by thinking about him. She did not need to lose sleep over him on top of things. Something had happened to the water and without it, there would be no bourbon. She needed to be keen, stay alert. Spending nights fornicating with a man of God would make her lose both her sleep and her soul. Perhaps she had already lost the latter back at the cascade. They traveled north for another full day, stopping at an inn for the night then continuing at dawn. They were cresting over a small hill when the road became wider and branched in two. Charlotte recognized the place. If they rode west, following that fork in the road, they would reach Guilabert’s home. She had half a mind to kick her way into his home and demand to know what he was thinking about. Not tell her about her own brother. His best friend! But she pushed the idea aside. She preferred to confront him on her own land, surrounded by familiar faces. “Would you look at that,” Armand snarled under his breath. The river meandered for a league or so and kept on due north.

She followed his gaze and spotted some large contraption spanning the river. Urging the beasts on, they reached a place where the river narrowed to a hundred feet. There, newly constructed and solid-looking, was a lock with gates the thickness of a large man’s middle. “What’s this for?” Charlotte asked. No one was about, which was strange since this lock meant someone wanted to keep the water from flowing. Yet there was no industry anywhere near, no mill of any sort, only green hills and the occasional flock of sheep in the distance. “I don’t know but it shouldn’t be there.” She agreed with a nod. Armand’s face paled. He looked at her while his mouth opened in a silent O of outrage. “It’s that damned knight.” “Guilabert? I don’t think so. He knows the Bourbon-Condé need this river. He wouldn’t touch it.” “Wouldn’t he now? I bet he did this to force you to negotiate. I knew he was up to no good when he came sniffing about the distillery. He put that lock there to show us, show you, that he has control. I smell him from here…’marry me or no bourbon’.” Charlotte could only stare in mute shock as Armand went on in his tirade, each argument becoming increasingly convincing. Guilabert owned and controlled this part of the Lanteignes’ land and surely, surely, he would know about the lock. A shiver ran down her spine and prickled her arms. How could he do this and think he would get away with it? Unless he had friends in very high places indeed. Even then, she doubted someone would meddle with the supply of bourbon, especially when the king’s court prized it so much. And what of the Lanteignes? Unless they were in it as well. For coins perhaps? “Let’s go home,” she said abruptly, halting Armand in mid sentence. “I say we deal with this thing before we leave,” he shot back, eyeing the closed lock as though it were something crawling out of his food. “A few well-placed blows is all…” “We can’t. It’s not our land here. We’d be arrested and justly so.” She eyed the thick beams. Charlotte doubted two persons would budge the thing in the first place, let alone destroy it. “I’ll write to the Lanteignes and see what they say. If they won’t hear reason, then I’ll send a messenger to the court and warn the Duke of Valois that his bourbon will start drying up soon.” As if the mere thought was more horrible than anything else, Armand put his hand to his mouth and looked heavenward. “Your family has been making bourbon for generations. Heaven help those who put this damned thing here.”

“Indeed.” A heavy weight settled in Charlotte’s gut. Guilabert’s proposal was becoming more burdensome by the day. First his incessant visits then the man from Rome and now this. Weariness forced her spine into a curve. She leaned sideways and let an elbow rest on her knee. A long sigh escaped her. Perhaps she should have considered Guilabert’s offer— What was she thinking? She had been thinking—considering—his offer, as though it were good for her. All he wanted was her fortune. Yet she could not deny the physical attraction between them. He was a devilishly handsome man and shrewd. “Don’t even think about marrying that swine, mistress. You’re too good for the likes of him.” She looked at Armand and wanted to reassure him she was not considering marrying a man to save her family business. But she could not. Her gaze traveled farther down the hillside to her left, to the thinned river, and her eyes filled with burning tears. Charlotte felt like a besieged city, choking, seizing up. Ready to surrender. She hissed a curse under her breath. Surrendering? Never.

Chapter Five It had been so long since Gautier had held a fine tool in his hand. Though not as precise as his back when he was a carpenter, this hammer did the job. Years of use had worn the handle smooth. He ran his thumb over the soft grain. Gautier looked down between the rafters at the expectant faces and spotted one of the younger children looking up at him. The keen little face was turned up and to the side. Gautier pulled another nail from between his lips and winked at the little boy. The sound of hammer blows drowned what the child told his mother. After Gautier finished fixing this family’s roof, he passed the tools down via a bucket bound to a rope. The boy caught it in his small hands and held it like a cherished pet. With a grunt, Gautier slid off the rafter and hung by his hands. He let go and landed nimbly in the middle of the kitchen floor. Dust floated down around him. “My thanks,” he said to the boy, who gave him back the bucket of tools. “Bless you, good Brother,” the mother said. She retrieved a clay jar from a shelf and pushed it in his hands. “The choicest in the province.” Pride sparkled in her eyes. “Oh and please accept this loaf as well. Goes well with it.”

He lifted the cloth cover and smelled the distinct aroma of vinegar and dill. Whatever it was, it was pickled. He hated pickled foods. With a forced grin, he clutched the jar and bread to his side and dusted his black habit as best he could. “You don’t have to do this.” “Nonsense. It’s my pleasure. This roof’s been leaking for months and with winter approaching, I was worried we’d have to pay an artisan to fix it. From what I’ve seen, we got even better.” “I’m a carpenter by trade. I was Brenne’s guild master. Have you ever seen their cathedral there? I was the one who—” Gautier stopped himself. Why share his life story with this woman? She did not want to know. “Well, I must go now. My thanks again.” He raised the jar and bread, offering what he hoped was a convincing smile. “Oh my, not to worry. It was my pleasure,” she replied with a wink that made him blush. Outside, he returned to the church and placed the bucket of tools back in the placard in the garden shed. He brought the gifts to the small annex behind the church, which consisted of a tiny kitchen, a privacy closet and a bedchamber. Gautier put the bread and jar of pickled something on the table. After placing some kindling and a few logs in the hearth, Gautier stuffed some used parchment within the pyramidal pile and lit it. A small fire soon warmed his hands. Rubbing them in anticipation, he pulled a pot filled with water and hung it over the fire. After slicing sweet beets and carrots, he unwrapped the piece of pork another villager had given him that morning for fixing a broken staircase. It smelled salty and looked delicious. He pulled it in thin strands then let them fall in the warming water. The smell of basil filled the air when he tore a few leaves off the plant on the windowsill and dumped them in. Weary but content, Gautier padded to the small room that served as a washing closet and removed his habit. The scars on his chest glistened like rained-on earthworms when he looked into his reflection. Time spent outdoors had given him a healthy flush. A gay sparkle lit his eyes. The grin slid off his face. He was not here for long. No use getting comfortable with the place and its hardy folks. As he washed off the grime and sweat, he considered more fully how well these simple folks lived. Montmorency prospered under the Bourbon-Condé family, this much was obvious. The humblest farmer lived well with enough food and proper lodging for all. Children here had round faces and sparkling eyes, as they should. The folk took apparent pride in themselves and their baroness, of whom he had heard often. He wondered if the townsfolk were letting him know in no uncertain terms they loved their baroness just the way she was, hose and all. His skin prickled at the memory of her fine legs, the way water beaded at the juncture… A twinge of shame made him don his tunic and hose without looking at his reflection again. He let the habit hang on a hook planted in a vein of mortar.

Smells from the soup cooking in the kitchen made his stomach grumble. He padded barefoot to the kitchen and stirred the delicious-looking broth. After a quick taste from the ladle, he served himself a large helping. As he sat to eat, he spotted the clay jar of pickled something. Reaching out, he slid it closer and pulled the cloth and cover off. He sniffed, trying to guess what it was. No use wasting food. With a small sigh, he spooned out a tiny amount and tasted it. Definitely gourds and onions. Plums? Um. Not bad at all actually. Bolstered, he helped himself to a heaping spoonful and spread it thick on a chunk of bread. The woman had been right—the choicest in the province. Lucky children. When he was done, wiping the bowl with the last of the bread, he washed his dish and spoon and let them air dry on their hooks. A grin of satisfaction found its way onto his face. He sat by the hearth and leaned back low in the chair. Through heavy lids, he surveyed the small kitchen and its austere furnishings. A single chair, which he presently occupied, a table and one set of dishware. Everything was in singles. No pair of nothings. Silence settled over the small house. He spotted through the parted shutters trees beginning to dance with the evening breeze. The isolation overwhelmed Gautier with the suddenness of a summer storm. Acute, thorny, his solitude pressed hard against his heart. He had thought life would be easier when one lived alone. Not that his life had been teeming with friends before. Still, he had received the occasional visitor in his Brenne home. As guild master, he often held humble but enjoyable soirées with the local artisans. Since donning the habit, his days had been filled with work, his evenings with silence and his nights with oblivion. He looked about at the life he had chosen for himself and gritted his teeth. Closing his eyes, he leaned back into the chair and laid both hands on his belly. At once an image troubled his tired mind. The baroness again with her mane of curly brown hair unbound on her shoulders. He squeezed his eyes tighter, forced the image to leave him alone. He was still deeply ashamed of his lustful dream. But the fancy would not release him. With terrible clarity, she came back again. Only stood there smiling. A radiant sun gave her cheeks a glow he found himself unable to resist. His fingers twitched when his mental self touched her cheek then her neck. She stood against a stone wall, leaning back on it with her hands on either side of her. One moment she wore the dress from Sunday at church, the next, nothing but a lopsided grin. As if moved by some unseen force, he pressed himself against her, hands on breasts, his mouth full of hers. Unable to restrain the wicked slant of his thoughts, he felt his rising passion straining against the hose and hated himself for it, cursed his weak flesh. The vision would not relent. It all felt so true to him, the feel of rough stones as he pressed his palms to either side of her head. She snaked wiry arms over his neck and pulled him close. He could hold it no more.

Gautier took her there against the wall, standing. Murmuring in his ear things he could not hear, she hooked a leg behind his. Beneath his physical hands, the ones he strove to keep to himself and off her, his member quivered up by another measure. A sudden rap at his door made him jump. Ashamed, flustered, Gautier patted himself down, trying to bridle his breathing while his mind battled the last shreds of fancy. He retrieved the dagger he kept in his sleeve. The slender and razor-sharp blade poised in front of him, he went to the door and opened it, keeping the dagger and his lower body out of view. A lone man stood outside. On his chest gleamed a small golden cross. The Order of Raphael. Gautier swallowed hard. The messenger bowed and produced a small folded note. Without a word, Gautier took it and closed the door. Cardinal Lanteigne’s personal seal gleamed. Wax like fresh blood sealed the note. He broke it with his thumbnail and unfolded the letter. A quick scan of the looping penmanship produced a keen twinge of pain in his side. The sudden shift from shameful lust to grief took him by surprise, left him gritting his teeth. He sank in the chair and read the letter again. Cardinal Lanteigne was getting restless. According to this note, Gautier was to wed Charlotte Bourbon-Condé, no matter the way he chose to do it or the circumstances surrounding the occasion. In other words, he was to see her married or else. Gautier read the last line again. “That woman must reach next Sunday married or not at all.” Gautier tossed the letter into the fire. No wonder he had been saddled with such task. Marrying a woman should not have proven so difficult. A real priest could have done it. Gautier snorted. The cardinal must have known all along the woman would not cooperate, probably on that Guilabert character’s forewarning. Gautier’s unique “expertise” had been in the mind of His Eminence the whole time. Gautier cursed under his breath. Killing an enemy of the Church was easy—eradicating vermin who polluted young minds was simple—but murdering a woman because she refused to marry someone chosen for her was altogether different. Yet who was he to decide who should taste the Church’s determination and who should not? Back in the rat hole in which he had been left to die, he had vowed to serve the Lord, had sworn to uphold God’s will to his dying breath. He could not back down now because the task proved unpalatable. Cardinal Lanteigne undoubtedly had ample reasons to force the issue. Gautier shook his head. His role was not to discuss orders but to follow them. And he would. Only this time, he would get no sense of achievement from the task.

***** Gautier had not taken two steps outside the church when Guilabert and his companion materialized on either side of him. He had his dagger in his palm before the knight opened his mouth to speak. “Sneaking up on me isn’t a good idea,” Gautier snarled under his breath. For some reason he could not quite explain, he hated being seen in the presence of these two. As if to put him more ill at ease, a pair of older women walked up to the church for the daily collection. They looked at him then at the two men on either side of him. Was it his imagination or did their smiles crystallize around the edges? One of them nodded while the other ignored the men. “Have you received a letter yesterday?” Guilabert asked. Gautier wanted to punch the smug grin off the man’s face. He took a deep breath and nodded. “Good. So have I,” Guilabert went on. He nodded to an old man who walked up the road. When they were alone again, Lussier leaned in to him in a conspiratorial way. “So when are you going to act?” Gautier stopped dead in his tracks. Both men halted a pace too late and had to backtrack up to him. “What do you mean, ‘act’?” “He means the ceremony,” Guilabert said with a pointed look for his friend. Did they think him a fool? Did they think he could not see what was going on? These two may have had more schooling than he did, but he had what they lacked—experience. Especially in dealing with upstart fools the likes of them. He could not count the times his cardinal had sent him on some nighttime visit to slothful, depraved nobles to guide them back to the path of light, nor the instances he had been forced to use lethal force to make his point in the back alleys of Rome. Dispatching this pair of buffoons would have taken him but a moment had he been allowed to do so. “I was going to see her now,” Gautier replied then added through his teeth, “If you mean to marry that girl only to have her disappear to get at her fortune, I promise you a swift riposte.” Guilabert’s hazel eyes narrowed to slits. For the first time since meeting him, Gautier recognized more than burning ambition in the angular face. He could see greed. Jealousy. Yearning. It twisted his face in a grotesque fashion. The look was gone the next moment, leaving Gautier to wonder if he had seen it at all. “Why so protective, Brother?”

Gautier refused to answer that question. Frankly, he wasn’t sure himself why he’d suddenly flown to the baroness’s defense and preferred not to dwell on the implications. Guilabert smirked. “I’ll go with you since I’m her future husband.” “I’ll go alone.” “Suit yourself. But she can be very willful.” “I have no problems with her.” Aside from trying to keep my hands to myself. With a gloved hand, the knight extended his index finger toward Gautier’s cross and let it run down the pendant’s length. Gautier thought he would explode from restrained rage. The last time someone had done this to him, months of torture had followed. He flinched when Guilabert flicked the cross aside and stabbed his finger in Gautier’s scarred chest. “I’ve seen what they do to the enemy back there. I can only imagine what it must have been like for you. Months in a hole, no light other than the candles with which they burn you. And the rats—are there any rats in the Holy Land, I wonder?” Guilabert brought his hand down, leaving behind a little poke of pain that made Gautier grit his teeth. The knight cocked his head to the side and smiled a sad smile. “We all left something behind during the crusade. What’s important here and now is that we don’t betray the one we swore to serve.” “Don’t lecture me on serving the Lord,” Gautier replied tersely. “I wouldn’t pretend to know what goes on in there,” Guilabert said, pointing at Gautier’s head. “But your cardinal—my very dear friend—told me you could be counted on to do God’s work, free of us laymen’s failings. Failings like pity. I have my doubts, to be frank. Do you pity her, the frigid maiden, lost and orphaned? You shouldn’t. She has no heart. If she could, she’d do away with you and me in a moment. But I’m sure she does have an itch that I was pleased to scratch once and will be pleased to scratch again.” The lewd remark grated on Gautier’s raw nerves. He shook his head. “Is there a point to this?” “I’ll take care of her when we’re husband and wife. She won’t be the frigid maiden for long. Just do what you were sent here to do. Before Sunday.” Or else. The rest was left unsaid. Gautier let the tip of his dagger show below his sleeve. “Don’t you threaten me.” As though he had been slapped in the face, Guilabert lowered his chin, licking his lips in a way that reminded Gautier of a predator. “I have friends, you bastard brother, friends in high places. You

would do well to remember that.” The word “brother” sounded more like an insult in the knight’s mouth than “bastard”. “I have a friend in a high place as well.” Lussier looked heavenward, his expression worried. For this, he received a not too subtle elbow in the ribs from his companion. “Just remember who you’re dealing with,” Guilabert said. Gautier watched the pair swagger away, all the while killing both in his mind. The dagger’s handle dug so hard against his palm it had left an imprint. Looking about at the busy townsfolk, he slid it back in his sleeve. Doing the Lord’s work had never left such an ashy taste in his mouth.

***** By the time he had cooled off enough to be rational, evening had already started to settle in. The sun had dipped below the treetops. Gautier walked what seemed to be the opposite way of everybody else. Most of those he met looked friendly enough, though some of them gave him askance looks that made him stare at the ground. A large specimen of a man stared daggers when Gautier passed. He nodded but the giant did not reply. After a few steps, Gautier sensed someone behind him and realized the giant had turned and followed him up the road to the distillery. The baroness’ security? Gautier kept a good pace as he climbed up the steep hill leading to the large stone and timber building. Its shadow loomed large over its façade. Smells of caramel and smoke hung thick in the air. Not at all unpleasant. He peeked behind to make sure the giant merely followed. When he reached the front doors, his follower must have thought this was close enough for he cleared his throat. Gautier stopped with his hand on the thick iron handle then turning around asked, “Yes?” “Can I help you, Brother?” His neck dwarfed his head. No malice shone in the small eyes but a good amount of determination did. They really are fond of their baroness, Gautier thought. “I wish to speak with Lady Charlotte. Perhaps you could get her for me?” Trying to appease the giant did not seem to work. He crossed his massive arms and stared. “I need to speak with her. It’s important.” Gautier meant to slide the door in its cast iron slider.

A small but ominous step brought the giant closer. “Sorry, Brother, but you can’t go there. It’s dangerous, you see.” Patience had never been a virtue with him but he did try his damnedest to recover a potentially volatile situation. The man had to weigh three times his own weight. “Look,” he offered, letting his hand fall from the handle, “I need to warn her about something…someone.” Without warning, the door slammed opened and there she stood, a look of shock on her face when she spotted him. She took a step back. “What are you doing here?” “I only want to speak with you.” Gautier checked behind him to make sure the giant had not moved. He had not, even if he looked as though he wanted to. Badly. “Then say it here.” Leaning against the door, she crossed her arms over her chest. He could not remember meeting anyone so passively hostile, so damned stubborn. A sigh heaved his chest. “I doubt you want anyone else to hear what I have to say. Not now anyway.” His remark brought on a nice assortment of reactions to her fair face. The eyebrows shot up like twitching caterpillars, her nose flared then her whole face tightened until he swore it would break in half. “It’s all right, Renaud,” she said at length, not looking at the giant. “Brother Gautier and I need to talk. But do stay close by in case I start screaming.” The giant nodded, turned about then marched back down twenty paces or so and sat on a large rock where he proceeded to dig in his tool belt and produced a knife along with a piece of wood. With a pointed look Gautier’s way, he sent a chip of wood flying. Gautier felt as if a sliver of his own hide had just fallen to the ground. “Come in,” the baroness said. The sight of her drove all other thought away. His indiscreet fancy of earlier warmed his cheeks with uneasiness. All he could do was stare at the bouncing curls as she preceded him into the darkened distillery, those bouncing curls that had heralded a long moment of torturous fancying. He tore his gaze off her. A narrow aisle split the main floor in two large sections while even narrower alleys ran along the breadth of it. Much like in a church in fact. Here the smells of whiskey and wood were overwhelming. Gautier slid the door closed behind him. Light filtered through a narrow window high above them. The baroness spun on her heels then stood there. The way she looked at him expectantly reminded him of their encounter at the cascade. To make sure his gaze did not stray, he lowered it to the section of floor separating them, a symbol of their differences, of the things keeping them apart. As it should be. He had his speech all prepared, something he rarely did, preferring to just let his deeds

speak for him, but tonight, faced with the tall and beautiful woman, words failed him. He could have cursed. “What does Guilabert want now? Some of my blood to make sure it’s blue? It isn’t.” She had no idea how true she had aimed. “I came here to warn you that I’ve received a new edict from the Vatican.” She snorted. Her bravado abraded his already raw nerves. When he took a step closer, she flinched as if he had struck her. The reaction sliced his heart. “Look, I’ve danced about the place long enough. I’m to marry you to Sir Guilabert before this coming Sunday. I thought you’d like to know in advance.” If eyes could kill a man, he would be dead right now. She stared daggers at him before she peeled her wiry frame from the beam against which she leaned. “How dare you come into my home and force this on me?” She took a step toward him. Her fists balled at her sides. “You think you can come here and force a man on me? I told you once that I don’t yield to anyone. Anyone.” “Everyone yields to an edict from the Vatican.” “Not me. I’ll write a letter to my cousin. He’s the Duke of Valois, paternal uncle to the king or didn’t you know? He’ll put a hold to this madness.” Gautier wanted to roll his eyes but stopped himself just in time. There was no telling what she might do. He was loath to engage her further. It was enough he could not tear his gaze away from her flushed face. Brown curls stuck to her temples while a sheen of sweat dampened her exquisite lips. And those long legs, wrapped so closely in men’s hose. Gautier looked away. “Even the king of France himself is subject to the Church’s law, just as anyone else. Do you think the Duke of Valois would counsel his sovereign to put his country in discredit with the Church for—” “What? A mere woman?” she demanded. This time, she stalked up to him and stopped a foot from his face. She had both fists on her hips. Her scent reached him. His breathing quickened. His mental hands reached out and stroked her cheek. His physical hands balled into shaking fists. “No. I meant to say ‘a distant cousin’. No king would…ah, why do I bother?” He ran a hand over his face and sighed deeply. “I’m trying to make this as simple as possible. For you and for me. But you seem bent on the contrary.” “I won’t marry Guilabert. He’s a swine who’s after my coins.” A look of deep disgust flashed in her eyes.

“He’d make an adequate husband.” Lying? He’d never done that before. Jesus on a cross. I can’t even think straight. “You’re lying and you’re not very good at it either, which is a testament to your character, I guess,” she remarked acidly. She had just parroted him. He could not believe it. She had sent his lecture right back at him, the one he had served her at the confessional the other week. Disrespectful, stubborn… He took a threatening step forward but realized his mistake too late. Instead of backing away, she stood her ground and he collided against her, chest on chest. The resulting jolt of surprise and excitement nearly floored him. His legs threatened to buckle anytime now. A burning low in his groin made him blush. God. She must have sensed the difference in him for she gasped and retreated a step. A small step—much too small. With shock, he realized he was holding her wrist, not in a violent manner but a firm one nonetheless. Her reaction surprised him. Instead of pulling away as he wished she would, she tensed but did not move. Her lips parted. Gautier caught sight of her tongue glistening behind her teeth. As much as he tried to, he could not look away. Slowly, as if time fought an uphill battle, she reached up to touch his face. Heat of her outstretched fingers grazed him, sent shivers down his spine. Then contact. As if a dam had been breached, Gautier found that no amount of furious backpedaling would save him from the lustful slope onto which he’d just ventured. His body becoming a mass of quivering muscles, he froze and waited. Her gentle fingers traced his cheek then his jaw. She didn’t try to kiss him—for which he could have thanked the Lord on his knees for he knew, he knew, that he wouldn’t have been able to stop her. To his undying shame, Gautier didn’t want her to stop. While at the same time he wished to hell, he’d never been born at all. He felt he was being torn in half. How could something that felt so good be so wicked? Why had God created men so damned weak? Gautier wondered if he was only a weak man or if any other male would have found it impossible to resist the woman before him now. Her other hand joined the first and cupped his jaw on either side. She wasn’t going to kiss him, was she? Please don’t, he wanted to say. For us both, please don’t. And by God, if he wasn’t disappointed when she didn’t press those tempting lips to him and only studied his face. Some brother you make! The entire time, he was holding on to her wrist, but had by then begun to rub her warm skin with his thumb. Beneath the hose and habit, his manhood became alert.

When she sighed, her chest strained the awful man’s tunic she wore. Nipples the size of baby olives strained under the fabric. Could he not even control his eyes? He made a quick prayer for inner strength. “I wish circumstances were different,” she began, stopped then tut-tutted. “I truly do. I think we could have been friends you and I.” Gautier tried not to agree openly but suspected his eyes had betrayed him. They usually did. He slowed his rubbing on her wrist, slowed down to languorous circles around the small bone there. Energy like the first few moments of a summer storm spiked through his entire body. Shamefully hard, his member pushed against his hose and he thanked God for the small solace of wearing many layers. Her gaze caressed his face before settling on his mouth. He thought he would collapse on his knees and cling to her waist as he buried his face in her fragrant clothes. They would smell of her, he knew they would. The sweetest perfume. She broke the spell first by offering a smile so cheerless it was heartbreaking. He released her wrist and backed away several paces. Fear of himself, of his vulnerable flesh and the power she had on him all meshed in him until he could not tell which frightened him the most. She looked as repentant as he felt, grimacing as if in pain. “Have you ever been at the mercy of someone, Brother Gautier?” His hand came up instinctively and pressed against his chest. The ache in his scars flared again, even now so long after he had escaped his tormentors and the land that had brought him so much grief. It had been so long since the sting of fire and memories had burned him. She could do this, could reawaken pain as well as pleasure. Gautier did not think he could speak so he nodded. He did know how it felt to be at the mercy of someone else, to have one’s power wrestled away, beaten out, until even one’s very soul felt besieged. “Then you know how I feel.” She turned away and disappeared between ricks of barrels. Gautier stood frozen in place. After a while, he knew not how long, he gritted his teeth and whirled around. He needed to get away from this place before he did something he regretted. Before he began to feel again.

Chapter Six As Brother Gautier stood there looking hurt and confused, Charlotte held her breath. She should not spy on him this way but she could not help it. The way the last rays of sun pierced the window and fell around his pale hair gave him the appearance of an angel. An angel with the hands of a carpenter.

He pulled his hood over his face and about-turned. When he slammed the door, it thudded against its frame. She could imagine Renaud jumping up from his boulder. “Why did it have to be you?” Her breath stirred dust from the tops of barrels. She leaned against one and slid to the floor. There, alone with her thoughts, her heart pounding as though she had run all the way up from the town, Charlotte’s jaws locked together. He meant to marry her by Sunday. By God, it was three days away! She could not see herself as Guilabert’s wife. Not because he was revolting. But his time away had exacerbated all the dark streaks in him. He was more driven, more ambitious than ever before. His dark good looks had ever made him popular with the ladies and still did, except now with her. She could well imagine what the local noblewomen thought of her refusing the handsome knight. They must think her a fool, a frigid woman unable to love even such a gorgeous man. True, she was no firebrand. Still, she had feelings too. They just did not include Guilabert. A shiver ran up her spine when she imagined him touching her, loving her. Another pair of hands had stoked the fire burning deep in her. Although the man belonged to God, what he had awakened in her could never be repeated with another. She would rather go without than spoil such a precious moment. A low growl escaped her. Charlotte counted the days before Sunday, praying she had one more than on the first ten counts. She did not. This meant barely three days before turning twenty-seven. “Happy birthday to me,” she snarled under her breath. Charlotte sat up straight. The deed to the distillery and every asset the Bourbon-Condé family owned belonged to Jean-Louis because he was male and older. Her parents, contrary to the sea of advice and against all tradition, had put Charlotte as alternate successor. In the advent of Jean-Louis’ death as was unfortunately the case, she would inherit everything…unless she married, in which case she would share legal power with her husband and his family. Charlotte looked down at her hand where the ruby flashed. She cursed loudly. That son of a whore! Guilabert must have known. He had to wed her before her birthday so he would become the owner of the Bourbon-Condé distillery, the male heir to her large fortune. He knew it. She punched the barrel in front of her. The dull thud sounded like a felt drum. Sunday. Three days away. Well, two and a half now. Charlotte jumped to her feet. She had failed in convincing Guilabert of his folly. Armand had often half joked, half proposed to have Renaud “take care” of the knight. As much as she hated him, she could not bring herself to have him, a friend, “taken care of”, no matter how perfidious and traitorous and sordid he had become. Since she could not get through to this brother from Rome, all she had left was herself. She had to find a way to make herself unavailable.

There was no time to go to Spain. Too late for it now. Father Simon’s suggestion, though ludicrous only a couple weeks ago, looked so inviting now. But she had wasted the chance by being stubborn and a fool. Now she had to find something else. Where could she go no one either knew of or would not think of going? She made a mental tally of her family’s estates, striking them all from her list of possible hideouts. All involved gossipy servants, upstart nobles and folk looking to make good with the Church. She had to stay local. They would never think of trying to find her locally. A cousin lived not very far but she had children. Charlotte could not put them at risk. What if Guilabert resorted to even seedier tactics? So she had to find a place without families involved. Somewhere close, isolated. Then it came to her. “Of course.” Charlotte ran out from between the barrels and rushed up the stairs to her office. Once on the mezzanine, she sifted through the messy desk and among scrolls in their cases for the map to her Montmorency estate. It had to be there somewhere. She had seen it only recently when Armand had begun complaining about the river level. Muttering under her breath, she caused quite a mess as she searched for the map. Then with a stifled yelp of triumph, she pulled it out of a container labeled Map of Montmorency, 1316 and rolled her eyes. Right there where it should have been and labeled. It was over forty years old but still accurate. She pulled it out and slapped it flat on her desk. Running her fingers over its leathery surface, she followed the river downstream until she came to a fork. There. Half a day’s ride. No more. Her mother’s family a long time ago owned this small château then mostly used it as a hunting lodge after they moved to a larger one. The place was deserted now. In fact, it was naught but ruins really. She had been there only once. A small, open-air chapel, part of the keep and some underground portion. It was mossy, overgrown and far away from anything else. It would be perfect. All she had to do was stay there out of sight until her birthday three days away. Then she could come out and take full control of the family business, of her own destiny. No one would be able to do a thing. But they would know. Guilabert would try to stop her. She had to be discreet. Only Armand would know. Perhaps Renaud as well. She would ride out in the night. Armand would be back before the next morning. No one would suspect a thing. And to say she’d almost let herself be convinced to marry Guilabert—despite his lukewarm opinion of such union—and settle her parents’ and everybody else’s concern about the headstrong female progeny! The thought made her shiver.

Nerves made her fingers tremble over the map. She was running away. Like a coward. Like Jean-Louis. The thought had barely registered in her brain that she pushed it away. This had been his way of dealing with their parents’ deaths. She should not judge him so harshly. She kissed his ring and prayed for forgiveness. It was not his fault. It was Guilabert’s. He had forced her to flee her own home, had enlisted the help of the mighty Vatican to help get himself a rich wife. He was the cowardly one. Not Jean-Louis. “Not me.”

***** Armand checked behind for what must have been the tenth time. His nervousness made her edgy. “Have you spotted someone?” she asked again. He shook his head. “I could’ve sworn there was someone right there at the end of the path.” Armand pointed to some bushes indicating the end of the mansion’s cultured grounds. Forest began afterward, thick and dark in the evening glow. “Must have been your guilty conscience,” she replied with a forced smile. “There’s naught wrong with what we’re doing, mistress. Had no choice, is all.” She nodded. “Still, I wish I didn’t have to drag you into this. I could make it there by myself, you know.” He shook his head fiercely. “And leave you to the wolves, I think not!” Renaud chuckled. She looked at the two men riding with her and her heart swelled with affection. Quite the pair, those two. As much as one was wiry, the other was massive. She wished she did not have to involve them in all the craziness. Still, things would look much gloomier without them. The path narrowed until they had to ride single file with Renaud in the lead at Armand’s insistence. As she watched the man’s thick back sway with his huge mount’s gait, she let the night air cool her spirit. Things could be worse. They had met no one in the usually busy house. Even the distillery was quiet after the unseasonably hot day. Charlotte was a bit worried about the river’s level, which had still diminished another finger or two. Her letter to her cousin must have reached Versailles by now and the Duke of Valois would do something. Bourbon was in high demand. It had to be protected. Even if his

deeds would help the business as much as they would her personal situation, whatever he chose to do was better than naught at all. Unless he did do nothing as the brother had forewarned. What did he know, this man! She snorted. Brother Gautier. The name alone sent shivers up her spine. His hands, his ambrosial lips on her skin like sun-warmed silk. Throbbing pulsed high between her thighs and she shifted in her saddle. Now was not the time. Nor would it ever be. No, she thought, my life will be spent at the distillery, growing older until no one will be able to tell where I end and where the business starts. Just as well though, really, because men could not be trusted. Not with the Bourbon-Condé name in the balance. If only she could have found someone who did not care what she did or who she was, someone who would not have known her identity. She then could have fallen in love with such man, could have trusted him. Unfortunately, everyone knew who she was, could recognize her on sight. Anyone local anyway. “Watch out, mistress,” Renaud said from somewhere in front. She pulled on the reins just in time to avoid a large branch hanging across the path at an angle. Leaning sideways, she guided her mount under the obstacle then returned to the middle of the beaten path. “Good thing I’m short,” Armand muttered behind her. She smiled. “Are you sure you don’t want one of us to stay with you? Renaud could stay, so could a few others. They wouldn’t betray you, mistress.” “I know they wouldn’t,” she replied, twisting back to face Armand. “But Guilabert and Brother Gautier would notice. It’s better if I alone disappear. Although I fear they’ll put pressure on you to tell them where I’ve gone.” “You just worry about yourself, Mistress Charlotte. I’ll take care of your suitor.” This frightened her deeply. Guilabert would no doubt fly into a rage. Brother Gautier, well, according to the knight, Gautier was another sort of man of God, one who apparently did not shy away from using coercion to reach his goal. With the size of hands he had and the way his knuckles looked almost filed down and covered with scars, she did not doubt Gautier could be a persuasive man. In fact, of the two, she feared the brother much more than she did the knight. There was also Lussier. The vicious little weasel would no doubt want to look good in Guilabert’s eyes.

To their right, diamonds of light twinkled along the surface of the river. She saw its closest bank become more ragged, less definite, with the rate of the river lessening to a narrow, ten-feet-wide ribbon. Then a fork appeared in the river with the opposing bank going farther off into the darkness. Renaud urged his mount to leave the path and enter the narrow river. Maneuvering the huge draft horse among the rocks, he soon cleared the river and meant to help Charlotte do the same but grinned and nodded when she crossed it faster than he did. Armand soon followed and the trio left the gurgling river behind them to enter deeper into the forest. Here night birds and other animals cried their shrill warnings. The foliage hung low from moss-covered branches and Charlotte had to lean over in her saddle several times to clear the low-hanging tree limbs and the strips of lichen, which resembled silvery, ragged drapes. Moist earth covered all other smells. Soon afterward, the moon poked out from behind the thick canopy of clouds and shone like new gold as they neared their destination. According to her old map, which she had copied and brought with her in her pack, the old château should not be too far off. A gentle hill separated her from it, if she guessed correctly. Yes, right there, she could see the treetops as the hill smoothed out and formed a narrow ridge. At Armand’s insistence, they stayed in the line of trees and followed the clearing right up to the plateau. On its downhill side, she could spot the whitened ruins jutting out of the vegetation like the broken teeth of some defeated monster. “Finally,” whispered Armand behind her. He urged his mount into a quick trot and came up to her. His wizened face looked worried but resolute. He nodded in silent support. “I should be perfectly safe here,” she said, more to appease him than herself. Then again, butterflies did make their apparition in her stomach. Her guts twisted in nervousness. She would be armed. Well armed in fact. She would be hidden from view. Would not need fire since the weather was still mild. All in all, this would be a perfect place. They left the clearing behind and drew nearer to the ruins. As per her patchy memory of it, the château itself was long gone, with only a few rows of stones poking out of the earth and one corner of the structure left intact. Trees and other foliage had taken root while all manners of moss had made the rough stones their home. More moss dangled from broken arches, toppled pillars. She stared in mute awe at the poignant remnants of a once-thriving home. “Here, mistress,” Renaud said, reaching up to take her reins. She gave them to him and slid off her horse. Through a large aperture in the smashed wall, she spotted the open-air chapel and its stone altar, now naught but a rectangular slab pushed on its side. While Renaud and Armand found the perfect spot to erect the thick canvas tent, she wandered to the chapel. Its wooden pews had long ago rotted away, but their former emplacement still held deep grooves where the massive oak beams had once been nailed. Part of the back wall where a circular hole indicated some sort of stained glass window, had crumbled into a mass of fist-sized rocks.

She approached the quiet place and sat on a large piece of broken altar. In her imagination she could see the glorious colors, the velvety silence inside the small chapel. Birds must have sung their sweet song outside the round window while the celebrant chanted the Lord’s glory. Within moments, the eerie silence chased her out of the chapel. Charlotte looked behind at what had once undoubtedly been a beautiful piece of construction and sighed. If things went according to plan, if she could evade Guilabert’s greedy clutches, she would commission an accomplished artisan to rebuild this chapel and give it back its beauty and dignity. “All ready, Mistress Charlotte. It’s not what you’re used to, mind you, but should be comfortable all the same.” Armand cast a glance at the chapel and cringed. “Needs a bit of love that place, yes?” “It does. And I’ll give it its due when the dust has settled down.” They returned to the ruins, her new home, and found Renaud still fixing the tent’s flap, trying in vain to make it fall evenly to the ground. She stopped his fiddling with a hand. “I’ll need something to occupy me while I wait here.” He nodded, bowed and retreated to the horses. Armand’s eyes made a quick scan of her and she chuckled. “I’ll be fine.” “I know I’m just a doting old fool, child, but my bones keep telling me it’s wrong to leave you here all by yourself. Pray rethink having Renaud stay with you.” There was such affection, such concern, in his wrinkled eyes tears came to hers. Then it occurred to her he had called her “child”, something he had never done before. “I’ll be fine, old friend. But do take care of my distillery while I’m gone.” She pretended to sound cross. Without warning, he grabbed her in a tight embrace. Not a moment later, he let go and marched the short distance to Renaud, who waited with the two horses. Hers would remain here with enough food for four beasts his size. She would not be alone, not really. Armand looked back once and waved quickly. The pair then mounted their horses and had soon disappeared through the trees. Relative silence settled over her. Leaves rustled in the venerable trees overhead while small animals went on their nightly activities. She hoped she had not disturbed some feisty squirrel that would make it its personal quest to be rid of the bothersome two-leg. The last thought brought a smile, and as Charlotte scanned her new home, her spirit was lifted higher than it had been in months, years perhaps. Here among the trees and animals, she stood a chance. Freedom was within her grasp. All that was needed now was a bit of time and some good fortune. Which of the two she would need the most remained to be seen.

With a light step, Charlotte entered the tent that would be her home for the next few days.

***** Gautier nodded when the farrier thanked him again. He stepped out of the blacksmith’s shop, having just finished replacing a set of supporting posts, and was making his way back to town when he saw them. Guilabert looked positively fuming. What was up with him now? “Brother,” the knight said, barely waiting to be within earshot. “A word with you.” The edge in his voice triggered a clanging of alarm in Gautier’s keen senses. He nodded and followed the pair past the enclosure behind the tavern. Sun hailed him as he rounded the corner of the building and turned back to face the two grave-looking knights. A tic tugged at Guilabert’s eyelid. “She’s gone.” “The baroness?” Gautier asked. “Yes. She’s left Montmorency. The fool she keeps as overseer won’t even let me approach the damned place. He’s put guards about the distillery. But I know she’s gone.” A prickly sensation fluttered at the base of Gautier’s neck. She had left town. He had warned her and she had fled. This was how his sense of fairness was being repaid. What a fool he had been. “You don’t seem surprised,” Lussier remarked acidly. “Why should I be? She’s a canny woman. Of course she’d leave before Sunday.” He gave a pointed glance at Guilabert, who stared daggers back at him. “You wouldn’t have naught to do with her disappearance, would you?” The thought alone scared him more than he cared to admit. Guilabert’s angular face flushed. He hissed a curse that would have shamed a sailor. “You’re not in any position to make accusations, Brother. I’m not the one who was sent here from the Vatican to deal with a problem…you were.” “And I intend to take care of it.” Lussier snorted. “I wonder what the cardinal will think of his esteemed envoy. Letting a woman—a woman—wriggle out of his fingers.” The fingers in question curled into a tight fist. Gautier took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Nothing would be accomplished by letting this fool see how much the words stung.

Guilabert seemed to relax and even managed a tight smile. “We’re all weak men, aren’t we, Brother Gautier? I mean, this woman is strong and beautiful and cunning. Any man would be impeded in his judgment. That’s what they do, women. Surely His Eminence won’t take it too hard that his emissary weakened—” Gautier closed a block-like hand over the other’s throat, ending the tirade. “I’ve had just about enough of your foolishness. I don’t yield to guilt, threats or pride, especially not from the likes of you. I could break your neck with one hand, right here, right now, before anyone,” he threw an askance look at a twitching Lussier, “could do anything about it.” “Unhand me, you filthy bastard,” Guilabert hissed, his voice barely above a whisper. Gautier did, shoving the knight away. “Cardinal Lanteigne will be apprised of this latest event, as he has been before. When I do find her—and I will—she’ll be married. With any good fortune, I’ll be on my way back to Rome by next week.” The entire time, Lussier shifted from one foot to the other. Gautier made sure he never let this one out of his sight as he took a step back and folded his hands inside his sleeves. The dagger felt cool and comforting. “I have work to do.” “If you don’t find her, I’ll make sure the cardinal recants your recruitment into the Order of Raphael, you won’t even be a lay brother anymore. You’ll be a mere artisan once again, without status, commission or title. The true bastard you are. Then I’ll spread the word around, you’ll never find work again.” Gautier gritted his teeth and stormed away. His blood boiled in his veins. That woman—that stubborn, irresponsible woman. Oh but he would find her, and when he did, she would come peacefully or, by God, he would drag her the entire way to the altar! Those he met on the way to the distillery shied away from his path. He rushed up the hill, not slowing down when someone asked him a question. He did not even hear what the man said. He did not care.

They knew. The wizened man, her overseer, he knew. He would tell. Gautier would make him. Word of his arrival must have preceded him for the giant walked out of the large building atop the hill and came to stand in the middle of the dirt road. He could have been a pillar of flesh. Gautier balled both fists at his sides and when he was within earshot, he called to the giant to step aside or face his wrath. The man did not move. Gautier’s heart quickened with the rush of energy. Though he did not want to fight this one, he knew he would not even reach the distillery doors without first knocking aside the massive tower of muscle guarding it. “Stand aside, man, I’m in no mood for leniency,” Gautier snarled when he was still some paces away. The giant did not speak but uncrossed his arms and made fists as well. Those had to be the size of melons. A low growl escaped Gautier. Had they all conspired against him? Could they not understand he was only doing the Lord’s work, through His emissaries in the Vatican? As he reached the giant, Gautier sidestepped, pivoted and sent a sharp kick aimed chest-high, which would have floored anyone else. Against this man, it barely registered. A mighty shove in the chest knocked Gautier back a couple of steps. He shook his head to clear his vision. By God, had he just been hit by a bull? Gautier launched another kick, this time aimed low at the giant’s knees. For all his strength, the massive man was not quick enough to avoid the blow. He grunted in pain when one of his legs buckled. He collapsed to one knee but managed to seize Gautier by the habit and pulled him down with him. Other workers came to stand about and watch. Out of the corner of his eye, Gautier spotted the overseer. He looked neither happy nor satisfied, which was puzzling. Gautier would have thought seeing the reviled “champion from Rome” brought to his knees would have been highly satisfying. Another thing startled him—the giant could have used much more force than he had. Why was he holding back? With as much clout as he could put into it, Gautier drove his elbow in the giant’s face. His head snapped back and blood spurted out of his nose and mouth yet he held on to Gautier’s garment with the grip of a drowning man. “Let me pass and I won’t make it worse,” Gautier hissed as he tried without success to stand. For reply, the giant managed to pull him into a bear hug, which made Gautier’s ribs creak in protest. He growled in pain and frustration. This man just did not understand. Gautier cursed under his breath. He had no choice now. He could not snake his arms out of the steel bear hug. Gautier twisted and writhed until he was straddling the kneeling giant’s lap. A dull pain began to radiate along his upper arms and chest. Air came in but barely. Gautier smacked his chin onto the man’s nose. Bones crunched. His head ringing from chin

to skull, Gautier snapped it down a second time. Blood splattered the giant’s face and neck. Finally, the massive tree-trunks that were his arms let go. Gautier backpedaled before the giant could grab at his clothes again. He kicked the kneeling man in the chest. With a humph, the giant keeled over and lay there, gagging blood and trying for one last swipe at Gautier. Without waiting to see if anyone else wanted a taste, Gautier strode away from the giant, who had now rolled onto his front and was making valiant efforts to stand. A stone-faced overseer stood in Gautier’s path. “Where is she?” Gautier demanded in a loud and clear voice. If the overseer and his tree-sized brute would not cooperate, perhaps someone else had more wits. Faces tightened, some looked uncomfortable yet resolute, others looked downright hostile. Fools! All of them. When he reached the overseer, Gautier seized him by the front of his work tunic and hoisted him up close. “Where…is…she?” “You won’t beat naught out of us, Brother. May as well spare you the time, yes,” the older man replied. No fear shone in the dark eyes. Resolve. Stubbornness. Ah yes, a lot of this. Just like her. Were they all related in this Godforsaken province? Gautier released him abruptly and put both fists on his hips. “I’ll find her. I always find the one I’m looking for. That’s why I’m here.” The older man spat on the ground separating them. “So you’ve done this before, force a girl to marry a swine and a thief? Well, some servant of the Lord you are.” “Don’t…” The tone of his voice must have dulled the overseer’s bluster for he sucked through his teeth and looked away. “Go back to work, boys. The brother and I need to chat. You two, take care of Renaud.” Gautier looked back to see the giant get to his feet unassisted. The look he gave him bode naught good for their future encounters. Despite this, a grudging respect budded in Gautier’s heart. Anyone willing to take so much punishment to protect someone else merited at least deference, if not approval. When they were alone, the overseer crossed his sinewy arms over his chest. “She’s gone because you forced her to. You’ve only yourself to blame. Would’ve done the same myself.”

“Make this easy for everyone. Tell me where she is so she doesn’t suffer because of your defiance.” Blanching, the old man shook his head. “I don’t know where she is. The mistress is a cunning girl, you won’t catch her if she doesn’t want you to.” Gautier’s heart squeezed at the prospect of having to beat it out of the old man but he would, damn it, for he had to know where she was. So much depended on it. His very soul hinged on fulfilling his duties. He could not fail God now, not after He had saved him from a hell of pain. “You know it’ll be worse for her when I do find her,” Gautier said, loathing how his words made the old man’s face twist with disgust. “It’s right and just for her to marry, as per the Vatican’s edict.” “Right and just? I’m sure that’s what the Saracens are telling themselves when they get their hands on some of us.” Gautier could actually feel his blood leaving his face. His skin grew clammy and cold. Pearls of sweat rolled a teasing course along his spine. “Don’t speak of things you know naught about.” “You think you’re the only one who got caught?” the overseer remarked casually as he ran a thick hand over his grayish hair. “Don’t look so troubled, word gets about fast in these parts. Everyone knows everyone. But whatever they did, back in Jerusalem, it won’t be as bad as not listening to your soul when it speaks to you.” Gautier crossed his arms over his chest. He stifled a cringe of pain. There would be some colorful bruising come morning from where the giant had gripped him. “What do you mean?” “If you need to ask, then you’re not listening to your soul, are you? This whole thing is wrong and you know it.” Just to prove him wrong, Gautier pulled the dagger out of its sheath inside his sleeve and in one fluid motion, leveled it with the overseer’s throat. “I’m a man of God, yes, but not a man of the cloth and I won’t hesitate to use it.” He let the blade rest against the old man’s skin. “It’s not for me to decide what’s right or wrong. I just do the Lord’s work and leave the quibbles to better men than I.” To add more emphasis to his word, Gautier let the full length of the blade rest across the man’s throat. Lightly but there all the same. He had no wish to harm the overseer for showing loyalty but there was a limit to his patience. “Where is she?” To his credit, the overseer looked away defiantly. Then as if he had suddenly changed his mind, he lowered his face and said something Gautier could not hear. “Speak up,” he growled, hating every moment of this unpleasant business. “She has family in Spain.” Spain? She had left for Spain? “When did she leave?”

“Last night,” replied the overseer. He did not look up when Gautier slid his dagger back inside his sleeve. “She’s traveling to Spain all by herself?” Gautier asked, unsure if he should be surprised, impressed or alarmed. A woman alone on the roads. God knew what could happen to her. “I left her.” There was such misery, such self-disgust in those few words Gautier did not doubt the man’s sincerity. “You were loyal, you’ve naught to be ashamed of.” Gautier turned to leave. “I only wish she would’ve trusted in God to make some decisions.” A sparkle of slyness danced in the dark eyes but was gone the next moment. “If you harm her in any way, Brother, I’ll set the whole town on your heels. And never mind if you’re a cardinal’s champion or not. We may be simple folks to you men of God, but simple folks tend to bend together. They’d do it gladly too, her folks. She may seem cold to some, but to us, those who know her, she’s a caring woman.” Not harm her. Gautier merely nodded, not wanting to make a promise he would have to break. He doubted the baroness would make the journey back an easy one. The thought of it weighed heavy on him as he sprinted down the hill and toward the church. There was so much to do before he left. There was not much time. Spain of all places! When he reached the church front yard, he noticed one of the doors was opened. He gritted his teeth and pushed it all the way in. Expecting the two knights, he was surprised and annoyed to see the confessional’s door closed, which meant someone sat inside, waiting to confess. He had no time for this! While he listened to some self-serving condemnation, the baroness would be riding farther and farther away. And she was a good rider. A smirk raised his lips when he recalled her dealing with Lussier at the tavern. With a long sigh, he rushed to the confessional, opened his door and snapped the panel open. Beyond the lattice, the outline of what resembled an older woman shifted in the poor light. “Pray be brief as I have urgent work to do,” he whispered. In his pack for the road he would bring a length of rope, to tie her hands but also to lead her animal behind his. A good, fast horse would do. He would travel light, little else but the clothes on his back, some food. “Brother…” began the old woman then she faltered. “I’ve, er, I know where she’s gone.” Gautier stopped making his mental preparations for the road. He leaned in closer to the lattice. “Whom do you mean?” He knew just whom the old lady referred to but wanted to be sure. A sharp intake of air whistled next door. “The mistress, Brother. I know where she’s gone.”

Trying to sound casual, Gautier took a deep, noiseless breath. “Where would that be?” Spain, I know. I’m trying to make ready for the road as well, foolish woman. “Some ways from here, there’s an old château that used to belong to their family. That’s where she’s hiding. I saw her leave late yesterday.” He swore his heart stopped beating for several breaths. “What?” “It’s not that far from here. I can tell you the way,” replied the older woman. As she gave him the directions to the baroness’s hideout, he could not help wondering why he felt such hostility toward his informer. This woman was making a good deed, was she not? Telling him where her mistress hid was helping him do the Lord’s work, did it not? Then why did he feel as though he listened in on some wicked gossip? After she had left, his feelings of revulsion turned into anger. So the overseer had lied after all. He had looked so frank. Loyal to a fault! Gautier would have to deal with the old man when he came back. Right now he had a baroness to catch, which would undoubtedly prove arduous, wretched and time-consuming. He tried to ignore the little voice that added “wrong” to his list. Gautier shook his head. The Lord’s work was never wrong.

Chapter Seven Dawn had barely slashed the sky with brown and purple that Charlotte was on her feet, ready for the day. Sleep had eluded her. A night of fitful, restless tossing and turning. Every sound had been suspicious and worth a quick trip about the perimeter. After she took care of her horse, she grabbed her felt cape, rolled it under her arm and collected the few items she would need for her morning ablutions. A wind charged with threats of rain drifted in through the dense trees. She did not care, she had to do something or risk losing her mind. A grin lifted the corners of her mouth. She was bored. Already. And there was so much work to do at the distillery. As she reached the narrow ribbon of river, she set her things on a nearby boulder and stripped. Hissing a complaint at the water’s temperature, Charlotte waded in up to her thighs. After a while of arguments and counterarguments, she suddenly sat on her heels. A keen cry of shock escaped her. With more speed than she had ever used before, she washed herself then her hair. Soapy strips roiled and floated downstream from her. September may be her favorite month but it was getting just too cold for

river bathing. Shivering, she leaped back to shore in quick little jumps, wrestled back into her garments and buttoned the cape around her shoulders. Much better. As she strode back to the château, she spotted her horse, which fretted about, its ears flattened against its skull, its nostrils dilated and flaring. It did not pull on the long tether but looked upset. Charlotte’s guts twisted in a knot. Slowing down, she clutched the bundle in front of her as she surreptitiously slid her hand to her waist where the dagger was sheathed. The cold hilt provided little comfort. A quick scan of the area yielded nothing of value. No smells, no strange sounds. But her horse had sensed something. Unless some annoying insect had stung it. She slowed as she rounded the base of the dilapidated château. Through the crumbled-down wall, she could spot the chapel and its gaping round window staring back at her like a stone Cyclops. Her heart kicked into a high gallop. Though she had been shivering a moment before, she was now sweating. She felt a presence. Clutching the bundle against her chest, she inched closer, noiselessly, slowly, until she could get a view over the part of wall still standing. “Don’t move.” Charlotte yelped in fright when a dark form stood beyond the crumbled masonry, in front of the toppled altar. Brother Gautier. How had he found her? For the span of a heartbeat, the image transfixed her. His hood was up. The black uniform, darker than night, hung over him like some ominous cloud. The way he stood there unmoving, his pale eyes unblinking and his hair the color and shine of yellow silk made him an angel. The tight set of his jaw and the way he stood on legs wide apart pierced the divine vision. Charlotte swallowed hard. An angel of death. He took a step forward, pulling his hood back. “Don’t move. Everything—” Charlotte never heard the rest. Throwing the bundle aside, she bolted back the way she had come. “Wait!” His loud command did naught to convince her to stay. Instead, she shouldered her way amid branches, through narrow gaps, under low-hanging limbs. Charlotte’s heartbeat whooshed in her ears with the thunder of rushing water. A low and craggy rock face blocked her path. After checking behind her, she leaped two feet up, scrambled and clawed her way higher. As she was reaching up to clutch a thick root for support, something gripped her ankle. Yelping in shock and panic, Charlotte looked back to see Brother Gautier clambering up to reach her. “Come down,” he snarled, yanking on her ankle. “You’re only going to hurt yourself.”

As reply, she grabbed at the root and sacrificed support for opportunity. She snapped a sharp kick to his head, which had him cursing—however, letting go of her foothold produced a bumpy, painful slide back. Added with his weight on her leg, Charlotte could not hold on to her advantage. She half slid, half tumbled from the rock face, knocking the man down and landing atop him. Floundering in a tangle of cape and habit, Charlotte managed to punch and kick and knee her way upright. She was shocked to realize she held her dagger in a scratched and bloodied fist. After slashing behind her blindly, she rushed back to the ruins. Behind her, he continued his appeals, though he sounded angrier every time. She could not stop, even had she wanted to. Animal instinct guided her, prodded her into a panicked flight for her life. As she reached the château, Charlotte could no longer hear him tearing through the woods behind her. A quick peek back yielded a shock—there was no one there. As she charged for her horse, praying she would have time to untie it, a heavy weight tackled her from the right. She went down and was unable to roll away for the implacable grip on the back of her neck. Pain exploded behind her ears and a high-pitched shriek burst out of her. She had actually made that sound! “Stop struggling,” he panted, settling over her, using his greater weight to pin her down. “I’m not going to hurt you.” “You already have.” Brother Gautier released the hold on the back of her neck. “And for this, I’m truly sorry. But as unpleasant as it’s becoming, I always finish my work.” Steel laced his voice. She’d never heard him speak this way before. “You mean finish the hunt,” she snarled through clenched teeth. If she could only hurt him! His tone had lost the lethal edge when he spoke. “I’ve never considered you a prey, my lady, but a kindred soul. Lost, just like me.” Hypocritical brute! Charlotte tried to elbow him but met nothing but a muscled shoulder that hurt her more than she did him. “How did you find me?” “Someone told me.” “I hope to God you didn’t touch a hair on Armand’s head, you despic—” “I haven’t. A woman told me at confessions. Although I did speak with your overseer but he lied to me, told me you’d left for Spain.” Brother Gautier sighed. “Loyal to a fault.” Good old Armand. The thought of that man bullying her people into revealing her hideout needled her sense of responsibility. She arched back, hoping to catch something, anything, softer than her skull. She met naught but air. Charlotte growled and thrashed but only managed to free one arm. Her dagger gleamed

for just one moment. She extended her arm along her side and attempted what she knew would be her last strike. A hiss of pain announced some success. “That wasn’t very canny,” he growled. His grip on her neck intensified until stars popped around her vision. The arm holding the dagger was forced down and pinned there. Though she clutched the dagger as if her life depended on it—and it probably did—he was able to twist it from her. She heard a soft thud some distance to her right when he tossed her weapon away. He snarled a tight “get up” through her tangled curls. Charlotte could do nothing but flounder to her feet to avoid having her head separated from her neck. During the chase, her cape had twisted almost in front of her and rubbed painfully along her throat. He wrapped his powerful arms around and held her in an unyielding bear hug. Blood flow to her arms slowed as pins and needles poked her fingers and hands. Even if the man had not been holding on to her, she could not have moved a muscle. For the first time in her life, fear paralyzed Charlotte. “To the chapel then we’ll sit and talk. Yes?” Refusing to even acknowledge him, Charlotte let her body slump against his, forcing him to carry her. He could drag her there if he wanted to—she was not going to make it easy. Brutish two-face! Puffing behind her, the man showed incredible stamina as he bore her petrified form to the ruined chapel and over the crumbling base of the wall. There, he stopped and braced his legs wider apart. He put his mouth an inch from her ear. “Will you be trouble if I let you go?” “Yes,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “I’ll be trouble as long as I draw breath.” As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, the contact of his firm and fit body against hers produced not just a little excitement. His breath stirred her hair while his thick arms pressed against her chest right under her breasts. She felt like leaning back into him, resting her head against his strong neck but fought the yearning, the hunger that tugged at her. He was there to force her into marriage. This was no time for pathetic aches of the flesh! He sighed. Retreating to the wall, he leaned back against it and took some deep breaths. Charlotte felt immense satisfaction that she had at least winded him. “It’s not going to help you in the end. You know that.” She snorted her scorn for him. “Let a single finger go free and I’ll show you.”

“Must you always be defiant, Baroness? Can’t you ever at least try to be agreeable?” The tight hold he had about her remained pitiless, even if his tone had softened somewhat. Charlotte froze. Try to be agreeable. Jean-Louis had said this to her once, long ago. His words may have been different but the meaning had been the same. Perhaps this whole thing was just the result of her unyielding pride, her inability to see others’ point of view. What had her life become? Defiance and bravado drained out of her. She gritted her teeth and finally lost control over her tears, which rolled down her cheeks and pooled under her chin before landing on and seeping through the thick fabric of his sleeves. “Baroness?” he asked tentatively. “Charlotte?” Through the misery, pain, utter wretchedness, she was shocked and not a little thrilled to realize he had called her by name. Charlotte felt a tremor race through him. He looked down over her shoulder at the wetness on his hands. Gautier drew in a long ragged breath before loosening his hold on her. When he did, instead of bolting, as her intentions were only a moment before, Charlotte swayed back heavily, pressing her entire length against his. Though he kept his hands to his sides, she felt him respond to her lean by his own listing back against the wall. Warmth on her neck and ear announced an imminent touch. His chin brushed her skin. Charlotte shivered. Slowly, she let her head rest back against his neck. She felt him tilt his own to make room. Perfect fit. Both of them now connected down to their knees, she angled her head sideways, exposing more of her neck. Hesitantly, his chin brushed against her skin, his lips hovering near the curved-in rim of her upper ear. His breaths made strands of her hair flutter against her cheek. Then her own breath caught in her throat when his lips connected against her ear, his touch raising goose bumps. He pressed soft lips all along the rim, ending with her lobe, to which he paid special attention. A violent shiver shook her entire frame. Still, she was loath to move a single muscle in case she broke the spell. The sinful, wicked spell. Her hands, memories of his muscled flesh still tingling, yearned for the feel of him. She curled trembling fingers into fists when he left her ear to press his lips against the nape of her neck. Good God! Charlotte closed her eyes ahead of the wave of bliss she felt coming. Under the tunic, the skin of her whole front stiffened into prickles. Her nipples tightened and she gritted her teeth. He must have sensed the chaos he wreaked in her body for he seemed to linger on her neck, trailing kisses that became increasingly intense. Charlotte felt his hands slither up her sides, leaving a stream of shivers behind them. Hot fingers traced the contour of her hips and flanks then up her rib cage and along her arms until they rested on her shoulders. How his palms felt hot through the fabric! Though it shamed her to admit it, she no longer cared the man was a brother, even a lay one, she could even forget he was one. She was lost in her yearning for him.

With fingers so gentle she could barely feel them, Gautier drew the tunic opening back from her neck and exposed a shoulder. Softly, he pressed his lips to her skin. The sound of his mouth as he kissed her made the sweetest music. Charlotte tried not to moan when he blew hot air along her skin then retraced his steps with parted lips. She meant to face him but he held her there with gentle but resolute hands. “Don’t.” The word was more a plea than a command. She nodded. Somehow, Gautier’s other hand had found the clasp of her cape and undid it. He tugged it from between them. The felt garment rustled to the ground. With the added barrier gone, only her thin undertunic separated her from his uniform. The scratchy wool brushed against her naked shoulder. The resulting jolt of pleasure surprised her. Could fabric do this? Bolstered, Charlotte also raised her hands and reaching far back, let them rest on either side of his head. That hair. Just glorious. His hand traveled down the length of her side, which sent a shiver of excitement along her spine. While he kissed the nape of her neck, his right hand swept past a mere hair over her breast—only the heat of his skin reached her. The agony. Arching, she made sure he touched her the next time around. He did. Hesitant at first, Gautier seemed to gather his nerve for he resolutely perched his palm on her breast. This moan she could not suppress, though she let it out through her nose. He froze. For a moment, she despaired he would stop, would push her away. More than her skin craved him, her heart too. She may as well admit it. She loved him. She loved Gautier. From that wonderful moment back at the cascade when he had appeared in all his splendor, she had felt an attraction. To cheapen it to mere lust was dishonest. She loved this man. Period. After what felt an eternity, with Charlotte holding her breath the entire time, Gautier’s hand moved below her breast. But he was not leaving. With his palm a warm cup, he scooped her breast and raised it as some luscious offering. Charlotte drew a long breath, which swelled her chest even more. When she looked down at herself, she marveled at the way her nipple seemed ready to pierce the fabric. The first drop of rain splattered on her chest and outstretched arms. She felt him look up into the sky. Taking his hand in hers, she retrieved her cape and climbed over the crumbled wall before pulling the flap of her tent aside. She leaned in and entered the small shelter nestled against the château’s lone remaining corner. Her cot lay along the wall—near it was a small chest that doubled as table and chair. There in the semi-darkness, she turned to face him. His gaze locked on hers. Extending an arm, he pulled her close and raised her chin. He caressed her whole face with his parted lips. The way his hot breaths stirred the hair loose around her face turned the simple gesture into a tapestry of sensations. Icy blue eyes took her entire field of vision—lips made

for kisses covered every parcel of her face and neck while his hand slicked her hair back. How could a man who chose a life of conflict and violence be so gentle? The yearning to touch him overpowered her. God, she wanted to touch him so badly it hurt! Looking down at his chest, she fumbled with the many layers of fabric covering him. First the long cloak and mantle—then a row of never-ending buttons, a clasp, a belt with a knot and a buckle. When she had succeeded in parting some of his clothing, the first glimpse of skin emerged to her absolute delight. Though scarred with the mordant memories of whiplashes, his chest was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Thick cords of muscles rippled under the ruined skin. She traced a path down between his pectorals with an index finger and felt him tense. “Have I hurt you?” she murmured. An eternity looking into his eyes would feel short indeed. He looked down at himself. A one-shoulder shrug shifted his massive shoulder. “It’s not very appealing…” She put the finger she had used on his chest to his mouth to hush him. “It’s beautiful to me.” In case he doubted her sincerity, Charlotte leaned into him and let her mouth do the same his had. Gautier closed his eyes tightly. Using her hands as a guide, she pecked a string of kiss and breath combinations that made him shake. Charlotte wanted to convince him his scars meant naught to her, wanted to appease his obvious discomfort by showing him with her mouth and hands how much attraction she felt. That skin had suffered so much and Charlotte endeavored to treat it with the utmost gentleness. Butterfly-light, she let her lips glide along the wide marks. He shivered under her soft touch. Using the pads of her fingers as though they were brushes and his chest a canvas, she traced winding, looping shapes that she followed with her mouth then her tongue. Tentatively at first, she grew bolder until she was suckling his tiny nipple, teasing it with her teeth. While her mouth kept busy, her hands weren’t idle. She snaked one underneath his parted garment and followed the natural curves of his waist until the dawn of his backside arced below her fingertips. Before she could stop herself, her nails had dug in. Gautier gasped. As if her treatment had melted what precious control he had left, Gautier’s eyes flared open and he wrapped her face in his hands and drowned her under a wave of passionate kisses. Their tongues became imbued with a mind of their own. They lunged and retreated, entwined, separated, only to clash against each other again. Gautier left her face in a warm and wet state of disarray to gorge on her neck. After he pulled her undertunic down lower on her shoulder, his mouth conquered a nipple through the thin fabric. Yet, despite his eagerness, Charlotte marveled how his touch felt so gentle, so soft. She pulled him to her as she backed into the corner proper, using the wall to create support for her weakening legs. Rolling her pelvis out to his, she pulled her undertunic over her head. He did the same with his bothersome garments, even dumped the dagger strapped to his forearm along with its sheath. Charlotte

helped how she could, oftentimes pulling when she should have been pushing, but they managed to get his many layers of clothing off. Charlotte gasped when the plum-colored head of his member hung thick between his thighs. Its tip glistened with need. He pressed himself against her again, making sure his shaft rested snugly between her thighs. With shaking hands, she raided his naked body—down his back, around his firm backside, up his thick thighs. All the while he kissed her breasts, lavishing such attention as to make them painfully tight. Pressing both of them together, he suckled one then the other in succession. A low rumble in his chest added oil to the fire raging in her. She pushed her hips forward, deliberately crushed her sex against his hard shaft, rolled upward in slow, languorous arcs. “Gautier,” she murmured with her eyes closed, pumping her hips against him with no a stitch of shame. Some baroness! “I want you to take me standing up.” The look he gave her! She knew she was being wicked but couldn’t help it. She really did want him to ravish her standing against a wall as shocking as the thought was. He responded by clasping her hips, driving his pelvis against hers and triggering a long frisson of arousal that threatened to make a madwoman of her for the sheer exhilaration. Charlotte moaned unabashedly. She felt her honey seep out of her and drench her hose. So much of it! While he kept one hand busily caressing her breast, his other snaked downward along her belly, past the drawstring of her hose. She held her breath while his fingers carefully slipped along her cleft, back and forth, collecting her nectar and bringing it forward before beginning a slow, torturous circle around her bud. Gautier’s fingers proved the perfect mix of rough skin and tender pressure and soon produced another shocking gush of pleasure to spill from her folds. He smiled against her mouth as he slid a considerate finger inside. Charlotte’s eyes flared. “Ohhh.” Without meaning to, she fisted his hair and forced his face against her breasts, crushed them to his mouth while she followed his slow movement in and out of her, each pass bringing her closer to ecstasy. He changed the angle of his finger, curled it slightly so it’d rub against her pearl. Almost instantly, Charlotte gritted her teeth and climaxed. She couldn’t keep the rising moans—could barely hold a coherent thought. With a violence that awed her, she came again. His hand was wet against her sex, so wet. “Let me taste you,” Gautier murmured against her breasts as she hadn’t relinquished her hold on his hair. “I’ve dreamed of it without rest.”

Charlotte freed his hair and watched the top of his head as he slipped his finger out of her clenching flesh, crouched in front of her so he could kiss her belly, her sides, what hip he could reach over the hose’s waistband. After a long and passionate look, he knelt in front of her and licked her lower belly. Shivers shook her. After he unbound the crude drawstring, he pulled her hose down to her knees. Boots and hose soon added to the growing pile of discarded garments littering the tiny tent. Charlotte tried to feel at least some measure of embarrassment to find herself completely naked in front of a man but couldn’t bring herself to. Gautier had already made love to her and known her as intimately as anyone possibly could. Modesty was far behind her. He kissed her navel, slid lower. Instincts made her squeeze her thighs together. A look like a silent plea flashed in the pale eyes. Trust me, they said. She nodded. Her heart beating a savage tempo, she let him kiss her low on the belly as one of his hands brushed the inside of her thigh. Just as in her fancy that Sunday almost three weeks ago, he was going to kiss her there. Unsure, thrilled but apprehensive, Charlotte felt like protesting even if a faint sensation of pleasure hovered just beyond her grasp. Gautier’s fingers snaked through the dark curls. Charlotte could look no further. She leaned her head back against the wall and tried not to grind her teeth or clench her legs together. He seemed to know what he was doing though the exotic practice left her a little uneasy. Gently he slid one finger along the cleft, back and forth a few times. She was already so wet for him, because of him, that his fingers felt like ribbons, that they’d been created for that purpose. Tiny ripples of pleasure prickled her skin, made her heart flutter. Good God, those hands! Charlotte gasped audibly when something very hot and wet flicked along the cleft. This was no finger. She looked down in wonder to see him lick her most intimate spot. The rapture she had imagined was even more acute in reality. This time, no mere ripples coursed through her. Waves. A surge of them. Everywhere. She arched back when a violent shudder rushed over her. A moan tore up her throat. “Again,” she cried out to her shock and his, for he looked up, his eyes flared wide before returning to his work. Beyond restraint, Charlotte fisted his hair on either side of his head and forced her pelvis against his face, rolled her hips and spread her thighs wide. Growling, he used his thumb to rub her swollen nub. After a quick series of pants, she looked down at what Gautier was doing to her. The sound of his mouth against her sex was proving to be the most decadent, shocking and exciting thing she’d ever experienced. So wicked and good at the same time. “Don’t stop—”she breathed. A pronounced push of his tongue mangled the rest of her sentence.

Using his thumbs, he spread her wide for his hungry mouth. “You taste so good,” he murmured between licks. “Just as I’d imagined.” She closed her eyes when a particularly violent rush of thrill tightened her channel. “Take me with your mouth.” He did. Grunting with each push, he stabbed his tongue into her while he kept her stretched wide and high. She’d never been so exposed. He did it again. Then again. The rhythm now familiar, expected. When he stopped, she felt bereft, spent, and desperately pressed on his head. Gautier stood but kept one hand wrapped over her mons so the tips of his fingers parted her lips. While she gripped his wrist with both hands, he slid a finger into her slowly, tentatively. His mouth capturing a nipple, he began to accentuate the force and speed of his passes until he was pushing deep up her. Honey dripped over his hand and glistened on his lips. Charlotte thought she would collapse from rapture. He was giving her so much of himself. She too wanted to do something special for him. Without words, she made him understand that she wanted him to stop. He looked so sad for an instant that she quickly put his fears to rest and placed him so he rested against the wall facing her. “I hear men enjoy such attentions,” she remarked as she leaned over and kissed his belly, his navel, before cupping his sack and squeezing slightly. His look of bliss confirmed the rumors she’d heard. So men indeed enjoyed such attentions. And he would surely enjoy the rest. Keeping one hand around his balls, she gently ran her other along his shaft, upward to its root then back down again to its glistening head, always gentle, never demanding or interfering with its own rhythm. A quick kiss on the tip made Gautier stop breathing. “Charlotte, you don’t—” “I want to.” Her words seemed to please him for the haunted, uncertain glint left his pale eyes. He leaned back against the wall and braced a hand behind him while the other reached out and twirled a lock of her hair. Kneeling, Charlotte let her hands land like feathers on his engorged member, cupped his balls, and allowed herself the brazen luxury of admiring his manhood, its symmetry, the quality of its form. After licking her lips, she wrapped them around the plumlike head and cautiously drew on it with her mouth. Gautier braced himself against the wall with both hands.

Making sure she covered her teeth with her lips, she let his glans slide farther into her mouth. The salty taste of him made her salivate. She had never wanted anything more than him inside her. Every part of him she wanted to taste, to grasp and to rake with her nails. Small moans rumbled deep in his chest. Wanting to please him as much as he had her, Charlotte accentuated the pressure on her lips, the rhythm of her hands. Gautier gasped and pulled out of her mouth. “You’re going to unmake me too soon,” he growled through his teeth. Eyes squeezed shut, he took several long breaths. “I don’t care, I want you,” she replied before capturing his shaft again and plunging it down her throat. He cried out with shock or rapture or both, she couldn’t tell, other than what she did to him made Gautier close his eyes and loll his head side to side. Pumping her fist hard now, she kept him put with her other hand against his belly, which rose and fell quickly, shallowly. “Stop, Charlotte,” he warned, trying to pull out of her mouth. “I’m going to release.” With a moan, she sank along his member until her forehead touched him. She’d heard of this practice in much more detail than what he’d done to her and felt more comfortable with the idea of Gautier spilling his seed into her mouth. Heralded by a tiny pulsation at the base of him, she felt him release and greedily pulled through the gagging reflex. Like salty honey, his seed slid down her throat with natural grace and Charlotte understood then that she would find no other man to fulfill her the way Gautier did. His expression a mix of exhilaration and astonishment, he ran gentle fingers in her hair to slick it back behind her head. “Charlotte…” he began, shook his head as though unable to go on. After she’d drawn the last drop, Charlotte stood with a sort of triumphant pride to her. She felt more like a woman now than she’d ever before. “Now I want you to take me,” she announced. “Take me standing against the wall.” A flicker of grin pulled his lips. “Give me a little while.” She mirrored his grin and nodded. She spent the short reprieve caressing his body, not wanting to miss a single parcel of him, letting her hands roam everywhere on the hard and smooth surfaces while stroking and blowing on the more tender ones. Soon, he was aroused again and looking proud of it. Pivoting so he would face the corner while Charlotte had her back to it, he pressed himself against her. The hard swell of his member ground against her lower belly in a very pleasurable fashion. Charlotte gyrated her pelvis forward, desperate now for the feel of him inside her.

Outside, rain now fell in torrents on the thick tarp. Moisture gathered along the cracks in the wall. Somewhere a thunderclap rumbled. He must have understood and shared her urgency for he fisted his shaft and with much caution pressed its head against her cleft. “Do you still wish for this to happen?” Charlotte replied with her hips, which she thrust forward so she’d force him to sink inside. Her entire world was instantly reduced to her pulsating sex. Everything else dimmed, faded. Except for his eyes, which were a dazzling shade of blue in the dim light of her makeshift home. He opened his mouth but snapped it closed again. He must have gotten his answer. They stood there, unmoving, touching, nestled. Then he began to move, driving ever deeper. Air came in shallow gulps to Charlotte’s aching lungs. Wrapping his hips with a leg, she rolled her pelvis forward. Gautier gripped her elevated thigh with bruising fingers. She did not care. As long as he thrust without pause, she cared not for much else. Stones biting in her back, she let Gautier crush her against the wall, take her completely, make her his. Moaning now without shame, she arched back until only her head was still connected to the wall. The rest of her was a bowstring. Gautier kept driving inside her with all the vigor she remembered. Then he let go of the wall to grab at her backside with both hands. Charlotte cried in shock when he lifted her off her feet and slammed her back against the wall, this time thrusting upward so sharply, so powerfully that a great snarl left him. Good heaven! “Do it again,” she moaned. “Again.” He did. Gautier drove upward with a marked curve to his lunge and pushed her up by a few inches. Her feet left the ground. Swinging her legs on either side of him, he half knelt, half tumbled to the ground. Now that he could use gravity to his advantage, Charlotte could feel the difference. Gautier slid some garment under her back before he resumed his powerful push. A mangled exclamation of joy squeezed past her gritted teeth. She had never felt anything like it, not even during her solitary pleasures. Gautier was using his member’s entire length from very tip to broad base to explore her deepest recess, hunt for the most elusive trigger of ecstasy, brand each and every measure of her as his own. Unable to keep the cry inside, Charlotte reached above her head and clawed at whatever she could find—her cape? She didn’t know, neither did she care. Her obvious pleasure seemed to spur him on. With her legs still wrapped securely around his middle, he let his whole weight bear down on her then repeated the process but keeping his elbows over her shoulders so she’d stay put and bear the brunt of his shoves. Hammering now, Gautier

gathered her wrists in one hand while he angled his torso so he could have access to a breast, which he squeezed with unexpected vigor. While the waves of pleasure felt as though they were merging into one uninterrupted surge, Charlotte gritted her teeth, squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the violent swell to sweep her away. And it did. Sweat slicked both their bodies, made matted strands of their hair as Gautier doubled his thrusts, began to breathe in harsh, shallow grunts. A brutal shiver shook him. Gautier raised his head back, his eyes shut. One mighty thrust sent them both gasping and moaning incoherently. He collapsed back against her. They remained thus for a long time. Long after sweat had cooled, even dried in places, Gautier kept his member sheathed snugly in her flesh. As much as she wanted to, Charlotte could not fight the first tendrils of sleep as they crept over her vision and obscured her mind. Languor deadened her body and dulled her mind. She drifted into warm, golden oblivion.

***** Gautier opened his eyes. He lay beside her naked form, his arm protectively over her shoulder, their legs entwined. Rain continued to tick against the cover over their heads. Moisture ran along the uneven wall. He shifted so he could watch her face. Peaceful, serene. Her hand rested light and hot on his thigh. He could see calluses from writing on her thumb and middle finger. Her breathing came low and regular. He caught himself wishing he could stay this way forever. A twinge of melancholy jabbed his heart. He could not stay this way forever—should not even be this way at all. Gautier peeled his arm off her shoulder. She stirred and opened her eyes. With an awkward grin, she rolled away from him and into her cape. He did the same with his habit. They dressed without looking at the other, for which he was grateful. The blush on his cheeks was embarrassing enough already. No need to expose it as well. When he was done, he strapped his dagger back to his arm then sat cross-legged while absentmindedly toying with the cross on his chest. Twice now he had broken his self-imposed vows of abstinence. With the same woman. This did not bode well for the rest of his career. Could it be he chose wrong, could not rise above the needs of his mortal coil? Just looking at her as she pulled her cape over her tunic produced a tightening in his lower belly, tightening he had come to dread. Gautier lowered his gaze when she settled in front of him. “I’ll go retrieve my dagger—when I come back, we need to talk.” He heard her soft tread outside then nothing for a short while—which made him feel more alone than he’d ever felt—before she entered the tent again, sliding her weapon in the sheath at her belt. Her dark curls were in disarray around her angular face. How he wanted to touch it again—her silk. Control. Gautier breathed in deeply. “We do need to talk.”

“Look, I’m not used to tiptoeing about what I have to say,” she began, stopped, cleared her throat and looked up for a moment. “I’d expect naught less from you.” She nodded. “They’ve been using you. Guilabert and his cardinal friend. Well, Guilabert for sure. He’s using the Church to further his own ambitions. It’s not the first time he’s done it. That’s why he went to the crusade in the first place, to get coin and status.” As much as he wanted to contest, Gautier could not ignore the clang of truth in her words. The knight undoubtedly was using the Church for his own ends. When he looked at her now, that canny, beautiful woman, Gautier tried not to dwell on the notion he would force things too if it would guarantee him her affection. Guilabert may be a boor and trickster but he was no fool. Such a woman would make any man happy. Himself included. Gautier shook the silly notion away. She was a noble—he a noble’s bastard, an artisan given the title of knight by a reluctant father so he would leave for the crusade. I’m now a brother first if not a real priest, he mentally reminded himself. He looked up. “Perhaps Cardinal Lanteigne hasn’t realized the kind of character—” Her eyes flared. “Lanteigne?” “Yes?” Charlotte nodded to herself several times, as if he had just confirmed something she had suspected for a long time. A mirthless grin tugged her lips. He could see the ruthless businesswoman right then, the “Iron Lady” as her townsfolk called her behind her back. “A wealthy family, the Lanteignes, owns the land upstream from mine. They’ve recently dammed the river, put a lock to it. The river’s level has been going down all summer. I knew they had someone in the Church—several, actually—but I never thought they had a cardinal. I’m willing to bet that it’s the same family, your cardinal and my meddlesome neighbor.” She knelt, as if too riled up to stay seated. A flash of anger crossed her features. “Oh that…Guilabert. Guilabert knew when he met that cardinal it was the same family. He knew it! He convinced him to meddle with the water just to show me who’s in control while Guilabert would wrestle me to the altar. It all makes sense now.” Gautier let the cross fall from his fingers. “It’s absurd. Cardinal Lanteigne resides in Rome. He would have to tell someone in his family to dam a river protected by a deed that’s ages old. No one would do it.” “He would. Guilabert. He lives with the Lanteignes. In fact, thanks to my father who long ago arranged with them to have the part of their land that connects on to the river transferred to Guilabert. My father bought it for him, to start him in life since he had nothing but pride and good looks. Guilabert put the lock there, protected by the vast Lanteigne family and their cardinal. That’s the thanks my family gets for helping that swine!”

The scorn in her voice raised his hackles. He wanted to contest, to make his point known. It was all so ludicrous! A cardinal would never use his position to gain secular control. This woman was seeing enemies where there were none. “Impossible.” The word sounded weak even in his ears. He could have cursed. “You’re one misled man,” she remarked casually. Gautier avoided her penetrating gaze. Since when had he begun to avoid anyone’s gaze? Yet her words would not be ignored. Cardinal Lanteigne did come from France, from this province, no less. It was no big stretch of the imagination to believe the Lanteignes next door were the same family. That Guilabert de Lissi owned the one piece of Lanteigne land bordering the river, the recently dammed river vital to the Bourbon-Condé, was just one too many coincidences. He’d probably convinced the cardinal to have his family dam it. What if she were right? What did it make of him? “They tricked you. They needed someone with drive, someone they could point in one direction and know the work would be done. Don’t be mad at yourself, be mad at them.” He’d come so close to doing a very wicked thing. If she hadn’t convinced him of the error of his ways, he would have married her against her will. But now he knew. “What happens Sunday, why is it so important?” “My twenty-seventh birthday. If I were to marry now, everything I own would go to my husband. The deeds to all the lands, the chattels, the distillery, everything. My parents fought long and hard to treat me as they did Jean-Louis and before the ague took them, they made sure I would get a chance to make my own future. So unless I die, in which case the Duke of Valois will settle the family affairs as he sees fit, when I turn twenty-seven, the deed to the entire Bourbon-Condé empire goes to me, husband or not, as I am the last remaining heir.” Gautier met her gaze and held it. There was such earnest truth shining there. “I’ve been a fool.” She shook her head. “Sincerity is never foolish.” “Allow me to disagree on that one, Charlotte.” Her eyes flared. Gautier jumped to his feet as the blade of a sword appeared through the tent flap and slapped it up. Damn! He’d been followed. Despite his best effort. Under the canopy, Guilabert’s head appeared. “Sincerity is very foolish.”

Chapter Eight

Charlotte jumped to her feet. Dagger in hand, she rushed past Gautier and slashed at the tent flap. By that time, Guilabert had backed outside. He cursed when her blade nicked him on the shoulder. Then it was Charlotte’s turn to yelp in pain when the flat of Lussier’s sword bore down on her wrist. She dropped the dagger. Out of desperation, she threw herself at Guilabert and managed to land one good punch on his mouth. “Good God, woman, bridle yourself,” he said, looking half amused, half worried. Spitting blood, he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around. Charlotte hissed a curse when he rested his sword across her throat. “Come out, Brother,” he said. Gautier did. Instead of exiting by the front flap, as she expected, Gautier crashed his way out the tent side, and by the time Lussier had leveled his sword at the man, Gautier had kicked him inside the thigh and taken his dagger. The knight dropped with a howl. Gautier crouched to retrieve the sword as well. “If you value her life, you’ll let that sword where it is,” growled Guilabert from behind her. Chancing a quick peek their way, Gautier froze in place before straightening. He held Lussier’s dagger by the tip of the blade, as though he would throw it. “You won’t be quick enough to stop me.” “But I’ll be quick enough to stop her.” Without touching the skin, Guilabert slid the sword across her throat. She drew a sharp breath, trying desperately not to let Gautier see her fear, though he must have known she was frightened half out of her mind. A moment elapsed. Gautier seemed to weigh his options. Finally, he lowered his arm. His eyes seemed lit from inside as he stared daggers at Guilabert, his loathing just as plain on his curled lip. “You followed me,” Gautier snarled, clearly disgusted with himself. Charlotte felt Guilabert nodding behind her. “Lussier is a very patient man, much more so than I, frankly, and was waiting by the church when you returned from the distillery. The haste with which you procured a horse from the farrier told him you’d found something. He came to get me and yes, we did indeed follow you. Although we were caught in the rain and soon lost your trail.” He chuckled. “It seems I’ve underestimated your skills at furtiveness. And here I thought you were a forward man. It must be your true blood showing. But what else can be expected from a lowborn, a bastard?” Charlotte wanted to remind Guilabert he had little cause to boast about his own birthright but remained quiet. Lussier stood with difficulty, shook his head a few times. He made a rude gesture and retrieved his sword then without warning, he brought the pommel down hard between Gautier’s shoulder blades.

With a snarl, he collapsed on one knee. A deep flush colored his cheeks. From anger or pain, Charlotte could not tell. A bit of both probably. Laughing a cold, mirthless laugh, Lussier reclaimed his dagger, slid it back in its sheath at his waist and pointed his sword at Gautier’s belly, letting the tip of it rest against the black habit. The man looked down at it as he would an annoying insect. The knight received the same look. “Don’t push me too far,” Gautier said very calmly. Though he snorted in derision, Lussier did appear to put a bit more distance between the tip of his blade and Gautier. “Quite enough, Brother,” Guilabert snapped. His chuckles ruffled strands of her hair. She tried to move away from him but he held her against his chest. “You’re not a priest and can’t be expected to show some restraint, but still, some man of God,” he remarked acidly. “Do you always sample the prey before you kill it? I’m willing to bet you’ve never tasted better than this one.” Charlotte’s brain turned to cold slush. Kill the prey? She stared at Gautier as he struggled to his feet and crossed his impressive arms over his chest. “You’re one fortunate woman, Charlotte. That man isn’t your typical doting old brother. Cardinal Lanteigne chose a very special man to deal with you.” She gritted her teeth when Guilabert put his mouth against her ear. “Brother Gautier is such a peculiar man. He’s the bastard son of a nobleman, an artisan, a chevalier, as I have told you already, and a lay brother…but a very special one. He is a member of the Order of Raphael… Do you know what they do, these special champions of God? Do you know what other word is used to describe them? Assassins.” The whispers could have come from the Devil himself for the malice they held. Charlotte angled her face away from his. He would not succeed in turning her against Gautier, no matter what lies he chose to tell. She knew him too well to believe anything he said. And Gautier had acted more honorably than any nobleman she knew. She had no use for status and birthrights. “You don’t believe me? See the gold cross on his chest? There’s an inscription behind, Res Divina, which means ‘Service of God’. The Order of Raphael. That’s their mark. The things they do…” Guilabert let silence fill the rest of his malevolent discourse. She knew Gautier was some kind of enforcer for the Church, but an assassin? Her heart in her throat, she turned toward Gautier and searched his countenance for any sign that Guilabert’s words were vicious lies and found nothing but resolve. When their gazes met, he did not look away nor did he seem ashamed of what he was or had done.

As though she did not have enough to sift through, another thread added itself to the knot…if Gautier had wanted her dead, she would be. Wouldn’t she? Plenty of opportunities had presented themselves since his arrival. He could have killed her during any of their exchanges as most of them had happened with some degree of isolation. They had just spent half a day sleeping one beside the other! When it would have been easy for him to slit her throat, he had instead made love to her. It had to count for something. At least a little bit. She sighed deeply. “I know, shocking,” Guilabert replied, mistaking her sigh for disappointment. Charlotte shook her head. “I’m not shocked. Some folk have the strength of their convictions. It’s not something you’d understand.” The pressure on her arm intensified despite the cape, while the blade became heavier against her throat. “I may become a widower before long,” snarled Guilabert. He gave her a rough shake. “Perhaps a terrible accident will happen to my poor, heartbroken wife.” Through the pain, she saw Gautier’s look of relief, as though he silently thanked her for understanding, for not judging. Charlotte put all of her affection for him into her eyes, hoping he would get her silent message. Guilabert released her and extended his hand toward Lussier. “Give me the deed.” The knight dug under his leather tunic and produced a wrinkled scroll of parchment, which he gave to Gautier. “We have a chapel. We have a man of God. All we need are two young people madly in love.” Guilabert turned back to her and winked. “It’s all here.” Disgust and horror twisted her gut, tightened her throat. Right here? Right now? Taking a step back, she stared as Gautier unrolled the parchment and scanned it quickly. “You must be mad if you think I’ll condemn her to such living hell,” Gautier said. A look of pure fury crossed Guilabert’s eyes. He snatched the parchment back. “Lussier, take my future bride to the chapel. I need a word in private with the good brother.” While Guilabert grabbed Gautier by the sleeve and led him farther away, Lussier strode up to her but did so with obvious caution. He could probably remember the last time the two were alone…he had ended up on his ass. When he was still a few paces away, he pointed with his sword toward the chapel, indicating she should walk in front. Charlotte only stared. This was beyond madness—it was criminal. She was a Bourbon-Condé, for God’s sake! “No one is going to marry me against my will,” she said flatly.

“Look at it this way,” Lussier whispered with a conspiratorial grin. “You cooperate—you live and so does your precious Brother Gautier. You don’t cooperate—he dies before your eyes. And I’ll make sure he suffers fittingly before I take his head. So you choose.” Charlotte wanted to kick the smug smirk off his face. A wave of anger burned through her heart, leaving a bitter tang in her throat. Swallowing back the array of retorts, Charlotte pulled the cape tighter around her and stomped to the chapel. There, she looked over the broken wall at Guilabert and Gautier, the pair standing very close together and arguing fiercely. At one time, the knight put his hand on the other’s shoulder and patted it. Gautier shook it off and stormed toward the chapel. Behind her, Lussier tut-tutted. “Temper, temper.” Soon, Gautier cleared the debris and stood beside the toppled altar. His face looked pale but composed. A grinning Guilabert walked over to Charlotte and snaked his arm over her shoulders. “Your childhood dream is coming true, Charlotte. I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting for so long. Your parents would be so happy.” His arm about her triggered a mental image of Gautier doing the same, although his presence did not elicit the disgust she now felt. The grotesque similarity made her gag. “Take that off me,” she growled under her breath. He only laughed and squeezed her tighter. “I can hardly wait to share my bed with you. I’ve learned quite a few things during my stay in the Holy Land.” Charlotte shoved him back, very satisfied to see him windmill his arms to keep his balance, but her bravado cost her as Lussier struck her behind the legs. She cried out and collapsed on her knees. Her calves burned. Gautier rushed forward and stood barely a pace away, his fists blocks of pink stone. “Remember what I told you, bastard,” Guilabert said. Blanching dreadfully, Gautier muttered a curse and retreated. Though Lussier chuckled as he pulled Charlotte back to her feet, he did take a step away from her. All the while, Guilabert watched with the intensity of a bird of prey and his hazel eyes narrowed with what Charlotte could only call envy. He licked his lips and motioned for Gautier to return to his place. The next few moments could have been a dream to Charlotte. Gautier spoke in his man-of-God voice, the Latin words clear and strong, and even if intellectually she understood, she was too dazed to grasp the finer points of them. She knew what went on, there was no doubt about it. She was being married to Guilabert de Lissi—a man for whom she had once felt more than affection—a man with

whom she had shared her first intimate encounter. A lad her parents had hoped would marry their daughter. A man she now loathed enough to kill in his sleep. “I do,” Guilabert said beside her. Charlotte’s attention snapped back to her surroundings. The knight looked at her with a defiant countenance. Her throat closed of its own accord. A liquid drumbeat rushed in her ears. She was afraid to faint in a dead heap. Charlotte looked about at the once beautiful chapel, the round window behind Gautier, which gave the illusion of having a halo of foliage. Sounds of leaves dripping from rain, of birds, of small animals deep in the woods reached her acutely. Smells also overloaded her senses. She turned to look at Guilabert again, desperately wanting to see the boy she once knew. He was gone. Standing in his place was a man as sordid as he was beautiful. “Think of poor Brother Gautier,” Lussier whispered from behind her. She whirled around, wanting to lash out at him but fear for Gautier stayed her hand. Turning back to face the broken altar, she held herself very straight. They could force her into marriage but they would not cow her. Charlotte could not help but glance at Gautier. He looked so fierce in his anger, so much the vengeful angel after whom his order was called. Yet, his countenance softened when he lowered his gaze to her. “I do,” she said. Gautier looked down at the ground separating them and closed his eyes. “Good girl,” Guilabert said before stepping over and planting a kiss on her lips. As soon as she drew back, he straightened. “There’ll come a time when you won’t want to avoid me. You’ll see.” “What now?” she heard her voice ask. She felt so numb. A shiver shook her. “Back to Montmorency to settle some tiny affairs.” He said the word “affairs” with so much delight she wanted to slap him. “You mean surrender my fortune to you.” He slapped her. Hard. Charlotte reeled back and struck her heel against a piece of broken altar. She sprawled on her backside. “Don’t think I’ll tolerate that mouth of yours, for I won’t,” Guilabert said as he slid his sword back in its sheath. A few paces behind him, Gautier seethed, his fists trembling at his sides. She stood and dusted her cape. “Taste it while you can. That fountain will dry up fast.” Guilabert grinned one of his lopsided grins. “I expect as much vigor in our bed. What do you say we consummate our union at the mansion? I’ve always wanted to see your chambers.”

Bile rose up violently. She gagged. Together in the same bed. As her ears buzzed with renewed intensity, her whole body tingled with panic. Guilabert’s lustful gaze stabbed through her numb brain, blazed a path to her soul, which shrunk in horror. Someone said something. She did not hear the words, only an uninterrupted buzz like an insect hovering nearby. Panic filled her mind with horrid images of things he would do to her, things he would want her to do to him. Energy tingled along her arms and back. Abject fear. She couldn’t go through with it. She thought she would be able to. She had been wrong. Swifter than she thought her legs capable, she leaped over the crumbled wall and ran for her horse. She had crossed half the distance before something struck her in the back of the head. Stars fizzed around her field of vision. As Charlotte tumbled to the ground and rolled onto her back, she heard Gautier’s voice raised in a roar. Then everything went black.

***** Gautier checked again to make sure she looked as comfortable as a woman could be lying across a saddle. Her feet and wrists were bound under the beast’s belly as he had seen the Saracens do to their prisoners. So, the knight had picked up a few pointers from the enemy. Gautier stifled a curse. When had his world begun to unravel? How had he allowed himself to be manipulated so easily? He looked heavenward for guidance but found none. God was deafening in His silence. Gautier felt in each of his bones what he did was wrong. What choice did he have? Guilabert had told him unless he cooperated fully, he would do to her what had been done to female pilgrims back at the crusade. The horrific images would not fade from Gautier’s mind. The things those women had endured… He would not abide his Charlotte to suffer this way. His Charlotte. When had the baroness become “his Charlotte”? He sighed then checked back on her again. She looked so uncomfortable. Lussier caught him looking at the unconscious woman and tugged on the reins of her horse so the beast would slew and rub its flank against prickly branches, which tugged at the woman’s clothes. Vicious little swine. If he had a chance, Gautier would make him pay for this. Dearly. His own hands had been bound in front of him and though the knots were clumsy and he could have undone them within moments, he genuinely feared Guilabert’s threat. His heart constricted at what awaited her. But she was strong. She would survive. Despair dimmed his spirit, dulled his senses. If only he had seen through the lies from the start.

Had he not though? The knight’s motives had bothered him the very first time they had met. Was it some sense of misplaced pride that had allowed him to overlook the unease plaguing him? Pride or blind faith. Either way, it had cost this woman her freedom. Her overseer’s words came back to him. “You should listen to your soul when it’s telling you something.” It was screaming now, only too late. He should have listened much sooner. As they rounded a bend in the narrow path, he heard muffled sounds coming from behind and knew she was waking. A quick glance back revealed Charlotte trying to raise her head to look around. The lack of proper blood flow flushed her face. The knight would hopefully not keep her thus until they reached Montmorency. What an entrance they would make. Gautier doubted Guilabert was this foolish. Her people would rebel if they saw the baroness treated this way. No, Gautier thought, Guilabert would stop for a short break near the estate so he could untie her and let her ride with some dignity. And this was when Gautier would strike. “Guilabert!” Charlotte yelled from behind him. Gautier shook his head at her, tried to pass his message of patience through his gaze alone but she would have none of it. She thrashed and bucked so much Lussier had to wrestle her horse back, which fretted and tugged against its tethers. A long string of curses heralded Guilabert as he backtracked and passed Gautier. The countenance alone would have cowed anyone—however Gautier doubted its effect on the headstrong woman. Her spirit may be heroic, but right now, with his budding plan taking shape, her attitude only compounded their dire situation. And the dangers. Surreptitiously, Gautier slipped the rope off but held it, pretending it still bound his wrists. Guilabert handed Gautier’s reins over to Lussier, who now had to control his own mount plus two others. “What now?” Guilabert hollered. The tic at his eye had returned. He tugged on the reins of his horse and pulled alongside Charlotte’s head. Bending down, he yanked her hair out of her face. “I need to…you know. I need to go,” she replied in undertones. “God, woman, you’re already more trouble than I thought. That’s saying a lot,” he snapped. Straightening, he drew in a long breath. “Go with her,” he said to Lussier. A grin of delight appeared on the stout man’s face. He nodded and slid off his mount, dropping the extra reins he held. After untying her, he pulled on her hose and she slid down, teetering on her feet. “Give me a moment,” she said, shaking her hands to get some blood flow back. Lussier would have none of it though and propelled her deeper inside the woods. She offered him a glacial stare but complied. Gautier’s heartbeat quickened when Lussier checked back on Guilabert but the knight was looking somewhere else. There was no mistaking that look. Lust.

“You trust that man with your wife?” Gautier asked in what he hoped would pass for a casual tone. Guilabert only shrugged. “Her flower has been picked a while back, bastard. What difference does it make if I’m back again as second…or third?” He gave him a pointed look. Rage welded Gautier’s jaws together. He meant to reply but a strangled shout drifted in toward them. “I swear…” The knight cursed, dropping from his horse and rushing into the woods. Sliding down but keeping his hands together between the ropes, Gautier sprinted after him and easily caught up with the knight as he cleared a thick copse of evergreen. Guilabert stopped dead in his tracks. Gautier collided with him then stepped aside to look over his shoulder. “Holy Mother of God,” the knight murmured, shaking his head. A cringing Lussier sat against the base of a tree with a dagger protruding from his chest. A crimson stain spread quickly down his front. He looked down at himself with more shock than pain. When he looked up, his mouth twisted in a sneer. “My own dagger… That way,” he whispered, pointing with his hand. “That bitch!” Guilabert turned on Gautier, slid his sword out of its sheath and leveled it. “Help me find her quickly or by God, it’ll take her weeks to die.” The demented glint in the man’s eyes convinced Gautier the knight had gone over the brink. He nodded. “Untie me then.” “You don’t need your hands to run,” Guilabert replied before taking off in the direction Lussier had given. Moments after the knight had disappeared, Gautier followed for a few steps, slowed then stopped completely. Turning around, he spotted Lussier trying to press his hand around the blade to stop the bleeding. It was planted deep but too high up on his broad chest to do any true damage. The knight stopped struggling when Gautier approached. “Let me help with that,” he said, crouching. “Shouldn’t we leave it there for now?” Lussier shook his head weakly. “I’ve seen these sorts of wounds before. You’re going to bleed inside.” Lying could come so easily sometimes. Gautier seized the handle slick with blood and gave a sharp pull. It came out with a wet sound.

The wounded man shook with relief. He nodded. “You’ve done this before.” Gautier nodded as he stabbed the dagger in the dirt beside his foot. Then, quick as a cat, he seized the man in a powerful headlock. A twist was all it took. Through the fabric of his habit, he felt more than heard the muffled, sickening crunch. “And this as well,” he said through his teeth. The lifeless body was still sliding toward the moist earth that Gautier was already out of the small clearing and charging after Guilabert. If he hurt her, there would be no solace in Gautier’s life as long as the knight drew breath. Feared fuelled his mad dash into the forest. The roar of his heartbeat thundered in his ears. Leaping over a fallen tree, Gautier let the rope slide from his wrist but kept it in a fist in case he needed it. Branches slapped him, rocks and roots made him jump and skip and sidestep. He knew he was gaining on the knight, burdened by bits of clanking armor. Still, he had to find her first. The consequences of not doing so flashed in ghastly colors. His throat constricted with fear. After everything she had gone through, hearing of her brother’s fate, being harassed for months then married against her will…because of him. Gautier gritted his teeth. Even as strong as she was, she would be no match for the demented knight. In addition, he had a sword. She had only rage. Gautier’s legs pumped madly under him, despite the heavy wool garments. His habit flapped angrily about his legs. He had to get there first. A startled partridge thrummed into flight. He paused to listen for any sign of either the woman or the knight. Swearing under his breath, Gautier leaped into a mad rush again. He had to be close. She was not as fast as he was, neither was the knight. The river twinkled to his left. Perhaps she had crossed it and taken a different route back home? She was a clever woman, she must have thought of it. He veered off and scrambled down the bank. A blood-curdling scream sliced the air. He skidded to a halt, the rope falling to the ground. A woman’s voice. “Charlotte!”

Chapter Nine Rain made everything slippery, treacherous. Charlotte slid and floundered in many places but managed to keep her legs pumping. Dirt splattered her hose and hands from her many near falls. She had discarded her cape a while back for it caught in branches and slowed her advance.

Lussier’s shocked face flashed back in her mind. Was he still alive, she wondered? Had she only wounded him or worse? He deserved it. The memory of his hands on her waist as he tried to kiss her nearly made her topple down the riverbank. Pig. The river. If she crossed it, she might stand a chance of losing her pursuer. Or pursuers. She still was not sure about Gautier. And right now was not the time to ponder the man’s motivation. A low-hanging branch scraped her head. She cringed and held her brow as she scrambled down the embankment. Loosened rocks rolled under her feet. She fell. With a small yelp of fright, she managed to put her hands under her as she skidded the last few feet before the water. Sand and pebbles crunched as she sprinted into the river. With water up to her knees, she was looking for an easy spot to cross when a small sound caught her ears. Looking back, she spotted Guilabert barging out of the woods barely thirty paces behind her. His grimace of rage was visible despite the distance. Charlotte renewed her mad charge across the river. When she had water up to her thighs, the sound of bouncing and rolling rocks alerted her the knight had entered the river. His silence was worse than anything else. Fear gnawed at her. Sweat slicked her back and hands, flattened her bangs to her brow. As she was chancing a quick peek back to assess the man’s progress, Charlotte yelped. His hand closed on the back of her tunic and he pulled her back. Because of the momentum, she flailed and collided hard against him, sending both tumbling into the cold water. Water sloshed into her mouth. Her brow burned when she snorted water up her nose. Gagging, she struggled to stand but was dragged down again. Guilabert stood behind her and kicked at her feet so she would not find purchase. Thrashing, clawing at his hands, Charlotte began to fear she would die this way, with Guilabert drowning her. Waterlogged clothes pulled at her limbs. Her feet felt like two boulders with knee-high boots filled with water and catching on rocks and debris. He hoisted her head above water, only to close a merciless hand over her throat and plunge her down again…however, the short respite had allowed her to twist one leg under her. Through strength born of sheer terror, she heaved herself out of the water and clutched his hair in a death grip. If he pushed her down again, he would be coming with her. Or at least parts of him would. Guilabert must have understood her intention for he hoisted her up against his chest and dragged her back toward shore. There, he cast her down against the ground, straddled her middle and put a rough hand to her throat. The demented light in his eyes froze her to the bones. Gone was the devilishly handsome man. A twisted mask of flesh now bent over her. His hair clung to his face in thick strands. Water glistened over

his skin. He pinned her arms on either side with his knees. She rebelled but only ended up scraping her head and back against keen rocks. “Can’t you tell when you’ve lost?” he snarled close to her face. She would have bitten him had he not hurriedly retreated. He slapped her back and forth several times. The metallic tang of blood seeped out on her lips. “Do you think you can win? You lost a long time ago. I was still in Jerusalem when you lost. You just didn’t know it.” The man had lost his mind. Charlotte had long suspected he had returned from the crusade a different—a perverted—man, but this meant no sense at all. “You’ve gone mad, Guilabert. Listen to yourself.” “Have I?” He leaned over her face again, but this time, clutching a fistful of hair to keep her against the ground. “You wouldn’t believe what men do to one another—for coins, for religion, for the color of one’s skin. But I think it only makes us keener in the end. Like me.” He pushed a strand of his hair out of the way. “I was naïve, a fool, really. But a few years in the Holy Land showed me what I could do, showed me how to win.” Charlotte listened to the tirade but still tried to free at least one hand. She would have one chance, so she best make it a good one. “Win what? You’ve won naught. You’ve cheated and lied.” When he cocked a fist meant for her face, she gave one mighty buck that sent him rolling over her. She punched him in the groin as hard as she could. Before she could crawl out from underneath him, he squeezed his legs together and hoisted her back up. Descending over her, he grinned savagely. “I knew you wouldn’t be easy to beat. I expected it. It must be in your blood.” Charlotte stopped struggling. There was something in the way he said it that felt like a punch to the stomach. The mad glow in his eyes accentuated. A tic tugged at the corner of his eyelid. “You’re ill, Guilabert. Your mind is ill.” “Don’t try to convince me you care. It’s too late now. I was going to tell you later, right before I did it. But I’ll tell you now.” Guilabert leaned in and murmured, “I’m going to kill you, Charlotte. I don’t want you anymore. You’ll just be another notch on my way to fortune and notoriety.” “Another notch?” she asked, surprised at the gentle tone of her voice. Silence settled between them. Rain began to fall again. Ticks of raindrops fell against his armor, made glistening rivulets along his breastplate. The hawk on his family crest looked as though it were crying.

He nodded. “Your death will be just another drop of Bourbon-Condé blood on my hands. But it washes away, blood. People say it doesn’t, but it does.” Charlotte’s awareness of her body dulled, sounds became muffled as if they reached her through a thick hood. Her vision narrowed to a sliver that contained only Guilabert’s face. The demented eyes, the cruel mouth. She knew. As surely as if she had been there when it happened. He had killed Jean-Louis. “What a canny girl,” he whispered, wrapping both hands over her throat. “I’m the one who let the enemy into St. Augustine’s. I made sure there were no survivors when the Saracens were done. It’s ironic that you’d finish the same way your brother did—with my hands about your throat.” Stars popped behind her eyelids when he pressed hard against her throat. Her legs were of lead, her hands heavier still. Death would be bliss compared to the raw pain slashing at her heart. He had betrayed Jean-Louis, her family, her. He had killed Jean-Louis. A tremor shook the ground underneath her. No, not a tremor, she told her numb brain, she was the one shaking. Great spasms threw her limbs hard against the ground. Through the narrowing slit of her sight, she saw Guilabert flinch against the violent convulsions shaking her. With strength born of pain and pure white rage, she reared with enough violence to project him clear off her chest. She sat straight up as if pulled by some hidden strings. He had killed her brother. A scream that must have begun in the bowels of the earth roared over her wounded soul, ripped its way up her throat then out her mouth. The sheer power frightened her. No human throat should produce such a sound. Hands like talons reached out to Guilabert and clawed at his clothes. The man had killed Jean-Louis, her brother, her best friend. Charlotte forgot everything else but his face. She dove for it.

***** The sound tore through Gautier. His heart twitched in on itself like a wounded beast in the throes of death. Then another shriek followed the first, this one harsher, more guttural. This time it was a man’s voice.

Gautier began to run. Trees flew past, flickers of gray and green and brown. Rain made everything slimy, unsound. Thunder rumbled overhead. Gautier slipped and fell to his knees. Using trees as support, he floundered back to his feet and rushed on. His heart skipped a beat again, not from exertion but from the memory of the scream. Charlotte. He had never heard such a terrible sound coming from a human throat. What was Guilabert doing to her? The sharp, piercing cry stirred memories he thought locked away forever—the sound of despair, of pain…raw, soul-shredding pain. He recognized the sound well for it had torn through his throat often enough. His year at the hands of the enemy flashed back in pitiless clarity. The thought filled his head with torment, his ears with the sound of his own screaming. He could think of nothing else… Gautier looked over the dirt mound at the horde of Saracen warriors massed at the ramparts. The Christians had once held the fortress. No more. They had to get it back. Gautier checked behind at the sunburned faces of his men—”his” only since earlier that morning following their knight banneret’s untimely death. Untimely deaths were getting increasingly more frequent. With his half-noble status, he’d been hurriedly thrust into the dead man’s place, despite having held the title of knight long before—his father’s parting gift. But a full-blooded knight had precedence over a half-blooded one, regardless of abilities. Unless they found themselves in the present situation…basically the only one left. Then a lowborn was good enough. If only their banneret would have had more martial skills instead of birthrights, perhaps they would not have lost so many men. Armor no one should wear in such arid weather gleamed against the dusty surrounding. They made quite nice targets. He motioned for his scouts to go on ahead. They slinked past without sound, not even raising sand. He watched their meticulous advance with growing apprehension. The Saracens operating the tower had not moved in a while. Only their colorful burnooses stirred with the dusty desert breeze. Sweat stung his eyes as he squinted. The two scouts crawled closer to the fortress, trying to determine if the portcullis could be tampered with or not. They knew so little about this place! Gautier cursed. A small scent caught Gautier’s nostrils. Quite pleasant in fact. Like cloves and saffron. He recognized it right away. His heart sank. “Jésus,” he groaned. He peeked over the boulder just in time to spot four Saracen warriors coming out of hiding places in the ground. In the ground! They swarmed his two scouts. “RETREAT!” Gautier roared. He jumped to his feet, his skin burning under the armor. “RETREAT!”

It had been a trap. The Saracens had known all along and had let them come. His men turned as one and fled down the hill to the main position. So many were still lagging behind, hurriedly trying to maneuver their sweat-drenched bodies inside the heavy metal plates of their armors and shields and helmets. What on God’s good Earth are we doing wearing these? Windmilling his sword at arm’s length, he yelled his command repeatedly as he made sure stragglers got a fair chance while he spared a quick mental prayer for the two scouts he had unknowingly sent to their deaths. Anvil-hard sun made him squint as he shoved the last man down the incline in front of him. One stumbled. “Damn it, man, come on!” Gautier snarled, tugging and pushing and cursing. Finally, his man jumped across the narrow ravine and into the safety of his comrades. By the corner of his eyes, he saw two of his archers leveling their crossbows at him then letting fly. Quarrels flew past an inch from his face and shoulders. Were they mad! “What—” Then he understood. “Go,” he yelled at them. “Leave!” A sudden flash of pain erupted behind his head, blinded him with a thousand little suns. The ground flew up at him, scraped his cheek and chin. Metal plates pinched his skin under his arm when he fell. That foolish armor! Dazed and lying on his stomach, Gautier reached at his hip for the hilt of his sword and weakly tugged with deadened fingers. Something wet dribbled down his brow and into his eyes. A crimson veil shrouded his vision. Something hooked his shoulder plate and rolled him onto his back. So striking was the azure sky that Gautier nearly forgot where he was, nearly forgot he had been hit and would be dead within a few breaths. Thankfully, he heard his men’s general retreat and knew he had at least saved a handful. He thought he saw a few token quarrels zip past overhead. Perhaps he was just hoping. Pain in his head made him grimace. Sand crunched between his teeth. A man wearing a brilliant turquoise burnoose bent over him. With a grin of dazzling ivory-colored teeth against the bronzed leather of his skin, he cocked his arm back. Gautier could only cringe as the mace came down for his head.

***** He woke screaming. Pain radiated through his whole torso. Gautier tried to open his eyes but discovered one could not. His brain would not answer his command. A groan escaped him. A sound like thunderclap ripped through his consciousness then a fresh surge of pain tore across his chest. Someone was whipping him? Now that some clarity had finally drifted into his numb brain, he realized he was standing with his back against something hard, both arms bent back and bound at the elbows. His armor and garments were gone. “What you do?” a man asked in broken French. “I’m a carpenter,” Gautier heard his voice reply. Did he always sound so discordant? The man chuckled. “Hard head. Me too.” CLACK. Another ripping sound. Fire licked his chest. Gautier snarled in pain. The rancid smell of urine floated up to him, shaming. With his good eye, he looked down at himself and wished he had not. Skin was blistered in bloody ribbons all over his chest and belly. The man with the whip was too far back in shadows to be seen but another stood much closer. The striking blue-green garment made Gautier want to stare. Dark eyes surmounted an aquiline nose and no hatred blazed behind the black orbs but a terrible resolve, which made the whole face resemble stone. “What you do?” the man asked again. Gautier knew he meant “what were your duties?” But he would walk to hell and back before he gave the enemy anything! He would not become a traitor. “Carpenter… I build things.” This time, his reply elicited anger. The one with the turquoise burnoose spat on the ground. A long string of insults hissed out of his tight lips. Though Gautier’s Arabic was not fluent, he could well guess the gist of it. Something to do with his mother and a goat. A chuckle rumbled in his raw throat. How easily insults could transcend languages. He cringed when the whip wielder raised his arm for another lash but he froze when what Gautier guessed was the leader shook his head. He then said a word that made Gautier tense against the ropes. He had heard of the word, knew what it meant.

Some men he had not known were there came closer. He thrashed as they roughly unbound him. Chanting “ukra, ukra” low in their throats, they dragged him, kicking, screaming, begging, down some poorly lit corridor which smelled of feces and sweat and death. Trapdoors lined both walls. One gaped like a silent scream. Fear doubled Gautier’s efforts to break free. He was hoisted off his feet but struggled so much those carrying him banged against one another and the walls. He fell to the stone floor and bit his tongue. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. God, he would vomit! Hands came for him again. He fought them off with all he had left. He felt as though the opening to his right was sucking the energy out of him. Hell would have been better. Finally, the one with the turquoise headdress seemed to have had enough for he came forward and kicked Gautier in the stomach. Bile gurgled up his throat. There was naught he could do as they heaved him off the floor again, swung once then hurled him through the opening. He rolled over to lie flat on his face. The trapdoor slammed behind him. Everything went black. Ukra. The hole.

***** A young sapling took Gautier down when he ran full force into it. He floundered to his feet again, staggered a few steps before getting his bearings back. How could he have lost touch with reality this way? Now was not the time for reminiscing. How long had it been since the awful night when he had been thrown into the rat hole that would be his home for the following thirteen months? Nightmares had plagued his sleep for a full year after his escape. And now it had hit him in plain daylight. Charlotte’s scream must have dredged the terrible memories back up from the depths of his soul. Poor woman. God knew what the man was doing to her. The thought alone had the effect of a February bath. Ice-cold anger bubbled up his chest and throat. He had to get there before Guilabert did something Gautier would regret. Why had he not seen earlier what this knight was up to? Oh but he had! Only pride had clouded his judgment. He knew from the very first time he had met her—well, the second time, actually, since the first did not really count—hers was the nobler cause. Despite his instincts, he had refused to see, had chosen to ignore the sick feeling every time he thought

about what he might have to do. God, he had even considered it. For a moment, but still! Charlotte did not deserve what Guilabert, even himself, had done to her. He had married her against her will to a man he knew to be corrupt at best. What did it make of him? “A fool,” he snarled under his breath. A fool in love. For sure, he preferred to see her married than dead. Guilabert’s argument had been most convincing. Marry her and lose her, or refuse and watch her die the most ghastly death. Simple choice. Gautier tore through a dense copse of evergreen and emerged by the riverside. Rain made its surface a rippling mesh. He looked left and right. His wool uniform hung heavy against him. He swore as he tugged on the tight collar. Where was she? Despair gnawed at his heart. Why had he not helped her before? What if he had lost her and caused her death? He would never forgive himself. A good woman might die today because of his pride. He ran both hands through his hair and pulled. A strangled cry echoed somewhere to his right. He tore off running, skidding over rocks, skinning his ankles and splashing in the shallows. Two forms on the embankment some distance ahead broke the dreary gray and green. A great struggle seemed to be taking place for the two forms thrashed and rolled about in a snarl of limbs. Gautier’s heart leaped. She still lived! And she was giving the knight trouble too from what he could see. He realized just how much when he ran close enough to hear her cursing like a sailor. Foulest words he had rarely heard. Not slowing down, Gautier chose the quickest route to the pair—knee-deep in cold September water. Carving right through bends in the narrow river cut time significantly. He could make them out now. Her clawing at him while the knight tried his best to roll away. Bloody marks slashed his face and hands while she wore bruises and a tangled mess of curls. “You betrayed him, you son of a whore!” Charlotte screamed while she kicked the knight as he floundered to his knees. A metallic sound was heard when she kicked him again, this time in the chest. “How could you?!” Gautier jumped over the last boulder. Barely a couple of steps now… However, before he could get within reach, Guilabert tackled Charlotte down and cocked his elbow far behind him. Such violence would do irreparable damage to a woman’s face. With a roar that surprised him, Gautier leaped. The sudden weight and force as his body impacted with the knight’s sent both rolling down toward the river. Gautier cringed as metal plates ground his chest and shoulder, pinched skin on his

forearms. He let out a yelp of surprise when Charlotte came tumbling down the bank, half on him, half on the moaning knight. She clutched Guilabert’s hair and pounded his head on the ground. Somehow, the sight of her savagery awed Gautier into stillness. Good God, she would kill the man. Out of some remnants of humanity, he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back enough so she faced him. He couldn’t let her become a killer. She was too good for such methods. The knight fell limply on his side. “He won’t cause more trouble. Not for a while,” he said gently. He was just so relieved to see her alive and relatively well he did not mind the askance look she sent his way. “He’s a traitor,” she spat before turning to Guilabert and kicking him in the back. “He deserves to die.” Gautier must have looked as puzzled as he felt for she pointed an accusing finger at the prone form beside her. “It was him.” “Him what?” She coughed. “Guilabert told me…” she faltered and sat on her heels. Blood dribbled down her chin. A great tremor shook her. Tears or rain beaded her cheeks. Gautier wanted so much to press her to his chest but was afraid in her great anguish she would push him away. Instead, he let a hand rest on her knee. “He told you what?” “St. Augustine. It was him. He let them in then he finished whoever had survived.” Charlotte hid her face behind her dirty and bloodied hands. “He killed Jean-Louis.”

Chapter Ten The veil of grief parted wide enough to let some sense drift into her mind. She wiped her eyes and looked into Gautier’s face. What she saw there congealed her blood. He was looking down at Guilabert, who still lay on his front, his hair a matted mess of mud and blood. “He told you that?” Gautier asked in a gravelly voice. Gone was the rich intonation. It fell flat as a blade and just as cold. She nodded, still unable to tear her gaze away from the icy blue orbs. For the span of a moment, she forgot her own pain, her own sorrow, to focus on this man’s almost palpable rage. It was all there in the exceptionally pale eyes. Anguish. He had suffered this one, just as she had—more so, no doubt. The ruined skin on his chest came to mind. Charlotte reached out and let her hand rest over his. Through the hose, she could feel the warmth of his palm.

“This man can’t be allowed to die. He has to pay for his crimes,” Gautier remarked coldly. He pulled his hand out from under hers so he could roll Guilabert onto his side. She felt cold and miserable now that his hand was gone. Her skin tingled where he had touched her. “He doesn’t deserve clemency.” His mouth twisted in a sardonic sneer. “Oh it’s not clemency that awaits him but the rack.” The vision flashed across her mind. She mentally recoiled from it. Guilabert on the rack, as much as she loathed him, was too much cruelty for her. She looked down at her hands. “Can you help me get him up?” Gautier asked as he hoisted the unconscious man up by his arms. Nodding, she tugged and heaved until Guilabert rested in what must have been the most uncomfortable position ever on Gautier’s strong shoulders. Slowly, they made their silent way back to the horses. In her flight, she had paid little attention to where she was going but together they managed to find their way back. By that time, midday had come and gone. The mounts had moved very little, if by the side of the road to munch on some sodden leaves. Gautier unceremoniously dumped his load to the spongy ground. “Are you well enough to make it in one spell?” he asked, turning back and offering what strove to be a composed face. “I’ll rest when he’s turned over to the seneschal.” Gautier nodded and turned toward his horse. She noticed for the first time there was a fourth horse there. The one he must have ridden here when he arrived at dawn. The poor beast looked tired and cross. With a handful of grass and leaves, she gave the twitching beast a quick rubdown. It whinnied its thanks at her. She looked down at Guilabert’s pitiful form. Traitorous, murderous dog! Jean-Louis’ jovial face flashed before her eyes. That big smile of his. Tears rolled down. Why did it have to be this way? She knuckled the tears away. Gautier took the knight’s sword and slid it in the sheath strapped to his saddle. As they prepared for the road, it occurred to her Lussier was gone. “Where’s the other one?” “Dead,” replied Gautier without stopping. Though she would have wanted to know more, she was loath to ask and just nodded. At the price of ending up in hell, she felt quite satisfied the vicious little man was gone. If only Guilabert had met the same end, there would be no need for the drama his trial would cause. After all, she would never be able to prove he had let the enemy inside St. Augustine. He would deny it with his usual charm

and poise. It would be her word—that of a woman—against a knight’s. Charlotte gnashed her teeth. There would be little chance of getting justice, even if Gautier, as a man of God, would testif y for her. Behind her, Gautier gasped loudly. Charlotte turned to him but her words died on her lips. Cringing, hugging himself, he collapsed. Before her brain could register the scene, Guilabert sprang for his horse and slapped it hard on the rump. It took off with him hanging on and swinging a leg over the saddle. “Guilabert!” The knight’s treachery traversed her mind and left within a heartbeat as fear for Gautier’s life filled her chest with butterflies. “Oh God, no.” Would she lose him too? Taken by the same man who stole Jean-Louis from her? She rushed to him and knelt by his side. “What did he do?” she asked, placing both hands on his shoulders, trying to straighten him. “I’m fine,” he replied, patting himself down. One of his hands returned bloodied from its exploration. He stared at it in shock. Panic rose in Charlotte’s throat. “Let me help.” With her assistance, Gautier slowly sat on his heels and flattened the habit over his front so they could see where he had been injured. There, down by the hipbone, protruded a slender, golden hilt. Snarling, he pulled it out. Charlotte flinched at the sight of the crimson blade yet she pressed her hand to the wound in an effort to stifle the bleeding. Blood like red wine seeped through her fingers and soaked the cuff of her undertunic. “I shouldn’t have let him see where I hid it,” Gautier snarled, sounding both miffed and surprised. “He must have taken it while I was carrying him. Stabbed with my own blade.” He wiped the blade on his sleeve then slid it back up inside. Charlotte meant to tear off one of her sleeves for bandages but Gautier stopped her. “No time. We must catch that traitor. Help me up.” She did, pulling him up by the back of his habit. He stood gingerly, a hand on her shoulder, the other pressed against his hip. Together they neared the horses where, huffing and puffing, she helped the much heavier Gautier climb into the saddle. Blood soaked the hand she placed on his knee. “Make haste,” he urged. A flick of his hand and the horse shook into a light canter.

When she was mounted, she easily overtook Gautier, behind which she’d tied Lussier’s mount, and stayed by his side. “Ride on, Charlotte,” Gautier said through clenched teeth. “Get help and catch him. I’ll only slow you down.” She could have ridden on, could have made it to the house and overtaken Guilabert somewhere on her way back. Revenge already tasted sweet in her mouth. Everyone would know the cowardly, backstabbing, cheater he was as she would tell anyone who would listen about Guilabert’s treachery in the Holy Land. She might even sink a blade in his back, the murderous liar, if the chance presented itself. Justified revenge. Her mental wrath on Guilabert stopped there, in her head. For doing so would mean leaving Gautier behind. A bleeding, wounded Gautier… “We ride together.” Gautier’s whole face brightened for just a moment before he winced and leaned forward. “When this whole thing is over, we need to have a long talk.” “When this whole thing is over, we need to have a long bath,” she countered. When he grinned wider than she had ever seen him, the bleakness of her surroundings felt not as heavy or as miserable. As if the smile alone could have forced clouds away. He sobered. “Lead the way.” Charlotte edged her horse in front, often checking back to make sure the man did not topple from his saddle. He looked pale but strong. She prayed for him he would recuperate from this injury. She prayed for Guilabert as well. If Gautier never recovered, God help the knight. Afternoon turned to dusk as an already gray sky deepened to brown. Rain had stopped a while back but everything was still sodden and cold. And the temperature dropped by the moment. Charlotte could see her breath roiling in thin tendrils in front of her face. The horses too began to show signs of weariness as they had cantered hard for most of the time. After a quick break, they rode on. When she checked back for the hundredth time, she noticed how Gautier had begun to slump in his saddle. “Can we ride a bit faster?” He just waved and motioned for her to turn toward the front. She did, but not before taking a good look at his leg. Something dribbled off the tip of his boot. Blood, rain or mud? Hard to tell in the poor light. Trees grew thinner and wider apart around them. They rounded a sharp bend in the path she recognized well. Home. Charlotte prayed silent thanks. Once there, she would get them something

warm to eat and drink then would gather a party and hunt Guilabert down. Surely he could not have gone very far. They would have stayed close behind at the decent canter they kept. Perhaps someone had seen him. Charlotte chanced a quick peek back. Gautier’s head snapped up as if he had sensed her eyes on him and now would like her to believe he felt just fine. A jumble of emotions assaulted her. He was a brother, granted. Yet his tender embrace was the most exquisite thing in her life. Ever. Her childish infatuation with Guilabert felt immature and absurd compared to the searing passion that spread to every part of her. How could she not yearn for his touch when he had showed such gentleness, such consideration? Heat radiated up from her belly at the memory of his hands on her, of his tongue in her. She shook the notion away. Nothing would come out of it. He would return to his duties and she to hers. Feeling bereft in more ways than she could count, Charlotte pulled the opening of her tunic tighter about her neck. They were both cold and wet—not a good combination for a bleeding man. What if rot settled in his wound? What if he bled to death in her arms? She shook the distressing thoughts away. Finally trees became sparser with undergrowth practically nonexistent. Tiny dots of light peppered the night down the hill from where they rode. The mansion. Her heart leaped. She turned back and watched Gautier maneuver his horse near hers. “He can’t be far,” she said. “His horse’s a destrier, so he can’t have galloped all day.” “Here,” he said, weakly passing over his dagger. “I won’t be much use. You keep it, in case he turns back or waits for us somewhere.” She took the weapon by the tip of its blade, knowing it had earlier been planted deep in his flesh. Goose bumps prickled along her arms. She slid the weapon in her boot without meeting his gaze. After a tired nod, Gautier clicked his tongue and resumed the canter. The trailing horse neighed its frustration. Charlotte could not help but feel for the man. The constant movement must have been pure agony. She looked into the darkening sky and sighed. She was home. It would all be better now. Something caught her attention. There to their left beyond the trees shone an orange glow. Then smells hit her and Charlotte gripped the reins tighter. “Please, no,” she murmured. Without further thought, she drove her heels into her horse’s tired flanks. The beast did what it could to respond. Galloping chaotically through the field and toward the line of trees edging her property, Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air. She could not hear Gautier behind her. Was he still conscious or had he toppled from his horse? Charlotte could not go back to check. Not now. Not with this.

A massive horse burst out of the forest to her right. She cried in alarm but the frantic animal only rushed by, riderless. She slapped the reins on her mount’s neck as she tore through her land and when she crested over the hill, Charlotte yanked back on them. Her horse whinnied and spun in place from the sudden command. Shaking, it pawed to a fussing halt. Smoke stung her eyes. The orange glow now shone against still-wet trees. Here the sky looked speckled with ginger and saffron stars. Unable to tear her gaze away from the spectacle before her, she slid off her mount. “No, no, no,” she repeated the word as though the force of it would unmake what had been done. Charlotte stared in horror as flames licked one corner of the distillery’s façade. Movement from within the building made her stare hard past the flames. Yes! Right there where the office was. The cowardly… Charlotte sprinted up to the massive building, dismissing people’s cries as they ran up the hill far behind her. She thought she could make out Armand’s deep baritone among the rest but did not stop to check. With flames dancing all about her, she dove for the doorway and yanked open one of the doors. It slid on its rail and thumped against the wall. Wood was already beginning to blacken inside the structure. All her bourbon, all her work! It would all be lost. Because of him. “Guilabert!” Movement to her left alerted her to a presence. Diving aside, she just avoided a length of chain bearing down where she had been a heartbeat before. It banged and clattered to the ground a few feet from her. Guilabert erupted from her left with a demented look in his eyes and a wicked-looking cargo hook in his hand. Charlotte reacted on pure instincts. She rolled away and crawled under the closest barrel, emerging in the narrow alley behind. From there, she dashed up to the main aisle and retraced her steps back toward the front. Guilabert was still looking for her in the direction she had disappeared. “You want to play hide and seek, Charlotte, my wife, like old times?” he asked, raising the hook above his head before checking under another barrel. Charlotte tiptoed closer still, flattened against a rick of barrels. She retrieved Gautier’s dagger in a trembling, sweaty hand. Guilabert’s back was to her but she would have to run almost twenty paces before she reached him. A whole lot of space and time for him to hear her and turn around. “I always managed to find you, even back then, you know,” he went on, pouncing up to the next barrel and swinging the hook at empty air. He cursed. “I’d make you laugh so I’d know where you hid. I

knew how you loved it when I found you. Do you remember, Charlotte, how flushed and giggly you’d be when I’d tickle you until you yielded?” Fear made her legs thick as lead. The dagger felt so heavy and awkward in her palm. Her insides twisted and heaved. She was afraid of being sick. A low moan escaped her. Guilabert tensed visibly. He turned around, making a complete rotation on himself. “Come out, dear wife. I know you want to.” She felt like screaming she was not his wife, this travesty of a marriage was not real. But Gautier was a man of God, albeit a strange one, and had been granted permission by a cardinal to perform the Sacrament of Matrimony. The vows were real. She gritted her teeth when Guilabert prowled a little bit closer to the center aisle. Lovers’ Lane according to Armand. She could have laughed at the irony. Outside, the voices grew louder. With a resounding bang, the doors were closed to deny any wind to stoke the fire, unknowingly trapping her inside between a lunatic and an inferno. “Come on, Charlotte. Come out and I’ll forget you slept with a brother and tried to kill your husband.” A cruel laugh rumbled in his throat. “Better still, I’ll make to you the same offer I did him. If you cooperate,” he swung under another barrel, spat a vile curse. “I’ll let both of you live. Did you think he wanted to marry you to me? Of course not. He wants you for himself. Some brother! You must have been very convincing to make a man forget his God. I’ll know soon enough, won’t I?” Charlotte nearly exclaimed her shock aloud. Gautier had married her to Guilabert to protect her? A great lump of emotions choked her. All that time, she thought the man was only doing his duty, albeit reluctantly. But no, he had done it so Guilabert would let her live. How mistaken she had been about Gautier. Warmth spread from her heart to her entire being, chasing away cold, misery and self-doubt. She was important enough to Gautier for him to put his vocation aside, to want to marry, even to perform a forced marriage and now he wandered somewhere on her property, bleeding and alone. If her overseer Armand found him, Gautier would not make it to morning. Enough. Fear crystallized into resolve. Resolve hardened into rage. This had to stop. Now. Clutching the dagger along her forearm so he would not see it, Charlotte stood, peeled her shaking frame from the wooden beams. She stepped into the middle aisle and Guilabert heard her. As he faced her, his handsome face split in a smile. “How happy I am to see you, charming wife. Come embrace your husband.”

When she stepped forward, his smile turned into a hideous grimace of triumph and greed. Behind him, flames licked at the rafters, giving the impression a halo of flames surrounded his head. With her guts twisting into a quivering knot, Charlotte drew near. Along her wrist, the hidden blade felt light and secure. “Just like old times,” Guilabert said, raising a hand. She agreed with a nod. “Like old times.”

***** Gautier spotted the orange glow just as he neared the mansion. People were out in the gloom, running up the hill, carrying buckets, pitchers, even mugs. A fire… Then he understood. The distillery. The livelihood of many was threatened, hence the populace outdoors at this time of the evening. Charlotte had seen the fire and rushed for it. Sweat slicked his back. Foolish woman! He clicked his tongue to urge his beast into a faster canter but the panting animal could give no more. It walked with uneven gait into the thick of things. Pressing his numb hand hard against his hip, he waited until he had reached the dirt path then gingerly lifted his good leg over the saddle. With a growl of pain, he slid off his mount. Turning, he came face to chest with the giant, who put a very large, very heavy hand on his shoulder. Gautier’s knees buckled. “You did this?” the giant demanded, driving his fingers into Gautier’s shoulders, crushing muscles and tendons. A nasty bruise encompassed both of the giant’s eyes and the bridge of his nose. Gautier recognized his handiwork there. Gautier tried to shake his head but could not move a single muscle above his chest. “No,” he snarled, trying to shake the iron grip loose. He failed. “It was that knight, Guilabert. He’s after Charlotte. She’s about here somewhere. She’s in danger.” “What’s he doing here?” another man asked from behind. The elderly overseer strode up to Gautier. He looked furious. Without waiting for an answer, he delivered a backhand which made stars pop at the periphery of Gautier’s vision. When he tried to stand, the giant forced him back on his knees. God, his hip hurt! Searing pain flared along his side when he felt the wound reopen. “It’s all your fault,” the overseer snarled, slamming a meaty fist into Gautier’s face. “She’s gone because of you.”

He cringed when the older man gave him another round of his anger. Tiny suns fizzed in his eyes. Through the haze of blood loss and ache, Gautier managed to tell part of his story. After a couple more punches, the old man stopped. “She’s here,” Gautier said before spitting blood. He did not even try to appear calm and instead let his emotions show right through the rampart he had built about his heart. “And so is Guilabert. Please, she’s in danger.” Something must have rung true for the overseer cocked his head. “She’s here? Let him up.” Hissing in pain, Gautier let the giant hoist him back to his feet. He could stand but barely. Blood, caked dry and some of it new and wet, glistened on his hands. Someone rushed by and yelled they needed more men. The giant, after a nod from the overseer, rushed away and helped the thick line of men trying to douse the inferno. One entire side of the distillery’s front was engulfed in flames. Someone had had the presence of mind to close the doors so the fire would not spread. He would have helped had he been able to stand properly. The loss of blood was beginning to seriously weaken him. After he had barked a quick series of orders to his men, the old overseer turned back toward Gautier and scowled. “What happened to you?” “Guilabert attacked me after I pulled him off Charlotte. There’s no time for this—she’s here somewhere. We must find her before it’s too late.” A man hollered that he could see someone inside the burning building. Gautier’s heart skipped a beat. Good God, she was inside? He pushed the old overseer aside and limped past the startled line of men dousing flames with bucketfuls of water, and would have rushed for the door had the giant not seized him by the collar and held him back. “You can’t go in there. It’s no use.” “It has to be her! Let me go!” The force of Gautier’s voice rocked the giant back on his heels. Just as the overseer was catching up to them, Gautier managed to pull away and hobbled toward the front doors. “You’ll only get killed! Come back!” Gautier ignored them. If it were indeed Charlotte trapped inside the burning building, he would get her out if it cost him a limb. If it were instead Guilabert, Gautier would make sure the knight never came out…even if it meant he would have to stay as well. A couple of paces before he reached the doors, one of them slid back. Out of it stumbled a man engulfed in flames. He cried out incoherently as he flailed and bounced off the wall. Gautier recoiled from the heat and the stench. Armor could be seen gleaming on the burning man.

“It’s Sir Guilabert,” a woman said behind Gautier. Some men put him out with a couple of bucketfuls but too late. He collapsed on his front. The overseer, flanked by the giant and another worker, approached Gautier and stood over the smoking remains of Guilabert. “Jésus, what an end,” the overseer murmured as he crossed himself. The giant leaned over slightly. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a small protuberance near the knight’s lower back, right under the back of the breastplate. Gautier knew at once what it was—the hilt of his dagger. The small cross on its golden pommel was easily recognizable. “It’s my blade,” he replied in hushed tones. Did it mean…? A murmur grew through the crowd. Out of the flames licking the timber and masonry doorway emerged a narrow silhouette haloed in orange flames and floating ashes. “It’s the mistress,” traveled the murmur amidst the assembled crowd. True, it was Charlotte stepping out of the burning building with the regal air of a queen in her court. Her hair was a tangled jumble, her face one completely streaked mess, yet she walked out into the glowing night without undue haste, her face set in a stoic mask of supreme self-control. She nodded at the gathered workers. Until then, he could only watch in mute awe and not a little fear of the woman for whom he had risked everything. She looked so formidable, so breathtaking, framed there with fire and smoke. He wanted to bow to the powerful vision before him. The raw strength emanating from her singed his whole being. God, he loved her so much! Charlotte scanned the faces before she made a straight line for him. As she drew near her countenance changed from poise to utter despair and she spread her arms wide, collapsing against his chest. Gautier pressed her head against his breast and heaved a great sigh when she hugged him as no one had ever done before. About them, people stared in silence. “Don’t just stand there!” roared the overseer. “Put that fire out!” Gautier noticed how the old man gave him a penetrating look before pushing the gaping giant toward a reforming line of workers. Buckets changed hands with rapidity and method. Looking down at Charlotte, Gautier pressed her harder against him. He had almost lost her. He guided her a few steps sideways so she would not see Guilabert’s still-smoking body lying on the ground ten feet away. She returned his embrace with a low moan. Tremors shook her wiry frame and he knew she had begun to cry. With a trembling hand, he stroked her hair and said soothing words in her ear. Eternity would feel short if he could spend it this way.

It occurred to Gautier her explicit partiality to him made him proud and sad at the same time. There was no room for him here. Not after what had happened, what he had caused. He had much to beg forgiveness for. Not that he had a right, far from it. Charlotte would refuse her forgiveness and he would still leave a happy man knowing she was safe from Guilabert’s greed. Nonetheless, her eventual pardon would mean a lot should she choose to grant it. Soon, the flames dwindled to smoldering coals then to smoking ashes. The smell of it hung thick in the air and Gautier coughed. His hip burned so much he feared collapse any moment. Still, Charlotte did not let go of the bear hug she had about his shoulders. After resting his head on top of hers for a while, he leaned forward. “Please forgive me,” he murmured in her ear. For the first time since she had emerged like an angel from fiery heavens, she looked up at him. Her beautiful face placated his breath. He meant to repeat his plea but lost his voice. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Forgive you?” she asked, sounding confused. “For what?” He stared at her to sear her face into his memory just as it was then. The image would have to sustain him for the years of solitude to come. “For forcing this on you. For losing you your distillery.” She looked back at the smoking building. “You didn’t do this. Guilabert did.” “With my help.” She shook her head and drew back. After she rubbed her eyes and nose with the sleeve of her loosely hanging tunic, she let her dark gaze settle on him. He would have looked away but forced himself to endure. She had a right to say what she was about to. He had to be man enough to take it graciously. “For whatever wrong you think you did, I forgive you. As for this,” she replied, hooking her thumb over her shoulder, “Guilabert would have found another way all the same.” With tears welling up her eyes, Charlotte shrugged awkwardly and leaned back against his chest. As if his hands had been created for this, they moved up her arms of their own accord and squeezed her tight. Gautier’s heart ached with the thought of parting but at the same time would savor this moment for the rest of his days.

Chapter Eleven

She had spent her whole life trying to convince everyone their “Ice Princess” was a rock against which all could lean. And now, she was the one leaning for support. Gautier’s heart pounded against her ear. The rhythmic sound comforted her, soothed her. She could have stayed this way forever. When he asked for her forgiveness, she thought she would cry. As if she needed to forgive the man who had saved her life. The last months and all the misery they had brought finally bore down on her. Guilabert, her childhood friend, was naught but a thief and a murderer. Her brother was dead, killed by his best friend, a man whose embrace she had often dreamed about. And now, she may stand to lose the distillery. On top of things, the only man she ever truly loved had chosen to serve God and been ordered to kill her. The irony, the sheer madness of it all made her eyes well. She had lived such a quiet life until then, safe in her tower of detachment, secure behind battlements built with years of loneliness and distrust of men. Now when her cool mind was most needed, she could not work her way out of this misery crushing her. That she could do nothing against it did not mean she could not identify it. She did. Charlotte Bourbon-Condé was in love with a man she could never have, despite all her fortune and power. Gautier would forever be beyond her reach. It was this that made tears burn down her cheeks. What she would do to cling to this one moment, right here and now. Already, she felt he wanted to withdraw. Looking up into his eyes, she gasped. His pallor startled her. The poor man was practically unconscious from loss of blood. “Armand.” “I’ll be fine,” Gautier replied, shaking his head. His eyes rolling in the back of his head, he began to lean to one side. She motioned for the old man to come quickly. He did, readily assessing the situation. Renaud emerged from among the rest and came over to help. Gautier complained weakly when Renaud slid a thick arm about his torso and held him tightly. “Let’s go home and get you treated,” Charlotte said. With Armand’s help, she made her slow way down the hill toward the mansion. Several times, she saw Armand open his mouth to speak only to snap it closed again. Finally, she turned to him. “Say it now, Armand, or don’t, but for God’s sake, don’t look at me this way.” Her curt tone surprised even herself. He blanched. “It was Constance. She’s the one who told Brother Gautier where to find you. I knew she’d done something…she was afraid we’d lose everything. I don’t know what to say, Mistress Charlotte.”

Constance. Of course. The old head servant knew where Charlotte had gone to hide. She had told the brother though and not Guilabert—the one redeeming detail in the otherwise distasteful situation. She would deal with it later. Right now, all Charlotte wanted was to see Gautier treated. “We’ll see to that later, Armand. If I don’t rest and get something to eat, I’ll collapse in a sobbing heap.” Their strange party arrived at the mansion and caused quite a stir with the servants, who did not look too sure who to treat first, the bleeding man of God or the muddy and stumbling mistress. “See to him,” she said to Armand. “He’s been stabbed in the hip and lost a lot of blood. All I need is food and some water.” As soon as she crossed the doorway to the library, the largest room in the mansion and only one to accommodate their present need, she spotted a familiar figure. Father Simon turned and rushed to them. “My dear, you look awful.” “My thanks, Father,” she replied with a forced smile. How good it felt to see her old friend there, his wispy white hair just as she remembered. As though he had been gone for years when in fact, only a few weeks had elapsed. He stared hard at Gautier. To her great relief, Father Simon took complete control over who did what to whom. All that was required of her was she recline on a couch and watch Gautier be lowered onto another one close by. She would have held his hand but feared being in the way. She thanked the young maid who brought her food and wine and dove right in. As she ate, she watched Gautier’s treatment like a hawk. “Be careful,” she blurted out when the old priest tugged a bit too hard on his younger colleague’s habit. Gautier cringed but said naught as he avoided the old man’s gaze. “Perhaps a bit of bother will help him see beyond his nose next time.” “Be careful,” she repeated, her tone much harder this time. Feeling guilty, she added a gentle “please”. A smirk lifted the corner of Father Simon’s mouth. “As you wish then, but if you ask me…” The rest of his sentence was muttered too low for her to hear. Gautier did not appear to be dying—for which she could have crawled about on her knees and thanked the Lord—but his pale face worried her. He looked so much younger this way. Simon lifted the hem of his uniform high over his knees so he could have a look at the wound then nodded and winked at the younger man, commenting how his stitching was the best in the province. Gautier tried to smile but only grimaced.

Servants trooped in and out as per the old priest’s commands, bringing this, taking out that. Soon only the three of them were in the library. Gautier would occasionally glance at her but lower his gaze every time she would try to meet it. When Father Simon had treated Gautier and helped servants feed him, he sat near her. Letting a gnarled hand rest over her knee, he stared hard at Gautier. “Quite the hardy lad, you are,” he said. “And I’m told you were sent here for a…special task.” Charlotte wanted to spare Gautier from replying by raising a hand to silence the old man but Gautier shook his head. “No, Charlotte. He has a right to know what kind of man replaced him.” Gautier told the old father everything, beginning with his assignment from Cardinal Lanteigne, to his trip to France and his meeting with Guilabert. To her knowledge, he left out only their intimate encounters. His frankness touched her. He could have spared himself the grief and none would have been the wiser. Instead, he told everything. When he finished sharing how he had married Charlotte to Guilabert, Father Simon’s usually benevolent eyes turned hard. “God doesn’t need mindless tools, Brother Gautier. He needs thoughtful guides, attentive pupils. Your conduct is inexcusable.” Charlotte’s heart squeezed painfully at the harsh tone. A look of pain crossed Gautier’s face but he said nothing. “You should beg for this woman’s forgiveness.” “He has, Father Simon, and I willingly gave it.” The old man turned to her in apparent surprise. He looked at both Gautier and her in turn then back again. His mouth relaxed and he leaned back in his chair. “I see.” Charlotte caught herself twisting the ring on her thumb. She stopped right away. Words failed her. She wanted to explain what had happened, how Gautier had had no choice really and cleared her throat to speak but found no words could squeeze past the lump. Finally, she managed to cough and stared at some point above the old father’s head. “Well, if her forgiveness was willingly granted, who am I to contest?” he said at length. “Still, I think you need to atone in a much more concrete way for what you’ve done here.” “I’d do anything to undo what I caused, Father,” Gautier replied, sitting up, flinching, straighter on the couch. “You were a carpenter, if I believe your enthusiastic patrons about town. You could start with rebuilding whatever the fire did to the distillery.” The old man cast an askance look at her. “If the mistress will have you, of course. Since she’s twenty-seven now, she’s the master of all you see here.” Charlotte sat up straight. Twenty-seven?

She would have slapped herself on the forehead. It was past midnight, so Monday morning. A new day had begun, therefore the anniversary of her birth and her twenty-seventh year. The realization filled her heart and tugged at her mouth. She grinned freely for the first time in a long time. “I am twenty-seven,” she replied in awe. Then, seeing how Gautier stared at her expectantly, she nodded. “And I will need a carpenter to fix the distillery. Someone accomplished though. Do you know anyone?” He smiled awkwardly, as though unsure if he should smile with joy or cringe in pain or both. “I know someone who’d be very happy to mend some things that have been broken.” After he said this, Gautier stood gingerly and pulled his habit over his head. Blood stained his linen undertunic while a large dark spot indicated the same for his black wool hose. Charlotte looked on in shock as he folded the garment and placed it on a nearby table. “What are you doing, Brother Gautier?” the old priest asked. Shock tightened the wrinkled face. He put his hand over the folded uniform. “I’m not fit to wear this.” The old man tut-tutted. “Mistakes don’t bar good men from serving our Lord.” Gautier shook his head then stared at Charlotte for a long time. She would have squirmed under the passion of his gaze but found it titillated her in more ways than she cared to show. “Love isn’t a mistake,” Gautier replied, still looking at her. “Ah yes, love. No, you’re right, young man, it’s no mistake, for our Lord meant it the way it is, even if I doubt He had all of this in mind.” “What now then?” Charlotte asked. Simon chuckled. “I’m sure you two have some things to settle, things to discuss, I’ll go write a letter to an old friend in the Vatican. He’s not a cardinal but he should do. It’s high time someone put Lanteigne back in his place.” Charlotte would have kissed him right then and there. “What about the marriage? I am a married woman now, strictly speaking.” The thought alone sent chills down her back. And already a widow. “Who married you, my dear?” Simon countered, theatrically looking about the library. “There’s only one priest here…and I haven’t married you, unless I’m losing my mind. Or,” he added as an afterthought, “you’d like me to change that some time soon?” A quick look of expectation flashed across Gautier’s pale face. He subdued it and lowered his gaze to his hands.

She had seen it though, the delight, the hope. She knew how it felt too for she shared these feelings as well. She would love naught more than to spend the rest of her life with this man, no matter what humble status he happened to hold. He was still half noble, for those who cared for such matters and wouldn’t be prevented from marrying her. Not that it would have stopped her, even if she would have had to set an entire team of notaries to dredge a drop of noble blood from a fifth removed cousin who lived in the Far East. Father Simon tapped his index finger against his temple. “Marrying a couple on such short notice will ruin my whole month though. I had plans, you see. So I think a small gift is in order.” “Name it,” she replied without missing a beat. He went to the shelf where the little herbs book was nestled. Taking it with reverent fingers, he held it for her to see. Years he had spent gazing at it, refusing her gift of it under the pretext its home was with her. “I’m glad the little book found a good home,” she said, smiling broadly. He chuckled as he slid it under the front of his habit. “As for you, young man, I’ll see to it that your release from the Church stays discreet. You’re not ordained nor have you made any formal vows, so it shouldn’t prove a problem. No need to alarm half the Vatican, no? A simple note from our local abbot should suffice. I’m sure your former master and his friends would not enjoy having their underthings shown to everyone. Then we’ll need to take care of that lock in the river. I’m told the Lanteignes should expect a fuming note from our highness any day now. What wouldn’t I give to be there when they read it.” “What do you mean?” Simon’s face wrinkled even more. “When I was temporarily relocated,” he stopped, threw a quick glance at Gautier then folded his hands behind him. “I wrote a letter to the court’s notaries, to inform them about the impending dip in the royal coffers. From talking to people in my interim parish—news of that infamous lock has already gone around the province at least once—I knew you had already sent one to the Duke of Valois but I preferred to appeal to their greed instead of their honor. I felt it was a safer course. Montmorency, without its bourbon, isn’t very rich, I reminded them. That ought to have made its way upward.” “Had we thought about this all a bit sooner…” Charlotte began, shook her head. What was the use? Things might have happened differently. She might not have met Gautier. Unthinkable. “But then again, I would not change a thing in the world right now.” Simon nodded before he left and closed the door behind him. Now that she was alone with Gautier, Charlotte found she could hardly look at the man. Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. She lowered her gaze when he stood from the couch and limped to

hers. With a groan of pain, he lowered himself beside her. His hand was tender when he reached out and cupped her chin. “It’s all very sudden. I’d understand if…” Charlotte felt herself flush even more. “It’s not sudden. I’ve known for a while.” “Known what?” “That I wanted to have you with me. I knew it back at the river, when we met.” Now it was his turn to blush. A shrug lifted his thick shoulders. “Um…yes, the river. I’m not of full noble birth, Charlotte. Your family will oppose.” “My family is all but gone. And my distant cousin only cares for his precious bourbon.” She twisted on the seat to study his expression. “Does it trouble you?” “Guilabert said the truth, I am a bastard. The son of a nobleman and a girl working at an inn in Brenne. I have nothing but these hands to offer you.” “Which is all I desire,” Charlotte replied through a lascivious grin that made him blush deeper. Before he could add to this, Charlotte leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. Tentatively at first then with more assertion, she kissed him. He passed his other hand against her cheek. When he pulled away, she opened her eyes. The way he looked at her, with his affection plain on his face, melted her heart. Tears of joy threatened to make her a blubbering fool. “I knew it too, that I wanted to be with you, only I was too stubborn to admit it, even to myself.” She put her index finger to his lips. He kissed it tenderly, moved on to her palm, her wrist, then her arm and shoulder before brushing his lips against her throat. Heat seeped through the fabric of her tunic. When he reached her mouth, she was practically bursting with desire. The kiss they shared was passionate, though both were weary enough to sleep standing. After he wrapped a protective arm about her, she leaned in the crook of his shoulder and closed her eyes. Before long, his chest rose and fell rhythmically. She too felt herself succumb to sweet oblivion. Within moments, Charlotte yielded her exhausted body over to sleep.

***** Charlotte felt light as a feather when Gautier lifted her in his arms and spun in place. Smiling faces flashed past. Tears of joy came to her eyes. She grinned.

As much as she wanted to stay in the small church and savor her union to the man she loved, she had deeper needs that required fulfilling. Now. Wrapping an arm over his strong shoulder, she pulled him closer. “I want you,” she murmured in his ear. The shock on Gautier’s face was comical. He set her down, smiled at the gathered people about them then nearly elbowed his way to the door. Charlotte, beaming, followed in his wake. Outside, blinding October sun hailed them. Leaves in the trees shone crimson, copper and gold. A breeze stirred her hair. Could a day be more glorious than this? A covered coach waited for them, all gilded in purple fleur-de-lis blossoms and cream-colored ribbons. Gautier lifted her right up to the cabin, to the delight of the congregation, who had followed the newlyweds outside. Turning, she offered her hand. With a grin, he took it and let her hoist him to her level. Amid laughs, the coach lurched onward. Charlotte sat by the window so she could wave at Father Simon and Armand. Renaud’s head stuck out over the rest by a good foot and she blew him a kiss. He pretended to catch it and put it in his pocket. “It’s all yours now,” she said, waving at the outside in general, before plopping down on the bench across him. “Ours,” Gautier corrected. The deep blue of his tunic and hose flattered his pale hair and eyes. Discreet silver thread gave the fine wool a look of midnight sky. Never had she seen a man so dashing. She patted down the cream-colored gown that kept puffing up like an angry bird. How could women wear these things day in, day out? Pearl earrings dangled against her neck. She brushed a finger against one. As if the subtle gesture triggered something in Gautier, he leaned across the space between them and kissed her. “My sweet fleur-de-lis,” he breathed in her ear. She pulled him to her. He came willingly, a grin on his face. When he cupped her face with warm hands, fingers reaching to her nape, Charlotte looked into his eyes and words floated out of her numb brain. With lips so gentle they barely touched hers, he brushed a kiss on her mouth, her chin, each cheek then finished on her forehead. But she had other ideas. Charlotte readily went for his thigh and squeezed it, which flared Gautier’s eyes and nostrils. Pushing up against his face, she crushed her mouth to his, retreated to watch his reaction, found that he was still staring at her before diving for it again. This time, she elicited a response.

Moaning in contentment, Charlotte let him push her against the backrest with his chest while his hand was busy bunching her gown over her knee. After she angled her leg outward, his fingers finally found her skin and caressed it before coming up, up along the inside of her thigh, slithering past her underthings and finding her sex. A soft mewl escaped her when his finger rubbed her sensitive pearl. “I don’t think I can wait,” she whispered against his mouth before nipping his bottom lip. Already fire raged in her, licked at her flesh. She wanted him, her man. “But you will have to wait. I want to take my ti—” She drowned the rest with her mouth and a moment later, whimpered in frustration when Gautier slid a gentle finger in her instead of the all-out charge she wanted. But then he must have grasped the magnitude of her need for Gautier pushed his finger in deep, pulled out then sank back in. While he did this, she fumbled with the many clasps on his tunic, managing only the first two. She growled as she meant to rip the rest but he stopped her with a firm hand. “Charlotte.” Why was he holding back? She could not ponder this further as the coach took a bend she recognized well. They would be home within moments. Charlotte did not even wait for the driver to get down from his bench and jumped out as soon as the coach began to slow down. Gautier landed by her side. Holding hands, they rushed up the stone steps, through the doorway, not even slowing down to return waves from the few servants not at church. Four by four, they climbed the twisting stairway. Their breathless charge led them to their new chambers. Charlotte heaved a sigh of relief. Finally! She had spent the last few weeks arguing, threatening, begging, that Gautier and she share the master’s chambers but he would have none of it, arguing they had to wait until they were married. As though they hadn’t already consummated their union! She had nearly gone mad with yearning. To see him every day for close to a month yet be denied his sweet touch. But they were married now. With a pointed look behind at a solemn Gautier, she unbarred the massive oak door and pushed it in. Inside, flowers occupied most of the space. A thick cluster of fleurs-de-lis throned in a large vase. On it, a small note. “Go ahead,” Gautier said, pressing against her lower back so she would go on. He barred the door behind him. She heard the key land on the floor.

Slowly, Charlotte went to the large bouquet and retrieved the note. Only one line of the neat handwriting she had come to recognize as Gautier’s occupied the small piece of parchment. “Armand will beg you to do the books instead of me,” she remarked with a wink. Her penmanship was notoriously bad. “It’s beautiful.” The smile slid off her face when she read, To Charlotte, a blossom without peer. Charlotte felt him approach from behind. Gentle fingers brushed against her arms and neck. Shivers prickled her skin. Her breath caught in her throat as fine wool caressed her shoulder when Gautier leaned in closer. The softest kiss brushed her neck. She sighed. “Before you there was no other.” His voice was so low she could barely hear. Charlotte meant to turn but he held her firmly by the shoulders. “You never…?” Had he been a virgin? He sighed deeply. Years of solitude seemed to have weighed on him more heavily than she had thought. “A few times long ago, but it meant naught compared to when I met you. As though I had come out of a hole in the ground to a warm, sunny day.” She nodded. “And I… Well…” “Were no longer virgin either. I know. Why would you think it matters to me?” “It should, shouldn’t it? It matters to me. I wish I had waited.” Gautier shook his head. “Nothing grows out of regrets. Being the first to know a woman or not shouldn’t shape a man’s love for her. All I want is to be the only one and hopefully the last.” “You are,” Charlotte replied firmly. “And you will be.” His hands softened and he resumed his caress of her neck. Breaths coming short and quick, Charlotte let her head rest back against his shoulder. She let him kiss her below the ear, run gentle fingers through her hair to undo the coiffure. Curly locks spilled over her ears and neck. He slicked them back, his fingers the softest comb. She would have been content just staying this way had it not been for the searing lust knifing her insides. He must have felt the passion stirring her for he gently pulled on the cord holding her bodice in place. She took a deep breath when the gown loosened around her ribs. Gautier’s hands were nimble and fast as he undid the top of her gown and let it slide off her shoulders. She wanted to do the same to him. God, she wanted to chew his clothes off! But she discovered he already had taken his tunic off. Only the thin linen undertunic separated their skin. Warmth seeped through the flimsy fabric.

A gasp escaped Charlotte when Gautier reached around and wrapped a strong hand over her partly exposed breast. Though his touch was gentle as a breeze, she sensed raw power straining to be free. How could such a strong, intense man exercise such pitiless self-control? With shaking fingers, Gautier traced the mound of one breast, the soft cleft in between, then her other breast, never sliding below the fabric. She had to bite her lips to refrain from turning about and pouncing on the man. What sweet torment! She closed her eyes. Smells from the multitude of flowers wafted to her. Through narrowed eyes, she scanned what had become their bedchambers. A poster bed with red velvet drapes took almost half the floor space. What pleasures they would share in this bed. Light came in between the rustling drapes. Old but decent rugs tickled her toes when she wriggled them. There would be no need to ever come out of this room. Charlotte reached up behind and caressed her husband’s hair. The movement freed her breasts, revealed nipples hardened to aching pebbles. He pulled the bodice lower with both hands and pressed his palms right under her breasts, creating two perfect, round mounds. A low groan rumbled in his chest. Again, she felt as though he reined in his passion, for some reason not letting go completely. Had he suffered so much he could not even take full pleasure from his wife’s embrace? Charlotte’s heart ached for him. She would help him find release, would deliver him from those demons plaguing him still. “You’re holding back,” she murmured. His whole body quivered like a just fired arrow. Even his legs trembled. “I’ve denied myself for so long. I fear hurting you.” Charlotte spun on her heels and trapped his gaze with hers. “You won’t.” Then she kissed him on the mouth, hard. Leaving his ambrosial lips, she parted the opening of his undertunic. The sound of stitches ripping accompanied her as she revealed his chest and lavished kisses over his scarred skin. When she happened on one nipple, she flicked the tip of her tongue at it. He tried to stifle a shuddering breath but failed. As if to let him know unbridled passion was exactly what she had in mind, she pressed her entire length against his. With their bodies so intimately pressed, the might of his passion became apparent. Still, Gautier stood there looking at her, a look of misery on his face. If she could only convince him she trusted him completely, he could let go of the isolation, the unbending regime of deprivation. What could she say to convince him? Sadly, words could never erase years of hardship. She would have to show him. She stared at him with all the ardor and love raging in her. Without warning, she grabbed the opening and tore it apart. The undertunic ripped clear down the middle.

The shock on his face as he stepped back and looked down at his ruined garment! “What…?” “Don’t hold back,” Charlotte said. This time, she trapped his attention. Without quite knowing how he managed it, Charlotte found herself on the bed, Gautier’s weight pressing her against the feather mattress. His eyes darkened with lust, his hands became more demanding. She heard slight tearing sounds when he tugged her gown past her hips and down her legs. The undergarments soon followed. Flopping down beside her, he practically tore his hose off in one motion. After he discarded the hanging undertunic, he rolled back on top of her and kissed her with more passion than ever before. Charlotte pushed up against his face and bit his bottom lip. A guttural sound of pleasure rolled in his throat. Gautier’s tongue darted past her lips. His hair brushed her face when he left her mouth and devoured her throat, a shoulder, before stopping his fiery advance upon her breasts. Gathering both in calloused hands, he proceeded to suck with greed each nipple until Charlotte arched back and clawed at the headboard. Had she known such exhilaration awaited her, she never would have let him sleep alone in a guest bedchamber! Gautier left her throbbing buds to continue his ravishing journey downward. From hipbone, side to side, navel to sternum, his mouth covered every inch of her shivering stomach. When his hands stroked down lower, Charlotte let out a moan that would have shamed her any other time. Gautier reached an agile hand down between her thighs and pressed against her mons. The heat from his palm radiated through her whole abdomen and down her legs. One finger then two curled in and stroked her most intimate spot. Charlotte bit her lip. Featherlike strokes at first, Gautier’s fingers accentuated the pressure against her tender bud. Within moments, Charlotte was shocked to discover Gautier’s fingers and her downy curls were glistening wet. Already? “Take me with your hand,” she murmured. “Like the last time.” With a quick nod, Gautier shifted his weight so he could curl his hand around her mons, parted her folds with his middle finger before dipping inside. Not even a handful of strokes later, Charlotte released her pleasure, which he rubbed around her sex and thighs. With speed and force she had not expected, he stabbed his finger deep. A throaty moan escaped her then another when he repeated his brusque incursion. “Roll onto your front.” His whispered request elicited a shiver of thrill. He would give her pleasure from behind? Slowly, Charlotte rolled onto her side then lay flat on her belly, arms bent over her head.

“Spread your legs for me,” he said against her shoulder. A kiss followed his words then a soft lick and finally a quick play bite. Shock and excitement burned her cheeks. Charlotte spread her feet wider and tried not to squeeze her bottom when Gautier slid a hand up from her ankle to her knee then higher along the inside of her thigh. His palm felt so hot she shivered. With tender, deliberate movements, he let his hand rest against her fissure, the tip of his fingers following her natural curve at the juncture of her legs. Her sex throbbed, demandingly, urgently. Gautier pressed against her cleft, rubbed gentle circles as he gathered her honey. From that new and wholly novel angle, Charlotte could tell ecstasy would come hard and fast. Arching her backside slightly, she spread her legs even more without his need to ask her. She wanted him to pleasure her this way. At first, his finger was gentle, careful in its exploration but Gautier must have discovered soon that her channel was more than ready for him. His moan matched her own when he penetrated her right up to the knuckles. She cried out as he pulled back then sank in harder, deeper. “Again,” she snarled with her face against the covers. “Take me with your hand again.” Gautier stabbed into her. Then again. She released a second time within moments. “Come up on your knees.” His demanding tone surprised and titillated her. Charlotte rolled her backside up and back, bending her legs until she knelt with her chest completely against the mattress, her arms bent under her forehead while Gautier rubbed incessantly. In slow circles then abrupt passes. Tingles soon intensified to shivers as he circled her waist with an arm while he angled his other hand so the tip of his middle finger rubbed all along her cleft, even her nether hole. From sacrum to mons he ran his slicked finger then without warning, he pushed inside her sex. She cried out. Movement from behind indicated Gautier had changed position. His weight crushed her and forced her down onto her stomach when he lay on top of her, his member sliding in effortlessly. Her great cry of delight and amazement resounded in their chamber. Burning pleasure rippled outward from her distended entry. With his knees, he forced hers outward before settling more comfortably between her thighs. Arching his backside, he drew out and, Charlotte biting her lip the entire time, Gautier shoved back in. She’d never expected to find such rapture from this wicked form of lovemaking. From behind. Like beasts! But Gautier pulled out almost immediately. “I want to taste you again.” With hands much more demanding than ever before, he flopped her onto her back by the crook of a knee and armpit before pinning her knees under his elbows.

Looking up at her, he trailed forceful kisses down her mons, over the inside of both thighs then focused in the middle where he led a charge with his tongue against her slick lips. Charlotte arched back violently. Without her brain’s sanction, she gripped him by the hair and thrust her pelvis up. Gautier responded to her urgency by parting her tender lips with his fingers and lapping the throbbing pearl therein. A wave of satisfaction swelled over Charlotte. Crying out in bliss and urgency, she squeezed her thighs together, keeping him there. If Gautier felt restrained or trapped, he did not seem to mind as his groans of excitement matched hers. Shedding years of self-control, Charlotte pushed him off with her foot and pounced. He rolled onto his back and stared when she straddled him. Fisting his shaft, she angled it to her mouth and sank against his belly. His loud gasp made her proud. Salty honey made her salivate and forced her to suck hard so she wouldn’t waste any. She knelt between his knees while still completely around his member then drew upward as she forced the smooth skin down. Gautier bunched a fist in her hair. Charlotte would have yelled in triumph. This was the sort of unrestrained passion she wanted from him, not the controlled, disciplined man who’d fought for his God, but a fierce and ardent lover, a man who would take her hard when she meant to be taken this way or make love to her gently when she asked for it. His fist in her hair did not relent as she pushed against him, pumped and sucked on him. She could feel that he was close to release but this time, he did not try to warn her or push her away and only added his other fist to her hair. Demandingly, she took him all in, unwilling to relinquish a single inch of his glorious shaft. His seed shot at the back of her throat, triggered a noisy feeding frenzy that left her panting and growling her pleasure at him. Fire lanced through her belly. She was still drawing on him when Gautier released her hair and pushed against her shoulder so she would stand beside the bed. After he back-walked her to the corner of the bed and pressed her back against the post, he sank to his knees and took her with his mouth. Charlotte couldn’t suppress the deep-throated moan when he hooked a thigh over each shoulder and showing incredible strength, grabbed the post and lifted her a few inches off the floor. His wide back rippled with thick muscles as he suspended her on his shoulders, her sex crushed against his voracious mouth. So she wouldn’t topple over, Charlotte reached up behind her head and seized the bulbous end of the post. Her moans soon rose to sharp little cries as fire licked her cleft, spread to her belly and breasts, her back. Arching, she rolled her hips and squashed her flesh against him, pushed and undulated, gyrated hard enough that she started sliding sideways. With a sharp cry, she toppled from against the post and onto the bed, Gautier landing hard between her thighs. Like a starving man, he greedily ate her flesh, the sounds of his feast the most decadent she’d ever heard. What else could he do, this man? Without really knowing why, Charlotte raised her knees high, kept them there with her hands so that her cleft was stretched to its limit. His lust-darkened gaze on her, Gautier used his thumbs to

further broaden her before kneeling right against her backside. Before she could wonder at his position, he rubbed his member along her fissure, his large hands coming up over her knees to trap them there. “You’re my wife,” he said, as though the words shocked him. He repeated the sentence a few times, each instance widening the feral grin lifting his glistening lips. Then without warning, he pushed inside. Charlotte “aahed” loudly before she fisted the bedclothes above her head. For the position, his penetration was profound, intense. Just like the ecstasy that ripped through her. Another long cry left her. He pulled out, sank back in. His face was set in stone. He was clearly beyond words so Charlotte received his fierce lovemaking, triumphant that she’d finally succeeded in pulling Gautier out of his shell. When sweat started glistening on his banded chest, he released her knees, meant to collapse on top of her but she scooted sideways and rolled on top of him. “I want you still,” she said as she meant to go down his middle and sink on his stiff manhood. But Gautier seized her by the hips and forcefully brought her up to his face so she’d straddle it. “And I’m not done feasting on you yet.” She was already so keen with carnal pleasure that she feared she would start screaming at the top of her lungs when Gautier stretched her wide and suckled her pearl. Flicking his tongue against it, he rocked Charlotte back and forth over his face, the pressure and the movement creating wave after wave of primal bliss. When he abandoned her cleft so he could squeeze her breast, she arched back and pushed hard against his face. But she wanted him now! Despite his insistent tugging on her hip, she managed to evade his clutches and scooted back along his writhing body until she was straddling his thighs. Dark and glistening, his member stood poised between her thighs. Oh and she meant to ride him long and hard! Kneeling up, she “walked” a few inches closer to his glorious shaft, guided it inside her then did a sudden, aggressive buck down. As soon as his throbbing flesh thrust into hers, Charlotte’s entire body gave a shuddering quake. Good God, she thought. Good God! Heat flowed through her veins as if she had been immersed in hot water. Gautier began to move under her, each thrust lifting her knees off the bed. She clung to him with a need that surprised her. Never had she yearned for something more than this. Closing her eyes, she let the man underneath her pump ever more forcefully, ever more rapidly.

She gasped when another wave of pleasure swelled up from her pulsating entry. As if the sound had proven too much for him, Gautier grabbed her about the middle and rolled her underneath his sweating body. The vigor of his thrusts intensified still. Charlotte cinched his strong middle with her legs. Incoherently, she groaned her pleasure at him and he back at her. Flushed, his face tightened then his whole body shivered. He gave one mighty shove that seared her flesh into pulsating bliss. Both cried out in animalistic triumph. When he collapsed on top of her, she could feel their heartbeats thundering against each other’s chest, their sweat joining them, their wheezing breaths like the tide, coming and going, their honey a bond fusing them as one. Moments later, how long she could not tell, Gautier raised himself on his elbows to stare at her. The love she saw in the pale eyes made her want to hug him fiercely and laugh and cry. She did it all. “What’s wrong? Have I hurt you?” he murmured as he rolled off her and returned her embrace. She shook her head. When the sobs had quieted down, she looked up into his worried face and grinned awkwardly. “Too many emotions all at once.” Obviously relieved, he nodded. “You can’t go on in life telling yourself that you won’t feel again,” he said as he caressed her hair. “I know. I’ve tried and failed.” A grin tugged at his lips. “And I’m glad I did.” With a grimace of pain, he rubbed his injured hip. “Oh forgive me, I had forgotten.” She kissed the skin around that newest scar and gently blew on it. “I think you’ll have to work for the both of us for a while.” He looked as though he was fighting a grin. “We’ll be happy here,” Charlotte said after a while. Realizing she had spoken aloud, she lay back down and smiled. “My folk love you.” He sobered, shrugged noncommittally. “I don’t know if they love me, but I guess I can be useful to them.” Charlotte chuckled. Oh yes, he would be. “I have already had requests for your skills. First, there’s the distillery of course, then there’s the farrier’s shop to fix. Something to do with his roof, I think. After that, I was told there’s a new church to be erected in a parish a couple of leagues south. Surely they’ll want a master artisan to help them.” As she listed all the tasks awaiting him, Gautier’s smile broadened until a belly laugh shook him. Tears welled his eyes.

She had never heard him laugh and sat in wonder. “How dare you keep this from me? I’m your wife.” He sobered, clearly not getting the point. “That laugh. Don’t ever keep it to yourself again. I mean it,” she retorted, pinching him on the belly. “I’ll be busy, won’t I?” She nodded. “Oh and there’s all sorts of marital woes, like keeping me satisfied and catering to my every wicked desire.” A lustful light danced in the blue orbs. “After I’ve healed, I think I’ll manage that to your expectations.” Charlotte shivered in anticipation when he leaned in to her and kissed her shoulder. She had no doubt he would.

About the Author I am a mother, spouse, older sister, writer, ex-soldier, high school drop-out, dog owner (or dog owned), half couch potato/half intermittent jogger, wannabe renovator and avid reader who watches too much television, sinks too much money in clothes, likes animals more than humans, recycles, wore braces, never downloads copyrighted stuff, was a nerd without the grades, has a belly laugh that turns heads in theaters, can’t stand bullying, is mother hawk more than mother hen, votes even if candidates aren’t that great and thinks formal education is highly overrated (probably because she has none). Nathalie 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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