Desired

She whirled to face him.

Christian Hawksblood was no vision but a very real flesh-and-blood man. She should protest. She should order him from her chamber. She should remonstrate with him for his boldness, demurring to be alone with him. Brianna knew all the things she should do.

She did none of them.

“I knew you would come,” she said simply.

Without hesitation, Hawksblood reached out for a peacock ribbon, and his long fingers undid the bow, then threaded through her hair to unplait it. He had anticipated the feel of the golden silk mass spilling over his hands since the first moment he had seen it, but he had been unprepared for the physical impact it had upon him.

Brianna did not duck away. She stayed absolutely still, allowing him to do whatever he wished with her glorious hair.

“It feels like I have waited a lifetime to learn its texture”—he lifted it to his face—“and its fragrance.” He felt his self-control melting away, that same control he’d worked a lifetime to develop.…

Critical acclaim for
VIRGINIA HENLEY
and her bestselling, award-winning
previous novels

TEMPTED

SEDUCED

T
he first time he ever saw her she was naked. Perhaps that was the reason he felt such a raging lust, yet he doubted it. He had seen many naked females in his twenty-odd years. But she was the most beautiful maiden he had ever glimpsed. Her flesh was the color of cream, her lashes lay upon her cheeks in dark crescents, while a tiny witch-mark sat on the high point of one slanting cheekbone. Her golden hair, brightly burnished as newly minted coins, fell below her knees, cloaking her in a nimbus of red-gold.

He had no idea who she was, knew nothing whatsoever about her, save one thing: he coveted her.

The problem was these persistent visions of his “lady” came at the most inconvenient moments, like now. Christian Hawksblood cleared his mind with effort, then focused his total attention upon his lance. It took only a moment for his pulse beat to merge with the rhythm of his charger, for his powerful arm to become an extension of his weapon, and for his fierce eyes to fix upon his opponent. In one fluid motion he couched his lance, lowered his visor, gripped his charger with his knees, and swung his shield to cover his body.

The baton fell and as clods of earth flew into the air, Hawksblood visualized his lance point striking the hostile shield with such force his challenger was flung from the saddle. A split second later it happened exactly as he had envisioned.

His opponent did not lie in the dust, but was on his feet with drawn sword within a minute, an amazing feat considering the impediment of his armor. This was the reason Hawksblood had challenged the Frenchman. He wanted his opponent’s sable armor and his dappled gray charger.

Hawksblood was out of the saddle in a heartbeat. It was
within the rules for him to remain mounted, but his pride was too great. The honor of chivalry was at stake. He drew his sword, advancing with such deadly intent his challenger measured his six-foot length prone in the dust and lay still.

A woman screamed.

“Dead!” cried the spectators.

Then the French champion’s squires ran onto the field, managing to carry him from the lists, thankful he had only been stunned by the Arabian Knight.

By the time the dust of the tourney field had begun to settle, Hawksblood sat in his tent soaking the kinks from his body. One of his squires had removed his armor, bathed him, and was now massaging the hard, rippling muscles of his arms and shoulders with oil of almond and frankincense to keep them supple.

Ali, an Arab who had been with him since birth, thrust the stopper into the aromatic bottle and held out the towel for his master. As Drakkar rose from the tub to his full height, the water cascaded down his limbs, leaving his dark skin glistening. Ali thought his master’s Arabian name suited him much better than Christian. He had royal Arabian blood, jet-black hair, and the swarthy visage of a fierce hawk. Only the light turquoise eyes suggested he was not a pure-blooded prince. Ali’s glance ran down the magnificent body.
Nay, I delude myself. His great breadth and long limbs proclaim him Norman
.

His other squire, Paddy, was out collecting the tournament prizes of horses and armor. Hawksblood and his squires had magnificent warhorses but trained chargers needed for tournaments were in short supply and a pliable hauberk of finely tempered steel cost as much as a piece of manor land.

As Paddy led the dappled gray and a light bay toward the pavilion, he realized how vividly it stood out from the other tents. Brilliant red and purple silk topped by a gold minaret made even its shape differ from the rest, hinting at Moorish, Turkish, or Arabian opulence.

Paddy staked the horses beside what amounted to a small mountain of armor. The pattern had been repeated wherever they had journeyed, through Morocco, Spain, and now France. Hawksblood was still undefeated.

Paddy lifted the silken flap to enter. “Christ, Ali-Babba, get this bloody water shifted. There’s a mountain of armor for himself to sort through.”

“I left it there on the off chance you’d take the hint to use it, Paddy’s Pig. I can smell you across the tent.”

“No bloody wonder with a hooter like yours, boyo. I’ve run bowlegged today, you lousy lump of camel dung!”

Hawksblood’s eyes narrowed against laughter. His squires indulged in a continual contest of name-calling, yet on the battlefield they thought nothing of risking their lives for each other.

“Enough,” Christian admonished. “I want the brass armor and the sable. Ransom the rest back for money.”

“In that case, Lord Drakkar,
I
had best do the haggling while Paddy cleans up the tent.”

“Since yer ancestors were rug thieves from the bazaars of Baghdad, I concede ye’r better at cheatin’ knights from their livelihood than meself.”

“I doubt that, Paddy,” Christian murmured, pulling on a cream shirt that emphasized the darkness of his sun-bronzed skin.

Paddy grinned, pleased with the compliment, threw off his clothes, and slid down in the now tepid bathwater. “I’ll have this outa the way in a jiffy, m’lord, long afore the joy girls arrive.”

The evening of a joust was intended for revelry. After fasting all day, campfires would be lit, game would be roasted, and the flagons filled to overflowing. Whores, or women of joy, would dance about the fires laughing, teasing, touching, disrobing, and finally coupling for a penny or a pint or a bellyful of warm food.