Desired (3 page)

A
t the castle of St. Lô, Christian Hawksblood kept his mouth closed and his ears and eyes open. The talk was all of war with England. Though there was a truce, it would be broken the moment that the King of France had assembled a large enough fleet.

He had been taught his fighting skills by Norman knights who had imparted history and hatred for the French in equal measure. Hawksblood was a mercenary at the moment, until now selling his sword to the highest bidder. Because he had ambivalent feelings toward France and England, two lands he’d never seen, he had decided to visit
them before he pledged his sword in the inevitable war that had been threatening for years.

England had held all the western and southern provinces of France since Eleanor of Aquitaine wed Henry Secund, two centuries ago, and there had been fierce fighting along the borders ever since. Philip of France was Edward III’s grandfather, so when Philip died and his sons followed him to the grave without male issue, the King of England decided to claim the throne of France. Recently he had quartered his coat-of-arms with the French lilies along with the leopards of England. This did not endear him to Philip of Valois, who had inherited the French crown. He openly declared to help Scotland invade England and began to pirate English ships.

When in France the English Royal Court was headquartered in Bordeaux. Christian understood why the moment he had visited the beautiful, sunny, flower-filled city on the curving river Garonne. He fancied living there himself and to that end purchased a white stone palatial villa next to the property owned by the infamous Earl of Warrick. The thought of confronting the father who had abandoned his mother before his birth was fleeting. Perhaps Guy de Beauchamp, Earl of Warrick, was not his sire after all. He had no proof. He was convinced, however, that he had Norman blood, yet now that he was in Normandy, he felt strangely alien.

At the castle of St. Lô, Hawksblood’s glance caressed each lady it fell upon, eliciting open invitations from a dozen willing women. When he was absolutely certain “she” was not of the company, he relaxed and sampled the rich wine Baron St. Lô proffered him.

“I will pay double what Philip will pay for your sword,” St. Lô said expansively. “All his money is going into ships at the moment, but you and I know it is land battles that are decisive.”

Hawksblood’s lids shielded his eyes as he listened without committing himself. He knew St. Lô had observed him in the lists—knew he was already counting the fortune Hawksblood could earn him ransoming the English nobles he would capture. “You seem very sure France will be victorious.”

St. Lô laughed as if Hawksblood was jesting. “Philip already has a hundred ships with over twenty thousand Normans, Bretons, and Picards. He even has Genoese bowmen. In the last few weeks he has mounted coastal forays against English ports and captured three of their best ships.”

“Have the English not retaliated?”

“They’ve tried.” St. Lô was still amused. “An English army at Lille was defeated only last month. The Earl of Salisbury, rumored to be a personal friend of King Edward, was taken prisoner.” St. Lô’s eyes gleamed. “Can you imagine the ransom he’ll fetch?”

A husky voice interrupted them. “Bernard, you must introduce me to the dark champion, chéri.”

Christian looked down into eyes heavy with sensuality.

“Behave yourself, Lisette, or your husband will snap that fine neck of yours one of these nights.”

The resemblance between the two proclaimed them brother and sister. Both were uncommonly attractive. Lisette cast Bernard a decadent glance from beneath her lashes. “Chéri, I know you will keep him occupied for me.”

Suddenly there were no other people in the hall for the dark champion and the voluptuous French girl. Her eyes traveled the length of him. “Does your lance always hit its mark?”

His eyes danced as he nodded solemnly. “Yes, it is an extension of my body.” He heard her swift intake of breath.

“You rode in more than one bout … did that not tire you?” Her voice grew huskier by the minute.

“I can ride six times in succession without spending my strength, chérie.”

Lisette licked her lips over him. “I admire endurance.” Her legs had gone so weak, she wondered how she would climb the stairs. “My chamber is the east turret,” she murmured, slipping away with unseemly haste.

Christian Hawksblood became Drakkar. With the alertness of a trained warrior, he allowed his senses to gauge the level of danger about him. He could read minds easily and knew Baron St. Lô had no objection to Lisette giving her body if it secured Hawksblood’s sword. There was a high degree of envy directed at him from his opponents in the
tournament, but he allowed it to wash over him without reacting to it. Drakkar had more physical and supernatural powers at his command than any mortal should be allowed to possess.

Lisette opened the chamber door the moment he scratched. Just the sight of him aroused her without his lifting a finger. Her hands were already on the fastenings of her gown, which curiously were all at the front. Beneath the gown she was naked.

Though the chamber was shadowed, lit only by the square candle by the carved bed, he saw that her body was lush. As his hands removed his linen shirt, her deft fingers unfastened the laces of his codpiece. His marble phallus sprang out at her and she filled her hands with his cods and stones, marveling at the size of him.

His powerful hands stroked down her body from her breasts to her thighs and she shuddered at the callused roughness of them on her soft skin. She drew him toward the pool of candlelight, then drew in a sharp breath at the look of him. His powerful body was tempting as original sin. With a moan she lifted her arms about his neck, then wrapped her legs about his torso. The sight of his hard-muscled body had made her so wet she impaled herself upon him. She cried out her pleasure. It was the tightest fit she’d ever known.

He braced his legs and stood impassively as Lisette thudded her body onto his. He understood perfectly that she could wait no longer. When she shuddered her release and collapsed upon him, he carried her to the bed and spread her upon its silken covers. Then he proceeded to play her body like an angel plays a harp, plucking strings she never knew she had. She climaxed again and felt deliciously sated. Her pride was piqued, however, for she knew with a certainty he had not yet spent.

He rolled with her until her body was sprawled on top of his. She raised up onto her knees on either side of his thighs and looked down at him in wonder. His face was fiercely feral. He resembled a raptor. A curl of delicious fear spiraled inside her belly. How many men had he killed? He looked as if he had been trained since childhood to kill. She flushed. He still wore his chausses with the
codpiece removed. She hadn’t been able to wait for him to fully undress.

His fingers touched her with fire as she sat gazing down into a face that looked carved from mahogany.

“What manner of man are you?” she breathed.

“A man with control,” he said simply.

“How did you learn to control your body so completely,
mon amour
?”

His lips twitched with amusement. “Controlling the body is child’s play. The emotions and the mind are slightly more difficult. Controlling others, however, took years of practice.”

“What are you?” she whispered, half afraid.

“Sometimes an Arab, sometimes a Norman.” His finger flew from her mons to her lips and his eyes slewed to the heavy door. A moment’s focused concentration told him St. Lô approached. The door latch moved, but the bar prevented it from swinging open. Then a low knock came. Lisette gasped. He had felt the presence long before there was any sound. She pointed to a door that led out onto the battlements and reached for a robe. “Whoever it is, I’ll get rid of him. Just give me a moment.”

The cool evening breeze dried the sheen of sweat that glistened upon his dark skin. He gazed toward the sea where England lay beyond. The French and the English hated each other with a vengeance. The English thought all French unmanly fops who cared more for clothes than war. The French thought the English uncouth, uncultured, ale-swilling louts.

In that moment Hawksblood experienced a revelation. His blood was half Anglo-Norman. He could not sell his sword to France. He would go to England to seek out the Earl of Warrick. Did not England’s laws of primogeniture award the eldest son the title and the whole of the estate?

Christian took a step toward Lisette’s turret chamber, then halted in his tracks. A picture of his “lady” shimmered so brightly before him, he felt he might reach out to touch her. He saw her eyes for the first time. They were liquid with tears. Green and gold flecks shone through the diamond-like drops that hovered on her lashes.

A fierce protectiveness rose up in him. He felt her pain,
her sensitivity, her vulnerability. The experience was new to him. Though he had vowed as a knight to protect womanhood, he had never met a female who stirred any emotion beyond lust.

He reached out and a teardrop fell upon his brown hand. He had apported it from midair by magic power. He tasted it and all desire for another melted away like snow in summer. He gathered taut his muscles, swung lithely over the crenellated battlements, then climbed down the castle wall. Without rope or other device the feat was almost impossible, but Drakkar’s training made it as simple as climbing down a ladder.

Back in his pavilion, Christian lay supine upon his bed, his arms folded beneath his head. He tested his senses.

All seven of them.

He saw the faint glow of moonlight through the silken ceiling, casting all into shadow. The shape of the unlit bronze lamp contrasted with a matching incense burner. The outline of Salome upon her perch was fiercely proud even in her sleep. His glance roamed the tent, seeing all, missing no finest detail.

He could smell almond and frankincense from his own body. He could also smell the sandalwood incense burning low. It did not mask the faint ammonia of the gerfalcon’s droppings. From outside he could smell the smoke of the campfires, the fat drippings from the roasted game, the odor of sour wine mingled with the cheap scent of the whores. He smelled the rich brown soil, the tethered horses, chestnut trees, and beyond all, the tang of the sea.

Christian could feel the cool night air upon his skin. Beneath his back and buttocks the linen sheet was rough-textured. His fingers felt the warmth of the amber in his silver amulets. His body heat made the metal almost hot.

He could faintly taste the saffron and fennel from the meal he’d taken at the castle. The bouquet of the rich red wine lingered upon his tongue. He could also taste the iodine and salt in the sea air. Most subtle of all was the taste of the teardrop, warm and softly scented. His body stirred. His mind controlled it immediately and moved on to his sense of hearing.

One by one he blocked out the raucous sounds of
drunken laughter, music, barking dogs, restless horses and identified the sounds of nature. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, the fires crackled, a nearby stream gurgled, a night heron’s cry carried from miles away. Without strain, his acute hearing identified his own heartbeat, then that of his hunting hawk.

He moved on to his sixth sense. Intuition was acute awareness when all the other senses were heightened. It was developed easily enough through deprivation. When his mentors had blindfolded him for seven days, his other senses gradually heightened to compensate for his eyes, until finally he had learned to ride, then fight in combat, seeing with only his mind’s eye.

His seventh sense was still developing. Only occasionally had he reached this perfect state. It required that he go inside, deeper and deeper to the core where the supreme power known as Godhead could be tapped into.

Christian knew he was about to experience one of his “visions.” There was a bright flash behind his eyes, then vivid scenes crowded one upon another. He was on a coast among a fleet of ships. When he realized the place would best be viewed from above, he elevated high above the masts of the sailing vessels so he could see the activities of the men below him. Knowledge came to him immediately that what he saw was the French fleet. Before his vision faded, he knew the exact number of ships and the location where the fleet was gathering.

Hawksblood let go of his control and slept. His mind now freed of its rigid constraints raced like an untethered stallion across the desert sand. His mind envisioned the elusive object of his deepest desire, yet whimsically allowed him the use of only one of his senses. Maddeningly he could not smell, taste, or touch. And so Christian set about looking.

Really looking. And found her.

Her skin was translucent as if it had been dusted with powdered pearls. Her lashes were dark, tipped with gold, over hazel eyes that changed color from brown to gold to green. Her nose was small, yet the nostrils flared sensually. Her lips were not fashionably pursed or pouting, but full, lusty, and colored deepest rose. Her chin displayed a dimple,
nowhere near as marked as the cleft in his own, but nevertheless it was a sign of willfulness.