Heart of Fire
***
Mary Lennox
He said he held Sera prisoner to keep her safe, but it was
her heart that was in danger—from him…
“If you ordered the guards who watch my every move to
accompany me home, I would be safe in my Hills, and you
would be rid of my inconvenient presence.”
Nicholas Rostov’s back stiffened. “No.”
“Just…no?”
“I cannot spare the men.” Still, he did not turn to look at
her.
“You already spare the men to watch me. Dear Heaven,
why won’t you let me go?”
It always caught her off guard, his ability to wheel so
quickly, so gracefully, like a large, sleek panther. He loomed
over his desk, hands planted on each side of the papers, his
eyes burning into her with an intensity that seared her to the
very core.
“Tell me who you are. Tell me who your people are. What
were you up to when the Nantal found you? Tell me why you
know eight languages, and why your horse is of the finest blood
stock I have ever encountered, and why you treat a king as an
equal, or perhaps a not quite equal. Tell me all that, and I shall
think about letting you go.”
“It is nothing to you,” she said, flinging a look over her
shoulder toward the door. Her long braid fell across her breast,
and the small thread of hair that held it broke.
Nicholas Rostov’s face underwent a subtle change as his
gaze fixed on her hair. He walked from behind the desk like a
great cat stalking his victim. He loomed over her, large and
inscrutable, radiating a force of will both dangerous and
seductive. She couldn’t seem to move, to breathe. He reached
out a hand, lifting her hair, seeming to weigh it in his hands.
“Nothing, you say. I wish it were that simple. There is
something about you, Sera with no last name, no history, no
family madly searching for you.” He leaned close, holding her
just by his light touch on her hair. Sera felt the warmth of his
cheek, his breath a slow exhalation against the side of her neck.
His lips moved, touching, and not quite touching, the hollow
there, like the wings of a butterfly.
“Sweet,” he whispered. “Soft mystery. Lady in peasant’s
garb.”
For Colin
Heart of Fire
***
Mary Lennox
One
The Hill People are a shy, backward tribe located in the
foothills of the impenetrable Arkadian range between the
country of Laurentia and Beaureve. They rarely make an
appearance in the towns near the foothills, preferring their
simple lives of poverty and ignorance to the ordeal of entering
even the smallest village on a market day. In all the time I
have spent traveling in this area, I have only seen a few of
them. Their hair hangs plaited down the backs of both male
and female. Without exception, all wear gray cloaks that blend
with the mountain from which they come. They have a
disconcerting habit of seeming to appear from out of nowhere.
Excerpt from A Road Well Travelled
by Countess Irena Volkonsky
October, 1812
“There he is,” whispered the mistress of the harem in Iman
Hadar’s palace.
Sera stared through the intricate latticework of the balcony
to the courtyard below. Crossing the brightly patterned mosaic
floor was a tall man with dark hair, broad shoulders, and an
impatient stride. He walked beside another, a blond whose
tousled curls and easy grin contrasted with the dark one’s own
cool expression and the neat precision of his person. But she
could feel the anger seething just below the dark one’s surface.
Why should she care whether that man felt anger or joy?
All she wished was a chance to escape this prison she had
occupied for two weeks, after the cursed Nantal raiders had
caught her and brought her to this place. Ever since, she had
been guarded like a precious jewel, taught absurd lessons that
she would never use—which perfumes to use upon which parts
of her body, how to ply cosmetics and how to appear both
submissive and seductive to please some Outlander lord.
The blond grabbed his companion, causing him to halt
directly opposite her hiding place. As the courtyard fountain
muffled their voices, the blond spoke earnestly to the dark one.
He appeared to listen intently, but then, just as she thought he’d
walk off again with that fierce, long stride of his, he raised his
head and stared directly at the latticework hiding her from view.
Sera froze. His gray eyes seemed to pierce the protective
screen, as though they could look right into her face. With a
shiver, Sera felt the full force of the man’s will, daring her to
reveal herself.
With the Nantal slavers, with the Outlanders in the bazaars,
with the eunuchs and the mistress of the harem, she had felt
only disdain, but this man was different. There was something
about him—a sense of the power Grandfather and Jacob had.
Taking a soundless breath, Sera stared down into the
cold, gray depths of the Outlander’s eyes. Two thoughts pounded
in her brain in time with the fearful tattoo of her heart. The first
was that she would use this man, and through him, escape to
find the Heart of Fire—the precious, stolen ruby that protected
her kingdom from his brutal world. And the second was that
this Outlander, whom, if life had been different, she would have
met in dignity and honor, was as beautiful as Apollo himself.
With a quick, impatient turn, the Outlander strode off, his
companion quickly following.
“There,” said the mistress of the harem with a wave of her
jewel-laden hand. “You recognize him now, and you are a bright
girl. You understand what you are to do.”
Sera gave the mistress a sardonic smile. “I am to seduce
this Outlander king, until he is mindless with pleasure.”
The mistress frowned. “Don’t think you are above this, my
girl. Your future, indeed, your very life depends upon your work
tonight.” She clapped her hands and the eunuch who stood at
the archway to the harem came forward immediately.
“She’s ready. Take her to him,” she said and, in this manner,
sent Sera to face the next trial in the Outlander world she could
not wait to leave.
***
Nicholas Rostov, the king of Laurentia, masked his rage as
he strode through the corridor of Iman Hadar’s palace toward
his suite of rooms. He had come hoping the ruler of neighboring
Jehanna would join him in an alliance against Napoleon. But
Hadar had refused, claiming neutrality. And now, it seemed,
Hadar’s hidden spies watched
his every move.
His father’s ghostly voice mocked Nicholas with every step
down the long corridor. “A real king succeeds in making
alliances. But with a sickly fellow like you, Nicholas, Laurentia
is doomed. A man who can’t control his own body can’t rule a
nation.”
Nicholas clenched his fists, pushing the taunts from his mind
and into the past where they belonged. He had controlled his
weakness for years. And for better or worse, he was all Laurentia
had.
“Tomorrow will be the first day I draw an easy breath,”
Count Andre Lironsky said as he walked beside Nicholas, his
usually cheerful countenance somber. “The sooner we’re gone
from this place, the better.”
Nicholas’s gaze raked the corridor as they passed large
Corinthian pillars of pink marble. Assassins could easily hide
behind each one.
The two friends said nothing more as they walked toward
their suite of rooms. As they reached it, the heavy wooden door
suddenly swung open. Nicholas tensed and his hand went to
the sword slung round his hips. To his surprise, a bald giant of
a man, with the soft, undefined musculature and long limbs of
a palace eunuch, bowed low in the doorway and backed into
the chamber. Eyes still watchful, Nicholas followed him into
the room. It was empty aside from the eunuch and a small
creature hidden behind his back.
“Most gracious majesty. My master, the great Hadar, begs
that you accept this small gift for the evening.”
With a great flourish, the man reached behind him and
pushed forward a woman. She wore a half veil, but her clothing
left little to the imagination.
“Jesu,” breathed Andre beside him. “What interesting
compensation for frustration—of any kind.”
“Quiet, Andre.” Nicholas sent him a telling glance. Andre
should know better than to speak his mind before anyone in
this palace.
Andre gave a theatrical sigh. “Oh, the privileges of royalty.”
Nicholas caught himself staring gape-jawed as any country
lout at the slave woman. Even with half her face covered, he
could see she was incredibly beautiful. Her eyes, a deep blue,
were slightly almond shaped and large beneath winged brows.
As for the rest of her…He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away
from the lush picture of smooth, golden skin and soft curves.
His groin tightened just from looking at her. What the hell was
wrong with him? With an act of will, he looked back at the
eunuch.
“She is a virgin, great king,” the eunuch went on in his
fruity voice. “The Nantal traders recently found her near the
Hill country. As you can see from her bright hair and her soft
skin, she is a prize for any man. She knows little of our language,
but I was given to understand that you are a fluent linguist and
know the Hill tongue. My master, the great Hadar, wished you
to be the first to possess this treasure. His greatest wish is that
she will please you.”
After this astonishing speech, the eunuch bowed low. He
shuffled toward the door while still making his obeisance and
left the room.
Nicholas’ control slipped a notch further on the rack of his
outrage. “Hadar knows of my stance on slavery,” he muttered
to Andre. “Yet, the idiot expects me bed this poor woman. I
should have known our cause was doomed from the start.”
It had been a miserable week, and Nicholas could wish
nothing more than to bury himself in a woman and forget the
failures for a night. But control was the creed of his life, and he
was not about to take advantage of a woman who had no choice
in the matter. He glanced again at her eyes, the dark blue of the
sky at sunset, with a look half-fierce, half-terrified in them. And
that tumble of bright gold hair falling to somewhere near her
hips—was it as warm as it looked?
“What are you going to do, Nikki?” Andre’s voice cut into
his thoughts. “About her,” he added a little louder.
What, indeed. It was hard not to look at her breasts, lifted
like an offering in that white halter. Her slim waist tapered to
rounded hips encased in a swirling, filmy skirt that swayed as
she took a step back from him. His blood seemed to beat to a
pounding rhythm.
“I take it you and your…ah…gift will be safe alone?”
Andre’s voice was pitched even louder, and there was a hint of
laughter beneath it.
Nicholas grabbed his cloak, still hanging over the back of a
divan, and threw it to the woman. “Cover yourself,” he told her
in the Hill tongue and turned away from her again. For some
reason, he didn’t want Andre looking at her. And he didn’t like
this sense that he was losing control.
Nicholas heard the rustle of his cloak, heard it settle. He
turned to the slave and stared only at her face for a long moment,
giving her the full benefit of what Andre called the “Rostov
frown”. Her eyes widened above the veil, and she seemed to
shrink into herself for a fraction of a second. Nicholas knew
from experience that her next move would be to look for
somewhere to run. She surprised him. Slowly, the woman drew
herself up to her full height and held her stance, staring back at
him.
Intrigued in spite of himself, Nicholas relaxed against an
intricately inlaid column, folding his arms across his chest. “You
may be calm,” he said, again in the language of the Hills, that
strange, musical language with something of Greek in it. “I will
not hurt you.”
She nodded to indicate that she understood.
“I have no plan to bed you, woman,” he added firmly. “You
may retire to the harem now.”
She surprised him again by crossing her own arms across
her chest. “If I return, the king of this place will know that I
have not pleased you. I will be punished most grievously. It
would be in keeping with your reputation for kindness to allow
me a corner in your quarters until morning.”
He liked the sound of her voice. It was sweet and tart at the
same time. He had never heard the Hill tongue spoken by a
native of the place, but only learned it from his tutor as an
exercise in mastering an almost dead language. When she spoke
it, the words took on a lyrical quality he had never heard in any
language.
“Why did I never bother to study as hard as you did? If I
had, I wouldn’t need to ask what in the world you’re saying to
each other.” said Andre, curious.
Nicholas told him quickly while the woman stared at the
floor in seeming incomprehension.
“Well, you can’t just send her back to that,” said Andre.
Nicholas gave him a caustic grin. “Of course not. My
reputation for kindness would suffer.”
He turned to the woman again. “You may sleep there,” he
said, pointing to the divan at the foot of the bed. He grabbed a
satin quilt and two of the pillows off the
bed, shoving them at
her. He was relieved that he and Andre were leaving this
perfumed den at first light tomorrow morning.
She nodded, holding the bedding to her chest and waiting,
her eyes downcast.
“A gentleman would give the lady the bed and take the
divan,” said Andre as he turned for the door to his adjoining
quarters.
“But this is no lady,” said Nicholas. He locked the door to
the corridor and unbuckled the sword and the knife sheath he
carried everywhere, laying both upon the large, canopied bed.
“Take your rest, woman,” he said without looking at her.
He climbed into bed and placed both sword and knife within
easy reach. Blowing out the candle on the small table beside
the bed, he heard the rustle of silk as she settled onto the divan.
Nicholas lay awake, staring at the shadowed ceiling for a
long time. His body would not let him sleep. The ache in his
groin made him restless, made him wonder why he didn’t soothe
the restlessness. He saw himself as an honorable man, albeit
cold. At age twenty-seven, he had experienced the act of love
many times without expecting trust or even affection from his
mistresses. He never promised what he couldn’t give.
Professions of emotion were for fools and liars. What would be
so wrong if he lifted her from the divan, touched that golden
skin and—
“You were wise to reject me.” Her whisper came to him out
of the darkness. “I could easily be no virgin, but a woman of
the bazaars. Everyone knows that the Nantal lie to push the
price higher.” The soft voice sounded cool and remote. If it
weren’t for the slight tremor beneath her words, Nicholas would
have sworn that she had no fear of him or the situation.
“I could be . . . diseased. With the . . . pox. Do you understand
what I am saying?”
“What pox? The French?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Perhaps the Italian,” he went on.
“Maybe that too,” she said, her voice breaking.
Nicholas dealt with enough diplomats to know a liar when
he heard one, particularly one who was so unskilled in the art.
“I understand perfectly. I would be a fool to attempt you,
wouldn’t I?” The darkness masked his grin. Not for a moment
did he believe this woman was a diseased harlot. From the little
Lennox, Mary - Heart of Fire.txt Page 1