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  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