Lord of a Thousand Nights

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Bantam Books, 2002 - Fiction - 357 pages
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No woman alive could resist his tantalizing seduction....

Celebrated as "one of the brightest new writers in the genre" (Publishers Weekly), Madeline Hunter has won the hearts of readers with the poignant passion of her love stories and the brilliance of her writing. Now this nationally bestselling, award-winning author delivers her freshest, most tantalizing romance yet...

Called the Lord of a Thousand Nights, Ian of Guilford was famed as much for his feats in the bedroom as on the battlefield. But Lady Reyna Graham had no idea of this when, disguised as a courtesan, she passed behind enemy lines with a desperate plan to save her people.

Now, sitting in the tent of the dizzyingly handsome warrior who commanded the army outside her gates, the beautiful widow suddenly realized that she had underestimated her foe.

For she found herself in the company of a man whose charms were said to be impossible to resist...and who would show no mercy in laying siege to her heart--and body--with every sensual weapon in his arsenal.

For the sake of her people, she must not give in ... and she must somehow turn this legendary lover who never lost his heart into a man who would exchange all his thousand nights for one with her....

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Contents

Section 1
1
Section 2
24
Section 3
64
Copyright

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About the author (2002)

Chapter One


The Scottish Border
1357


"Be sure he drinks the wine before he gets your clothes off."

The instruction was merely the last in a litany of warnings that Reyna had heard as she sightlessly felt her way along the cavernous tunnel.

She squeezed the thick hand of the motherly woman who accompanied her. "I will be sure to do it as planned, Alice. They appear a coarse lot, and this siege must be boring. He should be glad for the diversion."

"There''s only one diversion most men are interested in, child. That is the danger, isn''t it?"

"Do not worry so."

The total darkness in the tunnel terrified Reyna, so she moved quickly, one hand securely in Alice''s and the other on the wall.

Sounds resonated through the stone beneath her palm. Sappers dug their own tunnel not far from this one. Over the months, she had come to this hidden exit, torch in hand, and listened, judging their progress. She hadn''t worried at first, because surely help must come before they completed their work. It wasn''t a large army that surrounded the tower house, and a small force from either Harclow or Clivedale could easily lift the siege. But no relief had arrived, and now the sappers were within days of reaching the surrounding wall. Even more worrisome had been the second excavation progressing on the southern side of the fortress.

They reached a sharp jog to the right. A sliver of light flooded through the narrow entrance carved behind an obscuring rock formation. Thick brush further hid the entrance from view, and only someone carefully examining the entire terrain had any chance of finding it. This army had not done so thus far, and Reyna smiled at the irony of all of that digging when the postern entrance stood just feet away.

"You will know by morning if I have succeeded, Alice. Watch from the tower and alert Sir Thomas and Reginald." Reyna took the basket that Alice carried, and tried to sound brave and calm. "I will go to my mother first, and then to Edinburgh. I will let you know when I am safe there, and you can join me."

Alice hugged her. "It is a brave but rash plan that you have, child. Sir Robert would not have approved if he were alive."

"If Robert were alive, I would not have to do it."

The older woman nodded in resignation. "God go with you, then."

Reyna pushed through the entrance and stood within the obscuring brush. Fifty yards away lay the camps that ringed the tower house. It was not a big army, but large enough to ensure that no one left and no provisions arrived. There had been no assaults, no wall scaling, no war machines hurling fire and stones. Nor had there been any negotiations. Just two months of relentless siege.

Men moved around the camp, their motions lazy in the summer heat. They didn''t wear many clothes, and their bodies had browned in the sun. A few had adopted the cooler kilts of the Scots. But these men were not Scots.

English, she thought with disgust, and the notion gave her renewed resolve. The English had been the monsters of her childhood and the enemies of her youth. Their Scottish king may have accepted defeat by King Edward of England ten years ago, but no Scot, especially those on the borders of Cumbria and Northumberland, readily submitted to the authority that the English claimed.

She knew all about English soldiers, and what would happen if their sappers succeeded in breaching the walls. Descriptions of English atrocities had been repeated for generations. She forced herself to picture people she knew being butchered and tortured, and she sought strength in those horrible images. It was not in her nature to do what she planned now, but she saw no alternative. Hopefully God would aid her, and then forgive her.

She darted out of the brush and walked at an angle until she would appear to have arrived off one of the northern paths.

The men examined her, assessing the meaning of her unbound hair and silk gown. She marched on, circling around to the western camp and the large tent in its center. When it came in sight, she slowed. Once she entered, there would be no turning back.

A lewd whistle caught her attention. Two knights grinned at each other and began walking toward her, making obscene sounds with their mouths, taunting her. Her skin prickled, and she ran the last few yards to the large tent with green-and-white pennants.

A squire sat by the entrance cleaning weapons. He looked up, startled, as she bore down on him, swept past, and plunged through the flap. She prayed that the man she sought was within, and that these others would not follow. Then again, for all she knew, he might simply shrug and let them carry her away.

The white canvas created a diffused, soft light, and it took her a moment to adjust her eyes. She looked around at the simple cot and table and chest that the tent contained. Polished armor glowed on the ground a few steps from her. Not a sound filled the space.

And then a shadow moved. A man rose from the stool where he had been sitting with his back propped against the tent''s central supporting pole.

"What are you doing here?" he asked sharply.

She just stared.

She had watched this man from the top reaches of the tower house. He was taller than most, but when everyone is just a speck that doesn''t count for much. However, she was shorter than most, and the marked difference in their sizes suddenly made her acutely aware of her vulnerability.

What she hadn''t seen from the tower was just how handsome he was. Thick lashes softened and framed dark, brooding eyes that looked like liquid smudges in this light. Sharp bones defined his cheeks and jaw. A wide, straight, slightly full mouth compelled her attention. Dark hair hung to his shoulders, bound by a sweat cloth twisted and tied around his forehead.

He wore only a pair of loose peasant chausses, cut off above the knees. Those legs were well formed, all slender muscles and tight lines. The same athletic leanness shaped his broad shoulders and sculpted chest. With his primitive garment, he reminded her of the ancient warriors she had read about in Robert''s books. He was the enemy, but her breath caught all the same.

Magnificent. Stunning.

Too bad she had to kill him.

He walked toward her. He gave her gown and hair and tinted cheeks a cool appraisal while he pulled the sweat band from his forehead and ran a strong hand through his hair. She hoped that he couldn''t see her blush, because the woman she was today would never be disconcerted by a man''s examination, no matter how handsome he might be.

His expression lightened, and he raised one speculative eyebrow. He had figured out the only part he needed to know.

He smiled.

Dear lord, what a smile. Close-lipped, straight, the edges barely lifting at the corners. Utterly charming, subtly suggestive, vaguely sardonic. It formed alluring little creases on either side of his mouth. It transformed the handsome face and fathomless eyes from distant and brooding to sensual and friendly.

But she saw something else as he looked down at her. She saw it in the casual stance of his body and the glint in his eyes and even in the smile itself. Conceit. Arrogance. Pride. Insufferable self-confidence. She read his awareness of the effect his face and body had on her. On all women.

She had met such men before. Her father''s household had been full of them. Perhaps she wouldn''t mind killing him so much after all.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated.

She gathered her wits. "I was called by the town of Bewton. The town sent to Glasgow to hire me. The townspeople wanted to be sure that their gift would please you, Sir Morvan."

"Gift? Are you saying that the town bought a whore -- "

"I am Melissa, a courtesan," she said peevishly. "I assure you I am no whore. That is why I am here. The town did not trust their bawds with such a duty."

"And what is the purpose of this gift?"

"They hope that, if you are well pleased, you will spare the town and restrain your army."

"And you have come to persuade me of this?" He stepped around her, examining her like an animal for purchase. She half expected him to yawn and announce that she wouldn''t do at all. "The knight who gives such an order to his men would have to be very pleased indeed. What is the good of conquering if there are no spoils?"

"The town will pay tribute. There will be spoils enough. It is the barbaric looting and rape that they wish to avoid."

He reached out and stroked her hair, lifting a section, letting his gaze and fingers run along its considerable length. "What did you say your name is?"

"Melissa. You may not have heard of me, but I was trained by the famous Dionysia."

"You don''t look like a courtesan to me, Melissa. I had always assumed that they were voluptuous women. You appear too puny and scrawny for it. Lovely hair, though. An unusual color. Very pale, like spun moonlight." He still held the end of the long strand of hair, and it hung between them like a strip of silk.

"What you call puny and scrawny, great lords consider diminutive and delicate, Sir Morvan. Besides, a courtesan''s skills make such details insignificant. However, it is clear that you are base in your preferences. I will return and tell the town elders that they miscalculated."

"Nay. It was a brilliant strategy. There is just one problem with it, and it is not your size." He still fingered her hai

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