Most women would never dare wear them."

"I am not most women." That was true. She was not even human.

He took her upper arms in his hands, and immediately the s.e.xual part of her began to throb with the beat of her heart. She was already wet between her legs. He just stared at her.

"I don't know what you are." Oh, dear. His teeth were gritted, as against some pain. "And I don't care."

That was better.

"What is your name?"

"Why do you care about my name?"

"Because I generally do not make love to women whose name I do not know." He laughed.

It sounded on the edge of hysteria. "As a matter of fact, lately, I do not make love to women at all."

"That's not healthy," she whispered. Wasn't that true for her, as well?

The muscle in his jaw clenched. "Don't play with me. I won't force myself on you."

"You needn't. I'm of age." Oh, yes. Centuries of it. "And I am not inexperienced." s.e.x was the one thing she knew how to do. She'd done it almost constantly before this last year, as she and her sisters made Harriers for her father. She insinuated herself against his body and was pleased to feel the hard erection at his groin. She ran her hands lightly over the front of his breeches and felt him take a ragged breath. She was going to do this, consequences be d.a.m.ned. Not because it was her job, but because she wanted to do it. She was going to give this man, who had known pain and hardship in his life, a glimpse of ecstasy.

She pulled at the end of his cravat. The knot unraveled and she stripped it from around his neck. There were the two bites she'd left from yesterday, already healing. He was strong, this one. She opened the b.u.t.ton at his collar. He was undoing the b.u.t.tons at his waistcoat.

She pulled the shirt out of his breeches and worked at the b.u.t.tons at his cuffs. So many b.u.t.tons. . . He pulled it over his head. Ah, yes. The light dusting of hair, the tanned nipples, peaking now in antic.i.p.ation. She rubbed her hands over his pectoral muscles.

All those years of hard work at sea had left him . . . impressive. He was pulling at the b.u.t.tons on his breeches. She pushed him back against the bed, and he let her.

"Let me pull off your boots." She was stronger than he was, though she couldn't let him know that. They slid off as though they were loose.

He didn't seem to notice, but pushed his breeches over his hips as she stripped off his stockings. His erection, freed, hung between them. She stood and let the tip rub against her belly as she moved her hands over his shoulders. The ridges of his scars almost broke her heart. Surprise replaced the l.u.s.t in his eyes, followed immediately by chagrin. He reached for his shirt. "I forgot myself. I. . . have scars which would be distasteful to a lady."

"I saw them last night." She took the shirt gently and tossed it on the floor.

"You're sure," he said doubtfully.

She nodded, suppressing a smile, and pulled his neck down. Heat flashed back into his eyes. She thought his kiss would be fierce with the need she felt in him. But he brushed his lips across her forehead, down her temples. Tiny kisses he placed on her cheeks, even as he slipped her dress from her shoulders. She pressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to his bare body, her own breath coming harder, and he found her lips. She licked his with the tip of her tongue. She felt his surprise and then he opened her mouth and deepened the kiss, probing her with his tongue. How she loved kissing. She had never kissed the Aspirants. In some ways it was more intimate even than intercourse. Kissing him was some signal that this was different than all that mechanical arousal she had engaged in to train the Aspirants and develop their power.

She slipped the clasp of her girdle, and it fell with a metallic jingle to the carpet. Her dress floated after it. It was just their naked bodies, hers wet and soft, his hard. His arms slid around her, even as his kisses made her almost dizzy with desire.

He stiffened when her palms caressed the ridges on his back. She didn't stop, just continued kissing him while she rubbed her hands down over his b.u.t.tocks and cupped them, pressing his groin against her, rubbing herself against his erection.

"What do you call your man part?" she asked. She had not been out of Mirso in so long and she didn't want to seem strange.

He drew away, smiling, puzzled. "My . . . my c.o.c.k, I suppose. It's a good Saxon word."

"Then may I say, Drew Carlowe, that I would like to pay special attention to your c.o.c.k for the next few hours."

My G.o.d, Drew thought, the woman might not be a ghost, but she was certainly a witch.

Special attention for a few hours? He might just die.

"Only if I may pay special attention to you," he murmured, sweeping her up into his arms.

The accent was incredibly sensual, along with everything else about this woman. He laid her on the bed. Her pet.i.te form was perfect; her b.r.e.a.s.t.s peaked with delicate, dusky-colored nipples. And her skin was the most translucent, creamy perfection he had ever seen, almost as though it had never seen the sun. Her scent was erotic, cinnamon and ambergris mixed with a woman's musk. And the vibrancy he always felt around her seemed to find the life force inside him and pluck it like a string, so he vibrated in sympathy. He crawled up after her and laid himself beside her. He was almost painfully erect, his c.o.c.k straining against her hip.

"We will go slowly," she whispered as she turned into him. Her tongue snaked out and licked his nipple. "So that you have the maximum amount of pleasure." Her hand cupped his b.a.l.l.s and lifted, gently ma.s.saging the stones inside across each other. He groaned. It slid up along his c.o.c.k, softly, her thumb finding the drop of clear fluid at the opening and smoothing it across the head. He bent to her throat, which she bared to him. He kissed down the delicate column to the notch where her pulse beat and licked there. She was running one finger down the big vein in his erection, lightly. He wanted to scream the sensation was so acute. He buried his head in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and found her nipple with his lips. He suckled, gently, and she arched to present him easier access. "Oh, Drew," she moaned. "You have the hidden talents."

"You haven't seen the half of them." He slid his hand down to cup her mound. She was wet and ready. "I want you shrieking many times tonight."

She opened her eyes, surprised. "I thought the Englishman, he wanted only to spill his seed without caring for the woman's pleasure."

"What Englishmen do you know? That is not the way to entice a woman to your bed more than once."

She gave a throaty chuckle. "You are most practical, Drew Carlowe." He slipped his finger inside her then drew her slickness over the nub that gave a woman pleasure. She hissed and clasped his c.o.c.k firmly. She didn't rub it, thank G.o.d, or he wouldn't have been able to hold out. He rubbed her, though, even as he kissed her thoroughly. It was only moments before she was rocking against his hand and giving small yips of satisfaction as she coiled tighter and tighter. And then unwound, wailing.

"Oh, dear man. You are very skilled," she breathed when it was done.

"You were ready." But he was proud she thought him skilled.

"I was ready last night. I have been ready all day. It has been torture." She raised herself on one elbow. "But I promised close attention to your c.o.c.k and I have been shirking." She pushed him onto his back gently and stroked his hip. "Now, we are going to play a game."

A game? He could feel his eyes widen. Her hand strayed to his c.o.c.k.

"Do not look at me so. You will like this game." She was right if it had anything to do with continuing exactly what she was doing to him now. He was having trouble getting his breath. "The game is that I play with your c.o.c.k, and you try not to come." She looked up at him. "You say 'come'? e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e."

" 'Come' is fine," he gasped.

"This will increase your pleasure. And if you think you cannot hold it, tell me."

He jerked a nod. "Yes. Yes."

She stroked him, her thumb pressing on the head as it slid up off the underside. He sucked in a breath. She scooted down. He was taken by surprise when he felt her tongue follow the trail her thumb had laid. "Where did you learn that?"

"Shhhhh. Go within yourself. You feel the sensation, savor it." She licked again. "Held in the suspension of endless pleasure. You find your center, and you just.. . stay there."

Would he disappoint her? Already the sensation was so intense he thought he might come.

"What if I can't?"

"You can." She left off with his c.o.c.k in the nick of time and kissed his inner thigh. "We will rest periodically, and you will make me come, and then we will begin again. A virile man can remain hard for hours with practice. And you are a very virile man."

How did she know these things? But he didn't have time to wonder, because now she was lying between his legs with her arms over his thighs. She pulled up his c.o.c.k and her tongue swabbed along its length and flicked over the vein that fed it and she sucked very gently on the tip before she took the whole into her mouth and he felt the head rub against her throat.

He thought he might die of sensation. He arched his hips up against her, groaning. She pulled away just in time, leaving him gasping. All the feeling in his body seemed to have pooled in his genitals. They had never been so hard, so needing.

She stroked his body with her hands, making comforting, soothing sounds while he caught his breath. And then she began again. Off and on, and off again just as he was about to explode. It seemed she knew a man's body, his body, so thoroughly that she was in complete command of it. She hadn't learned that in a brothel. Brothels held women who went mechanically through the motions of pleasure without taking any pleasure in it themselves, or really caring about their partner's pleasure. Not this woman. She was perfectly attuned to him, as though they were connected somehow. Perhaps she was a courtesan, trained in some subtle way . . . Or perhaps their connection was even more elemental.

G.o.d, she was starting again.

He really was quite virile, this Drew Carlowe, she thought with satisfaction. Her rea.s.surance to him had turned out to be true. It was good to put her talents to giving pleasure, not training men to be Harriers. The difference between work and pleasure. And she knew for certain she had been giving him pleasure for more than an hour. He was trying very hard.

She could feel him focusing inward, finding his center. She had not yet had to help him hold himself with a little compulsion, but she could when it was necessary. He was a determined man. It was time for a longer respite, and that meant she would get another o.r.g.a.s.m. She liked o.r.g.a.s.ms. It was one of the few benefits of slaving away to make Harriers at her father's command.

She waited for the moment when he was just beginning to slide over his brink and pulled away. She wormed her way up toward his chest, kissing him lightly as she went, inhaling the scent of him. His c.o.c.k was red and throbbing, lying swollen along his belly. He was covered with a light sheen of sweat, courtesy more of her efforts than the hot night.

He gathered her into his arms. "You are a witch," he murmured, "a witch who deserves pleasure in return." She expected him to want to plunge his c.o.c.k inside her. She'd definitely have to hold him with a little compulsion if he did that.

He surprised her by simply holding her in his embrace, his c.o.c.k hard and pulsing against her thigh. His hands moved over her body. The remains of calluses said he had once labored. A c.h.i.n.k in the armor of the man he had created. She didn't mind. It occurred to her that he had made himself into what he was out of sheer determination, something she was unable to do. She didn't know who she was, apart from the maker of Harriers her father wanted her to be.

He raised her chin from where she burrowed into his shoulder and kissed her with such slow tenderness it made tears spring to her eyes. It was . . . generous. In all the s.e.x she had engaged in over the years, no one had ever shown her tenderness. She had been a tutor and a demanding one, no more. He worked her mouth open gently, and probed her thoroughly, all the time his hands moved over her, now rubbing her shoulders, now cupping her b.u.t.tocks. The throb between her legs began to be almost painful. She had come quickly and very forcefully the first time-almost as soon as he began rubbing her. She had been too long without release. But this time he seemed determined to draw out her experience. She smiled into his mouth. Very well.

She let him control the pace. That was new for her. Always before it was she who controlled, whether the Aspirant was the one receiving stimulation or it was her turn. It might be a matter of trust, this deciding to let him control. He suckled at each breast attentively. She wanted his c.o.c.k thrusting inside her so badly she almost wanted to scream.

But she did not. Why did she trust this man? Perhaps because he had written that letter.

Perhaps because he had not seized her deed. He rolled her onto her back. But again he surprised her. He slid down between her legs, and she realized that he was going to reciprocate by using his mouth. The very thought made her squirm in antic.i.p.ation. Who would have thought an Englishman knew how to do that?

But he did. He opened her carefully and lapped across her moist tissues. How glad she was that she had bathed, earlier. He began to tease her point of pleasure with his tongue. She squirmed against him, and tangled her fingers in his hair. He brought her slowly but relentlessly toward climax. He began to hum some sailors' tune. The vibrations nearly sent her wild. His hands slid up to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and fondled her nipples as he began to suck in earnest.

The o.r.g.a.s.m, when it struck, was savage. It took her and shook her and made her roll her head convulsively from side to side as she shrieked and strained her hips toward his mouth.

It broke over her, wave after wave of it, until her hips jerked away of their own accord and she collapsed into a pool of sensation that subsided only slowly.

He crawled up beside her, wiping his mouth. She opened one eye and saw that he looked very satisfied with himself. She smiled. He should. She wasn't certain she had ever ex- perienced an o.r.g.a.s.m like that in all the many thousand thousands in her life. Was it because he was tender? Was it because she trusted him enough for some strange reason to open herself to the full impact of it? What he had done to her was more than just to give her pleasure. He had showed her an emotional closeness she had never known.

That thought brought tears. It felt like a gigantic knot of tension had been released inside her, one that had been building over centuries. He must have felt her crying against his chest, for he rocked her, soothing. No one had ever done that for her. She wanted to give him something in return. She raised her head and smiled at him. It was time. She would love keeping him at the edge of insanity. The s.e.xual act would be an act of giving, not demanding performance. She sat up and pushed him gently to his back. Then she straddled him. She wanted to feel him filling her. And now that she was sated, she could be attentive to just how long he could stand the strokes inside her. How long could he hold his release tonight? She was going to find out.

It was the wee hours of the morning. But Drew wasn't tired. The hours of making love to this woman seemed to fill him with energy rather than drain him. He had brought her to release several times now. And he had held his in abeyance. That should have been onerous. But it wasn't. Even now she was caressing his c.o.c.k as she sucked at one of his nipples. She was so skilled, the sensation so intense, he seemed to find some core of stamina that allowed him to appreciate the pleasure she gave him for what it was in the moment, not the o.r.g.a.s.m it would bring. Several times he had felt that constriction in his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es that came with l.u.s.t unreleased. She seemed to sense it. Perhaps his b.a.l.l.s tightened. Always she would ma.s.sage them gently until the aching pa.s.sed. Once or twice when he was on the brink of o.r.g.a.s.m, her eyes seemed to glow red again. He was so centered in the moment he could not focus on the questions that raised. She would whisper, "Find your center," and he would regain control again.

He had never felt closer to a woman. She was so generous, so attentive. He was only glad he could return the favor. She rolled on to her back, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s flattening, and opened her knees to invite him in. He hung on his elbows above her, positioned his c.o.c.k.

"Fill me. Please," she whispered.

He sheathed himself in her wet warmth. She bit her lip in pleasure. He began to stroke in and out, slowly. He could do this. He went inside himself again, trying to get lost in the rhythm. Until she changed it. She wanted it faster now. "I'm not sure I can hold it," he panted.

"Now is the time to stop trying," she breathed.

He blinked. Now? Then he grinned. He repositioned himself so that his c.o.c.k touched her on that spot that women liked the most, just in front of the entrance to her womb proper, and pumped in and out a few times to stimulate it. That made her open her eyes. They slapped together in delicious counterpoint. His loins were so tight, his genitals so heavy and sensitive, he thought he might burst. But he had to wait a little longer. Surely a woman as sensual as she was could reach ecstasy just once more tonight. He grabbed her b.u.t.tocks as he knelt upright, his knees wide. She wrapped her legs around him. He plunged into her harder and harder, as if he could never get enough of her. He felt her begin to contract around him, and he let go.

The explosion was like nothing he had ever felt. His seed pulsed into her, on and on, stripping him of all his fluids. His vision contracted to a single point of light. He could hear himself grunting from somewhere far away, a ba.s.s counterpoint to her shrieks.

They both collapsed, finally, nothing left of themselves to share. He cradled her against his body. This most s.e.xual of experiences had felt almost. . . spiritual. He'd started tonight as one kind of person-alone, inviolate, sure of his purpose. And he'd ended as someone else, a man who needed someone else.

He'd never needed Emily, except as revenge on her father. He'd never even known her.

He'd certainly never loved her. He knew that now. But this woman, with whom he'd shared only a few words, he knew with every fiber of his being.

He just didn't know any facts about her. And now that he was not buried in the sensation of the moment, there were definitely questions.

Well, he'd have to remedy that.

4.

She snuggled against him. They had been drowsing together for a while, but he knew she was awake. He had been wondering where to start with his questions. His preoccupation with his mission to find Emily, the incredible s.e.xual attraction they'd felt-all had distracted him and made his denial of those questions easy. But he could no longer ignore them. He would come round to red eyes and disappearing and the wounds at his neck. He was not frightened of her, not after tonight. But he could not dismiss them as mere tricks. He would start his questions with what had happened to him. What he really wanted was to know if she had experienced it, too. "I've never felt anything like that."

She stretched and pressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against him. He thought she'd stripped every drop of s.e.m.e.n from his body, yet still he felt a stirring in his loins.

"Good," she said, her mouth softening into a smile.

"What. . . what was that?"

"The closeness we felt?"

We. He nodded, brushing his lips across her hair. She had felt it, too.

"It is the teaching of the Tantra. It comes from the Hindu, though Buddhists and Jains practice also." "They teach s.e.x?" You could study s.e.x? Apparently. She must have.

"Well, more it is the meditation that they teach. They believe the physical is an expression of the divine. And physical acts can bring you closer to G.o.d. Like s.e.x, if you do it correctly."

"You do it correctly," he murmured, holding her close. Had she done this thing with others? To distract himself from that thought, he asked, "Will you tell me your name now?"

She looked conscious, as though she didn't realize she had never revealed even this much of herself to him. "Freya. My name is Freya."

After the Norse G.o.ddess of fertility and plenty. That was appropriate. "Freya." He savored it. "Well, Freya, why do you live here alone, without even removing the Holland covers from the furniture and make the villagers think you are a ghost?"

She stiffened and he thought she would push away from him. Then he felt her soften.

Maybe it was resignation. Her voice was small, and she did not look at him. "I am a bad person, Drew. I have done bad things. My father required them of me and of my sisters but we did not protest. One sister went mad from doing them. And I never even thought to refuse. I had never been away from my father's . . . house until he sent my remaining sister and me to England. We were doing this thing, and it was dangerous, and it had perhaps eaten at her mind, as well. I told her she must quit. But she wouldn't. And . . . and then I couldn't do it any more. So I stopped. And that meant I didn't support her. She . . . died." She took a shuddering breath.

Her sister had died. Perhaps she had as many scars as he did. He waited for her to go on, just holding her.

"But my job, evil as it was, it was all I knew," she said at last. "If I was not that, who was I?

But I knew if I went home I wouldn't have the strength to stand against my father when he wanted me to pick up where I left off. So I did not go home. I came here."

He wouldn't ask her what she did. She was not ready yet to tell him. Not that he thought whatever it was would be evil. He knew she wasn't evil on some deep level he couldn't explain. "And the ghost act was to keep people away."