“I’ll never force you, Skye,” he said aloud. The thought lay
between them: because I don’t have to.

There was a scratching at the door and then a sturdy boy lugged
in a small round oak tub. Several other boys carried in buckets of
water. Rose ordered the tub placed before the fire, and set a carved
screen about it. When the tub was filled and the male servants gone,
she asked, “Shall I stay and help you, madam?”

“Thank you, Rose. I should appreciate it.” Her blue eyes twinkled
wickedly. “Sorry, Geoffrey, but the tub is much too small for us
both, as you can see. You will have to bathe after me.” It was a
small but delicious revenge, and she was hard pressed not to laugh.
She slipped behind the modesty of the screen and slowly removed
each garment.

Sitting on the bed, he watched through narrowed eyes as first her
velvet riding habit and then her perfumed, silken undergarments
were handed over the screen to the solicitous Rose. Soon he heard
the water splashing gently as she lowered herself into the tub.

“Will you need help, madam?”

“No, Rose. I can wash myself.”

“I’ll take your riding habit and cloak to be brushed, ma’am, and
your underclothing to be washed. Then I’ll come back.”

“Don’t bother, I will care for my lady,” said the Earl as he
escorted the servant girl to the door and firmly thrust her out. To
sweeten the rebuff he slipped a gold piece down her front and,
patting her backside, sent her on her way. The door was shut, the
bolt slammed home. “And now, madam!” He strode across the room and yanked the carved screen aside. She sat covered by suds, her
dark hair loosely pinned on top of her head. She looked up at him
mockingly.

“My lord?”

He stripped off his clothes, letting them lie where they fell, and
strode purposefully toward the tub.

“No!” she shrieked, “you’ll flood the room!”

He grinned wickedly. “Then get out and let me bathe.”

“I am not through!”

“But I am ready!”

“Oh, damn you, Southwood! Hand me a towel.”

He held it just out of her reach so that she was forced to stand
in order to get it. The suds sluiced down her lush form, and Geoffrey
Southwood drew in his breath sharply. The beast in him stirred.
Clinging to an end of the towel as she grabbed it he pulled her over
and kissed her. Her small full breasts, wet and warm, pushed de-
mandingly at his chest.

“Skye, oh sweet Skye!” His voice was rough with longing. Then
suddenly he felt the ground give way beneath him and he landed
rudely in the warm, scented tub. She was laughing uproariously, the
red mouth wide and luscious.

“There, Master Lecher! Cool your heels, and wash the stink of
the road from your handsome body! Geoffrey! Geoffrey! How ac-
customed you must be to getting your way with women! Shame, my
lord! Fie! We barely arrive and you ogle the maidservant. Then you
kiss me, ogle the wench again, and pat her backside! Yes! I saw it!
Then attempt to climb into my tub for another kiss and a cuddle.
No, my lord! If you would have me as your own then I will demand
fidelity. Are you capable of fidelity, Geoffrey Southwood?”

For the briefest instant he was angry. Angry with this nameless
female, the Whoremaster of Algiers’ woman. How dare she impose
conditions on him? But as he gazed at her he felt the anger dissolve.
She was right. She wasn’t some common trull to love or ignore as
the spirit moved him.

“Touche, sweetheart,” he admitted ruefully.

“I’ll teach you manners yet, Southwood.” she said mischievously.

“Scrub my back,” he shot back and, laughing, she complied.

She had decided in the early hours of the dawn that if she was
to become his mistress it must be on her terms. She would not be
one of many. She must be his only love. She would give to him
affection and respect, but in return he must give her the same. And
as she would be loyal and faithful to him, so must he be to her. She
had, just now, won their first battle.

They ate in their room by the fireplace. It was a simple but very tasty meal of boiled lobsters, artichokes in oil and vinegar, newly
baked bread with sweet butter, whole apples baked in pastry with
colored sugar sprinkled over them accompanied by clotted cream,
sharp cheese, and a pitcher of white wine.

Afterward they lay back against the plump goose-down pillows
on the lavender-scented bed and, holding hands, fell asleep. Skye
woke to watch the firelight dancing against the wall. Instinctively
she knew he was awake too. Turning, she lay her head against his
heart.

“What a wench you are,” he said softly, and stroked her hair.
”I’ve fallen in love with you, Skye. You know that, don’t you? I’ve
never loved before, sweetheart, but as God as my witness I do love
you.”

They made love tenderly, lingeringly, then slept, awakened, and
made love twice more. As Geoffrey had promised her, the next three
days were spent in an orgy of love making, eating, and drinking.
And even if they had wished to change the program they would not
have been able to do so, for they awoke that first morning to find
a January snowstorm swirling about them.

As gleeful as children, they piled wood upon the fire and then
snuggled naked beneath the down coverlets just before Rose arrived
with a breakfast of hard-cooked eggs, thick slices of country ham,
bread, cheese, and nut-brown ale. It snowed all that day and they
never stirred from their bed except to feed either the fire or them-
selves. Skye could not believe how often and easily he aroused her,
fulfilled her, loved her. Each time she thought surely it could not
happen again, and yet it did.

On the second day the snow stopped and the sun shone again.
They dressed and played outdoors in the snow like youngsters, much
to the amusement of Master Parker and his wife. But Rose was
outraged. It was unthinkable for the gentry to behave in such a
fashion! Especially such a handsome, romantic gentleman as the
Earl.

Skye’s cheeks were red with the cold and she shrieked with mock
terror as the Earl pelted her with snowballs. She got back at him by
teasing him into position beneath the roof and then sending a well-
aimed snowball into the piled-up snow on the edge. It tumbled down
over him like an avalanche, leaving him sputtering his surprise.

That night they sat before the fire, Skye in her simple white caftan
and Geoffrey in a green velvet robe. They roasted chestnuts in the
coals of their fire, picking the sweet, hot meats from the shells,
burning their fingers in the process. He found a lute in the common
room of the inn and brought it back to their little room. To her surprise he played and sang quite well. He sang her several naughty
ditties that left her weak with laughter, and when he saw that she
was helpless he put the lute down and pounced on her. Giggling,
she fought him off, tickling him mercilessly until he too was helpless
with mirth.

They lay panting upon the bed, and then suddenly he was kissing
her frantically. “Skye! Skye! Dammit, woman, love me a little!”

“But Geoffrey,” she protested, “I do!”

“No, sweetheart, you love what I do to your passions but you
feel nothing for me. You’re so fair, so charming, so intelligent! I
thought it was enough, but it isn’t enough. I want you to care as I
care.”

“Oh, Geoffrey!” There was genuine regret in her voice. “I don’t
know if I shall ever love again. It hurts so damned much to love.
I like you, and I had thought we would be friends. It’s more than
most men have with their mistresses.”

“You’re not just any woman, my love! I want more of you, Skye,
than most men have of their mistresses.”

“You have no right!” she shouted at him. “You do not take me,
I give myself freely! Because I want to, and only because I do want
to.” She was kneeling on the bed, her hair swirling about her sleek,
beautiful shoulders. “I will be no man’s toy! Understand that, my
lord Earl.”

Her sapphire eyes flashed blue fire, her creamy skin was rosy
with emotion. At that moment she was the most beautiful thing he’d
ever seen. Still, he was furious at her. He was Geoffrey Reginald
Michael Arthur Henry Southwood, the seventh Earl of Lynmouth,
and she was only a nameless woman without a past. He was the
”Angel Earl,” the man for whom all women pined. She was the first
to have the gift of his true love. And he would have hers!

His voice was dangerously low and tinged with scorn. “I’ll not
beg you, Skye. But if you cannot learn to love again and yet you
still give your body, then you’re no better than a common whore.”

She went white with shock, her eyes huge. Lashing out, she hit
a blow to his cheek which left the red imprint of her fingers. Instantly
he struck back, matching her blow. Then flinging himself on her,
he pinned her beneath him.

“Your husband is dead! Can’t you understand?”

Struggling wildly, she screamed at him. “Don’t speak of him!
Don’t you dare to speak of him! He was kind and wise and good,
and I loved him! Do you hear? I loved him! I loved him as I shall
never love anyone else!”

“Instead,” he raged at her, “you’ll make a mockery of his love by behaving like a whore! You’ll lock your heart away while sat-
isfying the lusts of your body. Very well, sweetheart, if you wish
to be a whore I’ll show you how!”

His hands went to the neck of her caftan and with several quick
motions he tore the silk garment from her easily. He squeezed her
breasts, his knee jammed brutally between her thighs.

“No! Geoffrey!”

His lime-green eyes glittered in the firelight, and he bent to capture,
her mouth. She turned her head aside quickly and he lost his balance.
He fell into the pillows. She scrambled from beneath him, her feet
finding the floor. She fled across the room. But reaching the door,
she realized the hopelessness of her situation. She was stark naked,
and could hardly escape.

She faced him as he lazily stalked her across the room. “Geoffrey,
please.” She held out her hands in supplication. His eyes were pitiless
as his body pressed hard into hers. She felt the wall behind her.

“Whores,” he said tonelessly, “are often taken in alleys, standing
up, their backs to the wall.” Forcing her thighs open, he ordered,
”Put your arms about me, whore! Wrap your legs about my waist
and see how the other members of your sisterhood behave!”

She fought him wildly now, trying to twist her body away from
him, struggling, clawing at his eyes. He slapped her and she burst
into tears, tears of shame, tears of fright. “Please,” she whimpered,
”please not like this.”

Her tears stopped him and he suddenly stepped away. She crum-
bled toward the floor and he caught her and carried her to the bed,
cradling her against his chest as he sat down. “Damn you, Skye!
Damn you for the heartless, blue-eyed bitch you are. I only want
you to love me.”

“It hurts to love,” she sobbed, “I don’t want to be hurt again.”

“Sweetheart, living hurts, and loving is part of living, as is death.”
His anger had disappeared in the face of her obvious pain. “Skye,
my darling, love me as I love you.”

She began to cry harder. She wept for the woman she could not
remember, for Khalid el Bey, that tender and noble man. She was
so very tired.

“Love me, my darling,” he whispered tenderly. “Let your heart
soften again. Oh Skye, I would set you above all women, even my
wife. Love me, sweetheart!”

She had built a wall about her heart and now she felt that wall
being breached, piece by piece.

“You’re no wanton, to lie with me simply for pleasure. You do
feel, though you won’t admit it. Don’t you, my darling?”

She looked up at him, her eyes streaming. “Yes,” she whispered,
so low that he had to bend to hear her.

“You will not betray the love you felt for your husband if you
love me, Skye. That you can-and must-love again is a tribute to
the love you shared with your husband. Now share your love with
me, my darling.”

There was a long silence. At last he heard her say softly, “Yes,
Geoffrey.”

With infinite care he lay her upon their bed and gently kissed the
tears on her cheeks, moving down her throat, her chest, her exquisite
breasts. He worshiped at the shrine of their perfection, nursing on
each nipple. Protectively she enfolded him in her embrace, cradling
him, and, exhausted, they fell asleep.

In the gray-white light of the January dawn she awoke to find
that he had thrust gently into her. The hardness within her seemed
natural and good. “I do love you,” she said quietly, and slowly he
began the primitive rhythm that would culminate in searing passion
for them both. She moved with him, savoring the sweetness of him,
and suddenly she knew that all the barriers had crumbled away. She
loved this tender and arrogant lord who sought to possess her so
completely. She loved him. He would never know, of course, for
men never did, that though she loved him there would always be
a secret part of her that belonged to her alone. But she loved him,
of that she was sure.