Fantasy

by Christine Feehan

  She had not anticipated this development. How could she? Martin was no father figure like Auriclus. Nor was he a hedonist, despite having shown himself ready enough for pleasure the night before. He had a better heart than she did, and probably a stronger mind. God knew his soul was purer and yet, when she was with him, when she looked into his incomparable gentian eyes, she felt not diminished but complete.

  He had never judged her. In truth, she could tell that he admired her.

  Which was all the more reason she must not cause his fall.

  Let him go, she thought, tightening her jaw against the blooming pain. Stop tempting him and you’ll have earned your freedom from the blood. She could make it a bargain with the angels. Surely one good deed was not too much to ask.

  And if the good deed gained her nothing, what then?

  Luisa forced her muscles to relax. She stared at the mountains, their ceaseless winds blowing the hem of her mink-lined cloak against her thighs. As if in sympathy, her robe twisted around her ankles. Fur and wool, luxury and necessity—and her mind unable to say at the moment which was which. Blithely she had spoken of wishing to live more ethically, a half-truth at best, designed to impress the people whose help she begged. Much more important had been her desire to depend entirely on herself. To need a human for its blood, even a human she could suborn, was to be vulnerable. But now she needed much more than blood.

  With a skin-chilling shock, she saw her quest had come to mean less to her than one man’s good opinion.

  Then she laughed, sharp and bitter, her breath clouding thickly in the air. Even now she hedged the truth. She wanted more than Martin’s good opinion. She wanted his well-being.

  From his interview with the abbot Martin had gone straight to his private chamber, where he turned at once to light his altar’s lamps. Now a cone of his finest Indian incense smoldered sweetly in a dish. He had bathed and stretched and said his customary prayers. He had prostrated himself and fixed his inner vision on a point. Or he had tried to.

  His body wanted nothing to do with prayer. His body wanted only to wallow in the memory of Luisa’s touch. His phallus throbbed with readiness, hard and heavy and full, demanding union, demanding her.

  His guide had claimed his heart was not his weakest organ. What, Martin wondered, would he have said of his cock?

  His desires were at war with each other. He wanted to be the man of his own ambitions: a steadfast servant of his faith. Being recognized for his spiritual achievements was admittedly attractive, but more than that he wished to be true at heart.

  Of course, he also wished to be the person who saved Luisa.

  How else could he ensure that she remembered him? Not in bed. Too many men more skilled than he had gone before him. But this only he could do. A hundred years from now his image would brand her heart.

  Sighing, he unfolded his body from the floor.

  He had no business with her heart. Their likely paths in life could not have been more divergent. Except—

  He brought both fists to his mouth and pressed them hard against his teeth.

  Except his heart had business with her.

  In spite of everything, he and Luisa were kindred spirits. Both were strong of mind, both concerned with a longer stretch of time than most lives could hold. Certainly both were trying to balance the promptings of the body against those of the soul.

  Nor were those the only parallels. Luisa had twice been betrayed by the men who sired her: the first marrying her to a brute, the second simply leaving. To Martin’s mind, neither abandonment was deserved. Whatever her flaws, his life was immeasurably richer for having met her. Auriclus had missed out. And so had Martin’s father. Luisa had taught him that by proving how easy to love one imperfect soul could be.

  His eyes went hot with the sting of truth. He did not simply admire Luisa’s beauty or her spirit or her decadent Western mind. He loved her as any man loved a woman. He loved her as he loved the peace of meditation and the mountains in the spring. He loved her as the boyhood friends he’d never had. He loved her as he loved his cherished guide.

  He also loved her as herself, in a manner unlike any other. He, who had never thought to love at all, loved her with all his being.

  The discovery floored him. It was a miracle, a raw, exciting terror. He tottered under it like a two-year-old, neither knowing nor caring if the abbot had been right about there being a karmic bond between them. Whether they had shared a thousand lives or none could not have mattered less.

  He loved her.

  Stumbling to the door, he leaned his brow against its time-worn wood. He could not ignore this emotion. He had to sum it into his accounts.

  Not here, though, not in his solitary monkish cell. He needed…

  He did not know what he needed but he strode into the hall to find it, letting his instincts be his guide. The decision was there before him. He had only to clear his mind.

  Martin was waiting in her cell when she returned. The sight of him made her heart sink to her belly. He sat tailor-fashion on the floor, in the position his people called the lotus, so still he might have been a statue. His string of wooden prayer beads was wrapped around one hand, their surface smooth as stone from many tellings. Gone was his agitation of the night before: his arousal, his embarrassment, anything that marked him a man of flesh. His absolute, effortless peace filled the room the way a stream of water fills a cup. Luisa inhaled without thinking, as if she could draw his serenity into herself. All she did was underscore the differences between them. Self-denial and contemplation were the essence of his world. She did not see how it would ever mesh with hers.

  As if he’d known the moment she entered, his eyelids slowly rose. “I am glad you are here,” he said, in his deep, heartbreaking voice. “I have something to show you.”

  He set down his beads and extended his hand to her, though she knew he needed no help to rise. His hold was warm, its illusion of camaraderie intense. He did not drop her hand even after he reached his feet. With a gentle smile, he led her to the cell beside her own.

  She had assumed the space was empty, and maybe it had been. Now, however, it glowed with warmth. Butter lamps ringed the room and someone had softened the floor with a rich Pashmina carpet. The walls resembled a sultan’s tent, draped in hangings of painted silk. Far happier than the banner of Hayagriva, these thangkas depicted various Buddhas and their consorts, each gracefully straddling the lap of her protector. The colors were bright and pure, the execution of the figures marvelously adept. Decorative as they were, she did not notice at first how explicitly they were joined.

  But none of this was as suggestive as the pile of cushions on the floor. No dust marred them, no fading or frays of age. All red, all shining silk damask, they could not be the prop for anything but a seduction.

  “No,” she said, turning to her companion. “Martin, I don’t think we should do this.”

  If anything, his manner grew calmer. “It is my wish,” he said, his beautiful eyes like stars, “and possibly your need. Last night, at the moment we gave each other pleasure, I felt your barrier begin to fall. You opened your aura to mine and the flow of power did not harm you. Because of this, I believe you may be able to live off the energy lovers share. But there is only one way to find out.”

  “No,” she said again. “Your vow…”

  “I have not yet taken it.”

  “In your heart, you have.” The scope of what he offered stunned her. She ran her fingers through her hair, distressed to the point where she knew she’d become disheveled. “Martin, I am honored. Truly, I am. But this is not a sacrifice I can accept. Perhaps I could make this experiment with someone else.”

  He frowned at her, his expression abruptly cool. “You are welcome to try, but I doubt you will see the same results, especially since—despite your many lovers—you never saw them before. Those men did not have my mental training. Nor, I think, did your soul view them as equals. Once you have experienced the process of exchanging en
ergy in full, then perhaps your body will know the trick of repeating it with another.”

  “You are jealous,” she said with a flattered laugh.

  Martin drew himself up. “If I am jealous, it is no one’s business but my own. I do not wish you to be a killer, not even against your will. If I were able to help and did not, any death you caused would be on my hands.”

  “I am responsible for myself! The minute I took what Auriclus offered that was true. Even if no one but you could aid me, I could not let you do this. You were born to be a monk.”

  “Was I?” he said. “I have lived as a monk before, taken my vows, followed a path no woman shared. Perhaps it is time to walk another way. Perhaps my spirit shall not progress until I do.”

  Luisa tossed her hair in exasperation. “How could someone like me help you progress? No. I am not going to let you risk everything just to keep me from drinking blood!”

  He covered his face and shook his head, the gesture at odds with his usual self-control. When he dropped his hands, his eyes swam with emotion, part rueful laughter, part something deeper than she could read. “You underestimate the strength of your character—and overestimate mine. I am afraid more lies behind my offer than concern for you and your future meals.”

  “More?” she said warily.

  “Much more,” he admitted, his seriousness belied by a spark of humor in his eye. “There is my shamefully eager body, which remembers too well the pleasure of your touch. There is my teacher, who seems to think I should taste what I’m giving up. And let us not forget my curiosity. To know the full fruits of passion is an enticement no holy man should discount.”

  Luisa fiddled with the edge of her heavy cloak. Though she had no right to ask, she could not hold her next question inside. “Are those all the reasons you want to help?”

  “No,” he said, a laugh in it, but his amusement soon fell away. He looked sad then, as if his years truly were as great as hers. “No. There is one more reason. I am not sure you will want to hear it but, in truth, it is the only one that counts.” He took her hand from the button it had been twisting and pressed it to his steadily thudding heart. Her own was fluttering with dread, with hope, with so many feelings she could not sort them out. “Luisa.” He laughed again, an ironic puff of air. “How many times you must have heard this! I wonder if you will even understand what it means. I love you, Luisa. I love you and wish to give you the one gift no one but I can offer. I wish to free you. I wish to give you your heart’s desire.”

  “You love me?” She knew she must sound astounded. She was astounded. Her heart felt as if it had been taken out and put in backward. “I—I—” She swallowed and willed her throat to work. “I love you, too.”

  He blinked, twice, and then his smile spread like honey across his face, slow and broad and, at the last, completely blinding. “Well,” he said, “of all the answers I prepared for, I did not think of this.”

  “I have not—That is, I do not believe I have ever—”

  “You are stammering,” he said, and this also seemed to charm him. His arms found their way around her waist.

  “I am trying to say I have never felt this way before. Not in a hundred sixty years.”

  He laughed. “I have not felt this way in a hundred sixty lifetimes.”

  “Martin.” She struck his shoulder in gentle scold. “You cannot possibly remember so far back.”

  “Perhaps not,” he conceded, his gaze falling heatedly to her mouth, “but it feels true.”

  She waited for him to kiss her, poised between expectation and impatience. He caught his lip in his teeth, and licked it, and finally lowered his mouth to hers. Their softness melded together like two parts of a whole. This time he needed no instruction. Deeper and wetter his kisses sank while he cradled her head and cupped her bottom in his hand. Yes, she thought, meeting the sweet intrusion of his tongue. Oh, yes, this was what she needed. His arousal pressed her hip, thickly eager and sun warm. If her bones hadn’t been melting, she would have climbed him. Happily, one of his thighs found a home between her own. She rolled herself up it and clutched his muscled shoulders, moaning as his teeth lightly scored her neck.

  “Luisa,” he murmured, the sound a soft caress, “let us share what lovers know.”

  Her answer was a groan he had no trouble understanding. With endearingly awkward ardor, he divested her of her clothes. Her cloak fell with a thump, then her robe. He nearly tripped over both trying to wrestle his arms out of his sleeves.

  The stumble was forgotten in an instant. His naked body was spectacular: long, lean, as graceful as any artist’s masterwork. More graceful, really, because it was alive. His erection jerked and throbbed, its blood-dark thickness luring her to her knees.

  “No,” he gasped as her mouth engulfed the silky crest, as his hips cocked forward in spite of his denial. He tasted of salt and lust, his pulse so quick she could not count it. “Luisa, stop.” He was laughing but he meant it. With one final purse-lipped pull she set him free.

  “Up,” he urged, and pulled her to her feet.

  Her hands went immediately to his chest, stroking, exploring. His skin was smooth, his hair a rasping warmth. She followed the line of it to his navel and twirled the tip of one finger just inside. His eyes went dark. With her touch still on him, he turned to toss her fur-lined cloak across the bed. Incense wafted as the garment settled neatly, mink side up.

  She was behind him now, behind his beautiful tapering back. She pressed her breasts against it and kissed his nape. The dip of his shoulder invited her cheek to rest and she could not restrain a sigh. The comfort of holding him was stronger than shade at noon. He was so solid, so marvelously aroused. His body hummed silently with excitement. To her, his control was as alluring as his need. Wound tight with anticipation, she looked beyond him to the waiting cloak-draped cushions.

  “You,” she said, “want to see me on that fur.”

  He shuddered as her hands smoothed downward toward his groin. “Yes.”

  “Legs spread…sex wet…”

  “I will spread your legs,” he offered, then hesitated. “If you would allow it.”

  Her nails drew another shudder as they ruffled his pubic curls. “Yes,” she said, “I believe I would.”

  She pulled away and circled him, hands trailing, gaze locked hungrily on his face. A muscle in his side twitched as she strafed it. He could not quite keep his attention on her eyes. Her naked body was clearly a distraction: her breasts, her belly, her pale and rounded thighs.

  Look your fill, she thought with a secret smile as she lowered herself to the bed. Never had she been so grateful for her beauty. It was a gift she gave him, a gift that—pray God—would please them both. Especially him, though. She felt young again beneath his reverent gaze, every nerve and sinew born anew. Her back settled to the cushions. With knees bent and pressed together, she reached up for his hands.

  “Come,” she said, “make a place for yourself where you belong.”

  His face darkened at her invitation, the blood rising up his chest and neck. He did not speak but knelt as if in supplication at her feet. His palms settled on her knees, their dampness just as erotic as their warmth. Gently, slowly, he pushed her legs apart until her golden triangle was bared to view.

  He exhaled then, long and hushed, and slid his fingers up her thighs.

  “You are a flower,” he breathed, spreading her folds with such delicacy she had to strain to feel the touch. “I would paint you, if I could, and gaze at you every day.”

  His words and his gleaming, avid eyes robbed her of speech. Called forth by his admiration, a trickle of fluid slipped from her sex. As his thumb traced its downward course, his mouth fell open, then closed when he swallowed hard.

  She wanted to laugh but she did not, no more than she told him what to do. These discoveries were his to make, his to learn on his own. With a mixture of confidence and shyness, he shifted between her legs. He was intent now, his breathing shallow, his pulse racing
visibly in his throat.

  Hush, love, she thought, her hands stroking down his back. Your body knows what to do. Indeed, his instinct led him better than he knew. His hips settled into the cradle of hers as if a lodestone drew them down. With heart-stopping accuracy, the tip of him probed her then pressed inside. His breath caught, held. He was testing the feel of her, taking in that first luscious clasp. She knew her softness pulled him, knew he wanted more. He pressed deeper, surer, his vision glazed, his senses tuned to that miraculous inner glide. He hilted with a sigh.

  “Ah,” he said, a sound of enchanted wonder. “Ah, Luisa, that is so good.”

  She laughed and hugged him with all her limbs. His hips ground back at her but it wasn’t long before he complained.

  “You must not hold me so tightly,” he said. “I am certain I should move more vigorously in and out.”

  She let him do as he wished, loving his fits and starts and gasps.

  “No,” he said, after a rather amusing failure to find a working rhythm. “I need—”

  With a strength that impressed her, he secured her against him, then tipped back and crossed his legs. The movement brought her over his lap, her thighs to either side of him, her sex pressed snugly onto his. His erection thumped inside her as if it approved the change. She could not help noting that their position echoed the sacred pictures on the walls.

  “There,” he said, happily flexing deeper with his hips, “now you are my consort.”

  “May your consort move?”

  His eyes twinkled. “I should be grateful, for my hands would be free to touch you as you deserve.”

  He must have thought she deserved a lot. He caressed her as she rose and fell: her back, her haunches, her belly and hard-tipped breasts. His touch was like a drug. Her skin began to hum at the sweeping strokes. She would have purred if she’d had the means. His mouth glided up her neck and found her ear. The rush of his breath made her sheath tighten on his shaft. His fullness was exquisite, his living, vital pulse. His hands fell to her waist. He gripped her, half guiding, half greedy, then rested his forehead against hers.