by Sahara Kelly
She closed her eyes.
“All you have to do is drift, Marianne.” Jake’s low tones encouraged her to do just that. “Relax your thoughts. Don’t focus on anything but the sound of my voice. Your body is safe, secure here with us. Your mind can go anywhere it wants, think of anything it wants, be anywhere it wants…”
A delicious lassitude settled over her like a blanket of sunlight. Almost dizzily, Marianne fell into it, following the gentle words that led her further, deeper…
“I want him. I want to be with Christian…”
Scarcely realizing she’d spoken aloud, Marianne tumbled through veils of time and space…
…And landed on her back, naked, with the softness of something extraordinarily furry cushioning her skin.
Next to her, heat radiated from a massive body.
She blinked.
“Good morning, lady.” The voice was deep and sensual, as were the fingers that ran from her kneecap to her pussy. “Are you well this day?”
“Uhh…”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” A shadow blocked her vision and firm lips fastened on hers, tasting sweetly of wine and herbs and man.
The kiss was everything a kiss should be, passionate, demanding and full of promise. His tongue quickly slid past her lips, probing delicately then more strongly as her own responses leapt to wakefulness.
He was hers. The thought flashed through her mind as she instinctively parted her thighs, allowing his hand to cup her and fondle the soft folds of flesh. Moisture pooled rapidly and dampened his palm, his skilled touch finding the seat of her pleasure with unerring accuracy and arousing it with a mixture of tenderness and insistence.
Helpless, Marianne sank into him, welcoming the heavy weight of his thigh as he swung it across her nakedness, burying her more deeply in the furs of their bed.
“I need you again it seems.”
“No kidding.” The words spurted from her mouth as he pulled back a little, his cock solidly thudding into her body, seeking her heat.
“And you need me too, my Marion.” Hard muscles ground over her skin, ripples of sensation that took the breath from her lungs and made her shiver. “See how your breasts welcome me with their swollen nubs?”
Robbed of words, she could only nod as he discovered those same swollen nubs and suckled them, tongue flickering hotly over the sensitive peaks. It was delicious and delectable and just—wow.
Marianne’s mind screamed questions, foremost among them “who the fuck are you? Who the fuck am I?”. But her body refused to be distracted from what he was doing. And by God he did it well.
He knew every inch of her, it seemed. He knew where to lick, where to kiss, where to nibble and where to stroke. He even knew how to stroke, finding her clit with ease and alternating gentle caresses from his hand with slides of his cock over the slick flesh.
She surrendered. This was only a dream after all. A vague illusion of a time long gone and a lover she’d probably created in her imagination at some distant point in her literary meanderings. And what a lover he was.
“Say my name once more, Marion. Tell this poor knight what he does to you.”
“I…” She stumbled, lost in the passion he’d aroused within her and desperate to answer those needs. “My love…”
The words came from somewhere deep in her heart. He was her love and her lover, both at the same time. His cock sought and found her opening, sliding into her with ease, filling her to capacity.
“Yes, Marion, oh yes.” He pressed more deeply, shuddering as he held his passion in check, muscles corded and rippling against her. “You are my lady, my woman. When this joust ends, we shall be simply Cristophe and Marion. Lord and Lady Rossignol. Husband and wife.”
“Cristophe…” How comfortable his name sounded as she whispered it. “Yes, Cristophe, oh yes…fuck me, my love, my Cristophe…”
His teeth flashed as he grinned, taut and ready and buried to the balls within her. “As you will, my lady Marion.” He shifted, pulling back a little then returning as if loath to part from her body. “And I say those who avow Saxon women are cold in bed are fools.”
Saxon women? Holy shit…
The tiny part of Marianne’s mind that observed this interaction grasped at his words but they slithered away as Cristophe began to move. She gave up caring who or where she was. For the immediate moment she was simply a woman being fucked well-nigh insane by the most talented of lovers.
Lifting her legs, Marianne ran her ankles up over the firm flesh of his thighs and his hard buttocks, feeling them flex as he moved within her. When she locked them around his waist, he sighed with delight.
“Faith, you are all a man could ask for…” His gaze lowered to where they were joined and Marianne shivered with erotic delight as she watched him.
In and out, in and out, his cock slid more rapidly now. Rock solid, it was big—yet not too big for her tastes. In fact it was just right, stretching her just the tiniest bit to add to the wonderful sensations coursing through her. His strokes matched her desires, his body brushing her clit as he thrust against her, teasing it as he withdrew.
He even twisted a little, a grinding of bodies that heightened the moment and sent Marianne’s body into overload.
“Christ Almighty, Cristophe…” He was touching something inside her, something extremely sensitive and trembling that seemed linked to her clit and her breasts and her heart. She cried out as he stroked more strongly, a cry that was echoed by a groan from his throat.
“Now, Marion…come for me. Ride with me…” Cristophe growled the words as he hammered his cock into her, their bodies meeting with the erotic music of flesh colliding and parting.
She could—she would. She had no choice.
Feeling the scream boil up from her very soul, Marianne came, a massive eruption of every single nerve ending she possessed. Her neck arched, her lips peeled back from her teeth in a rictus of passion and every cell in her body exploded as Cristophe rammed himself into her and came too.
Legs clamped to his body like a silken vice, she spasmed around him, sucking him ever deeper into the vortex, draining him, milking his cock with strokes of her inner walls as she orgasmed fiercely along the pulsing length of velvety steel inside her.
Her nails dug into his biceps, her breath vanished from her lungs and all she could do was hang on—holding fast to Cristophe as she soared free.
He followed Marianne, a savagely harsh groan of satisfaction mingling with the echoes of her scream, pushing his hips against her in a final thrust as his balls emptied and flooded her with hot streams of completion.
It was untamed and raw, sex mingling with passion and desire, a fulfillment that shook Marianne to her core.
When they both eased, collapsing around and on top of each other, she struggled to heave air into her starving lungs and reassemble the bits of her body that had apparently flown off all by themselves.
“Dear God, you entrance me.” The words were huffed breathlessly into her neck where Cristophe’s head had landed when he tumbled bonelessly atop her.
“And you are crushing me…” A tired chuckle answered him. It was the truth, since his body was hard, heavy and squashing what little breath she could draw.
He rolled to her side, settling her in the curve of his massive arms. “My apologies. I would never harm a hair on your…anything.” His fingers brushed her pussy gently, calming the shivers that still trembled so deep inside her belly.
A chill of something resembling fear danced down Marianne’s spine. Apprehensive and not knowing quite why, she turned to him. “Cristophe, I find myself concerned—afraid—”
He smiled at her. “There is no need, love. None can best me in the joust. I shall win.”
A joust? Good God. “Are you sure?” She intertwined their fingers. Was this the cause of her concern?
“I may be a bastard Norman, but I can fight, Marion. Certainly there are many who would see me fall and rejoice at it—none more so than my
damned half-brother.” He sighed. “Geraint has yet to fully understand I do not wish for anything from our father. I make my own way.”
“I’ll bet you do.” Idly Marianne turned in his arms and pressed her cheek against the mighty muscles of his chest. “But have a care, Cristophe…” Why she felt compelled to urge caution, Marianne had no idea. But it was an urge too strong for her to fight.
He glanced at her, eyes glittering blue. “Pay no heed to the gossip, sweetling. The lances will be blunt, the swords unsharpened. This is a joust for honor, no more—no less.”
His words did much to soothe her nerves, but Marianne still felt something annoying niggling at the back of her brain. Some premonition that all was not as it should be.
A clatter from outside the tent distracted Cristophe and he shifted. “I must leave.”
Marianne hated the feel of his body moving away from hers, leaving her bereft and shivering. “I know.” He had to go. Somewhere deep inside she knew it was inevitable.
“Stay. Sleep. Get all the rest you can.” He leaned over and dropped a light kiss on her lips, tucking the bedding close around her shoulders. “You’ll need your strength for when I return.”
Tiredly she managed a smile. “I shall eagerly await that moment, Cristophe. Hurry back to me, my love…”
Sleep claimed her, a soft drugging fog of unconsciousness obliterating everything from her thoughts. She had no idea how many hours had passed before she was awoken by a rough hand shaking her.
“Mistress, quickly—Mistress—wake up, oh please wake up…”
Marianne rolled over and blinked groggily at a woman dressed like a serving maid.”Whaaa…”
“It’s Lord Cristophe. He’s—oh merciful heavens—please—wake up.” The woman shook her insistently.
“What about him?” Marianne raised herself, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around her breasts.
“The joust—an accident—”
Cold fear poured over Marianne and she stumbled from the bed, holding tightly to the blanket and moving to the parting in one wall of the tent. She looked through, blinded for a second or two by the brilliant sunlight.
“They’re bringing him now, see?” The woman stood beside her and held back the fabric.
A scream choked silently in Marianne’s throat. Three men bore a body—a large body—covered in blood that had dried to a dull stain here and there on the armor it covered. It was Cristophe, she knew it beyond a doubt. His blue eyes gazed sightlessly at the sky.
“No…” It was a mere whisper.
“Yes and it was murder, may the Saints forgive me.” The woman bit back a sob. “He was the last to joust, his opponent his very own half-brother, Lord Geraint. The lances—they were not blunted—an accident the squires say, but there’s few who believe it.”
“His half-brother?” Even now, Marianne’s brain was staggering to comprehend the bloody body and the tale she was hearing. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real—these things didn’t happen in real life, only in the movies…
“Everybody knows how much Lord Geraint despised Lord Cristophe. Too close to us Saxons, he said. Many agreed, sons of pigs.” The woman spat her anger. “Methinks ‘twas naught but an excuse to kill him. To secure his portion from their father and rid the world of a man he accused of duplicity and betrayal.”
“So much blood…” Marianne was transfixed by the lifeless limbs. “Oh God, so much blood…” Her body began to shake and fierce shivers racked her. “He’s dead. I’ve lost him—again—”
“My lady, you must dress. Make haste. They’ll come for you too, I’m afraid. Should you be carrying his child…” The servant’s words pierced the shock and horror enfolding Marianne and she moved, only to feel a throbbing ache low in her abdomen.
Warmth ran down her thighs and she stared at the blood dripping over her feet to the floor. It was the last straw for the lady Marion. “Oh dear God. I do not carry his child it would seem…”
“Oh, my Lady, my Lady—” The servant wrung her hands in distress as Marianne stared blindly around her.
The sound of voices became a dull buzzing in her ears, words blurred into mutterings, her vision darkened as spots appeared in front of her eyes.
Marianne could see nothing now and hear little more than nothing. She was drowning, falling into a great black maw that would obliterate both her and the rising pain of her grief.
She opened her mouth wide and cried out a great rolling scream of agony…
Only to find herself back on Jake and Renny’s couch, clutching her belly, her face soaked with her own tears.
She gulped back another sob, tried to speak, then gave up and buried her face in a pillow.
Marianne Donovan wept for the loss of a knight who died centuries before she was even born.
Chapter Seven
“Fucking shit, Jake. I can’t do this anymore.”
Marianne sipped the brandy, appreciating the warmth as it burned its way down her throat. “What am I? The kiss of death or something? I traveled through time having great sex, only to watch the men of my dreams cut down and slaughtered, practically before my very eyes?”
The story had unfolded and Marianne had related all she could remember of her sensually tragic medieval dream. The lingering after-effects were dispersing now and she could discuss it more rationally in the familiar atmosphere of the library.
Jake was watching her intently. “Believe it or not, we’ve made a lot of progress, sweetheart.”
“Easy for you to say. You didn’t get laid by Sir Romance Cover Model Knight and then have him filleted to pieces the very next day.” Marianne rubbed a spot beneath her breast. “God, just thinking about it makes my heart ache.”
“Was it Christian?” Renny’s question was thoughtful. “Was he the same man, Marianne?”
Her thoughts tumbled over themselves at Renny’s words. “No, it wasn’t Christian. This one certainly had the blue eyes, but his body was different—his taste was different—I dunno, Renny. My feelings were every bit as intense, I can tell you that.” She put her empty glass down and sighed. “And losing him hurt every bit as much.”
“Makes sense.” Jake nodded.
“Good. Explain it to me, then, because I’m sure as hell having a hard time with the whole damn thing.”
Jake looked away from her and stared out of the window, his face expressionless for a few minutes as silence fell in the room. Finally, he turned back to Marianne. “It would seem to all boil down to one simple question. What is love?”
“Pardon?” Marianne blinked.
Jake rolled his shoulders, in a motion clearly designed to ease some tension. “Take these dreams of yours…you are with a man you know you love. He loves you as well, showing it in a variety of exotic—erotic—ways. You are absolutely certain, in your heart, that you and he belong together, yes?”
“Yes.” Marianne nodded. That knowledge was unarguable. She loved, passionately and with her whole essence, the men in her dreams. Up until now, it had only been Christian, but apparently there had also been others—like Cristophe…
“So what seems to be developing is a pattern. The women you were, whose memories and desires linger somewhere in your brain cells, had a mate, a special man meant for them alone. For Marion, it was Cristophe. For Mary Anne—Christian. The name thing is fascinating too—”
“That could be nothing,” Renny interjected. “Merely Marianne’s mind working to create a manageable dream.”
“Good point.” Jake nodded at her. “It’s interesting, but probably not something that’s crucial to the matter at hand. What is crucial—” he turned back to Marianne, “is that this love, this predestined mating of souls, if you could call it that, has been interrupted more than once.” He paused for a moment. “Take a look around us—at the life that surrounds us. Everything has a place in the overall scheme of things. A leaf dies, but nourishes the seeds in the ground it falls upon. Nature preserves, uses and maintains. Can we really say that lov
e isn’t the same sort of thing? If a leaf doesn’t go to waste, isn’t it within the realms of possibility to accept that something as incredible as love won’t go to waste either?”
Marianne frowned as she considered this hypothesis. “So what you’re saying is that my pre-destined mate managed to get himself offed before said mating occurred? Leave it to me to pick a soon-to-be-dead boyfriend.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Wait a minute, if that’s so, then explain the sex.”
“Easy. Tab A gets inserted into Slot B…”
“Jake.” Renny’s squawk cut him off. “Stop it. You know that’s not what Marianne meant.”
Marianne’s laugh echoed through the room. “He knows, Renny. But thanks for the humor there.”
Renny shook her finger threateningly at her grinning husband. “Your timing can be appalling.” She turned to Marianne. “Look, as near as I can figure this out, you’re meeting the right man in your various incarnations. You’re falling deeply in love with him and everything goes according to plan. But…”
“Yeah. It’s that but, isn’t it? The idiots manage to do something royally stupid and get themselves killed.”
Renny nodded. “Before you have chance to bear a child.”
“Oh.” Marianne stilled as the ramifications of this theory sank into her mind. “Holy shit. I never thought about that.”
Jake, for once, remained silent as Renny continued her hypothesis. “Marion clearly wasn’t pregnant when Cristophe was killed. Mary Anne believed herself pregnant when Christian died on the gallows. We don’t know what happened to her and her child, do we?”
Marianne shook her head. “No. I’ve never dreamed past the moment of Christian’s death. I see him hanging there and poof. I wake up.” She shivered. “It’s like my mind can’t take any more.”
“If I may…” Jake raised an eyebrow at his wife who snorted. “There is one thing I’d like to ask about this new dream of yours.”
