Blue Heaven, Black Night Read online

  THEIR PATHS WERE DESTINED TO CROSS . . .

  “I have given you every warning!” he thundered.

  “And I would rather die than be raped by a beast like you!” Elise retorted in torn anguish.

  “Rape?”

  To her amazement, Bryan Stede went dead-still, then laughed—but he did not release his hold on her.

  “Duchess, my last intent this night is to rape you. Were I to want a woman, it would be one who was warm and winsome, not one with the cold, black heart of a thief!”

  He meant his words. Never in his life had he desired to take a woman by force. Since he had been a youth, women had come to him. From peasant girls to high-born ladies, they had come to him. Warm and giving, wanting to be wanted. Never could he imagine stooping to force. There would be no pleasure in it.

  Especially not with this woman. A born beauty, yet carrying the ring he knew to be King Henry’s. Pleading innocence, pleading rank, yet clearly holding the evidence against her.

  No, the thought of rape had never entered his head.

  Nor had he truly thought, even vaguely, of wanting her . . . until now . . .

  * * *

  Raves for Blue Heaven, Black Night

  “A sweeping tale of medieval life . . . Sensual, adventurous, and stormy romance!”

  —Romantic Times

  “A web of hatred, passion, and intrigue . . .”

  —Baker and Taylor

  Raves for Heather Graham

  “[A writer of] engrossing, sexy historical romance!”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Heather Graham knows how to tell a story that captures the imagination.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A writer of incredible talent!”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  More sweeping historical romance by Heather Graham

  Princess of Fire

  The King’s Pleasure

  Come the Morning

  Conquer the Night

  Knight Triumphant

  Seize the Dawn

  The Lion in Glory

  When We Touch

  Ondine

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  BLUE HEAVEN, BLACK NIGHT

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  THEIR PATHS WERE DESTINED TO CROSS . . .

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  THE LEGEND

  PART I - “THE KING IS DEAD . . .”

  PROLOGUE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  PART II - “LONG LIVE THE KING!”

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  PART III - LIONS OF THE DESERT

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  EPILOGUE

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 1986 by Heather Graham Pozzessere

  Previously published under the name Shannon Drake. Published by arrangement with the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Zebra Books Mass-Market Paperback Printing: September 1995

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-3819-1

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4699-8

  eISBN-10: 1-4201-4699-8

  For Liza Dawson

  and Meg Blackstone—

  wonderful editors, and very

  special people to have

  as friends!

  THE LEGEND

  Fulk the Black, Count of Anjou, was descended from Rollo, the great Viking who had laid claim to Normandy. He was a warrior, fierce and hard like his forebears, tenacious and determined.

  One winter he waged battle against Ranulf, a viscount of his territory. From dawn to dusk he sent his men against Ranulf’s castle, in a fury to drag it down. Flaming arrows flew over the ramparts with no mercy; battering rams were taken again and again to the gates. At last, Ranulf’s castle went up in flames, the gates were breached, and Fulk, riding upon his magnificent warhorse with his naked sword, tore about the courtyard to do battle with his rebellious viscount.

  But Ranulf was already dead; the scene was one of death and destruction, flame and smoke. Fulk hurried to the donjon of the castle, in search of whatever treasure might be had.

  It was there that he first saw Melusine. She stood upon the staircase, mindless of the flames that rose around her. Fulk could not move when he saw her; he stood transfixed. Her hair appeared as a sea of flame, red and gold; her eyes were a turmoil of blue and green, like clashing waves glittering beneath a high sun; her skin was flawless and her form was both slender and sensual; never in all his travels had he seen a woman of such uncanny beauty.

  As he stared at her, he heard the distant rumble of thunder; the day outside grew dark and the sky roiled with black clouds and the promise of a storm. And yet she, she seemed to glow, surrounded by an unearthly light, in a mist of magic, haunting him, holding him, bending his will, as a smith might bend steel . . .

  Yet the eyes that stared down upon him bore him hatred; they blazed with the fires that razed the castle. Fulk could not care for her hatred; he had become possessed by her great beauty, and he wanted her more than dreams of heaven, more than riches or land, more than his life, or his soul.

  She screamed when he approached her; she cursed him and reviled him. But she had invaded him, body and mind, and he did as his forebears would have done—he raped her.

  Yet it was not enough; it did not cure him of the longing, of the need to know her, possess her as she did him. He learned that her name was Melusine, but he could not fathom her race, or from whence she had come. He had learned only her name—and that fire would not burn her, though it encircled her, that the birds would cease to sing when she entered the courtyard, that even the breeze would fall silent.

  He could not let her go. And he, proud warrior, begged her to love him, as he loved her. To give her love to him joyously.

  Melusine agreed, but marriage would be her price. It seemed a small price, as he would gladly have sworn his soul to the devil to possess her fully. She could bring him no lands, no power, no dowry—and yet Fulk agreed. He took her for his bride. As she had promised, she came to him, night after night. Like warm scented oil her body caressed his, like a tempestuous wind, she aroused him to a fever of desire that made him forget all else. He fell ever more deeply beneath her spell.

  But Fulk was a strong man, and he came to know
that he was possessed, for never would she answer his questions, never would she tell him who she was, or where had been the place of her birth. Fulk’s bishops were horrified by his obsession; they claimed to know that Melusine was the daughter of Satan himself—a fact verified, they said, by the fact that she refused to remain at mass when it came time for the eucharist to be celebrated.

  Count Fulk, therefore, had her seized one sabbath when she would have vacated the church. Strong knights grappled to restrain her. She screamed a scream so loud and shrill, it chilled all who heard its echo. Then she disappeared; the knights held nothing, and a cloud of smoke rose to waft away out a window, and the beautiful Melusine was never seen again.

  But she had left Fulk two children, and from her children descended one Geoffrey, Count of Anjou, soon to be known as Geoffrey “planta genet,” from the sprig of bloom he wore to battle. Geoffrey married Mathilda, heiress to the Crown of England, a granddaughter of William the Conqueror. From these two sprang the royal Plantagenets, Henry II, Richard the Lion-Heart, John . . . and a dynasty of heirs, both legal—and natural.

  But the “devil” legend was never to leave the Plantagenets. They were a brood with passionate tempers, quick to love, quick to hate.

  “From the devil they have come,” said one saintly bishop of the time, “and to the devil must they pay their dues.”

  PART I

  “THE KING IS DEAD . . .”

  PROLOGUE

  The rider was gaining upon her. With each thundering moment that passed, she heard the relentless pounding of the destrier’s sure hoofbeats come closer and closer.

  Her own mount was sweating, gasping for each tremulous breath that quivered through flank muscles straining to maintain the insane gallop over the mud and through the forest. Elise could feel the animal working furiously beneath her, the great shoulders flexing . . . contracting . . .

  Elise chanced a backward glance as the wind whipped about her in the darkness of the night, blinding her with loosened strands of her own hair. Her heart suddenly seemed to stop—then to thud more loudly than even the sound of the destrier’s hooves behind her . . .

  He was almost upon her. The mare hadn’t a chance of escaping the pursuit of the experienced warhorse.

  And she hadn’t a prayer against the dark knight who rode the midnight-black stallion. She had seen him mount the horse. He was even taller than Richard the Lion-Heart, as broad of shoulder, as lean of hip.

  “No!” Elise gasped, leaning against her mare’s neck to encourage greater speed. No, no, no! she added silently. I will not be caught and butchered. I will fight. I will fight. I will fight until I draw my last breath . . .

  Dear God, what had happened? Where were the men who should have been about the castle? Who should have heard the screams of the guards?

  Oh, merciful Christ in heaven! What had happened?

  Just an hour ago she had plodded slowly along this same path to reach the castle. To say her last good-byes, to cry, to pray for Henry II of England . . .

  And now she was racing insanely away in terror, pursued by the lowest of thieves, the most cold-blooded of murderers.

  “Halt, coward!” she heard the dark horseman command harshly. His voice was deep and strong, sure and arrogant against the night. Elise pressed her knees more tightly against the mare. Run, Sabra, run! she prayed silently. Run as you have never run!

  “Halt! Desecrater of the dead!”

  She heard the words, but they made no sense. He was the murderer! He was the thief! The lowest snake of the earth to attack the dead.

  The dead King of England.

  “I’ll slit you from throat to belly!” the dark knight roared out.

  Panic whipped through her like the relentless wind, riddling and racing through her blood, making her quiver as she tried to hold hard to the reins. She turned again. The destrier was pulling beside her mare. She could see him, the dark rider.

  His hair was as black as the ebony sky. His face was ruthlessly handsome. His lips were taut and grim. His chin was as strong and firm as the stone of the castle.

  His eyes . . . she couldn’t tell their color. But they burned with a dark fury beneath sharply arched brows . . .

  He wore no mail, no armor. Not even a cloak. Only a dark tunic that whipped in a frenzy about him with the force of the wind and ride.

  His arm, muscled and powerful, reached out.

  “No!” Elise shrieked, and she brought her small whip down upon him with all the strength that she could muster.

  “Bitch of Satan!” he thundered, and reached for her again.

  This time she could not stop him. His arm swept around her, and his hand clamped about her waist like an iron manacle. She screamed and gasped as she was lifted from the mare. Then she was thrashing in earnest as she was thrown roughly over the flanks of the destrier, and the air was knocked from her.

  Her dagger! She needed her dagger! But it was caught in the pocket of her skirt, and she could neither twist nor move. All she could do was flop against the massive, silken flanks of the mighty animal and pray that she did not fall beneath its lethal hooves.

  The dark knight reined in sharply; she was shoved to the ground. A rush of air escaped her as she fell hard. For a moment she was too stunned to move.

  Then instinct took over. She tried to roll, but she was tangled in her cloak. She could only gasp again as he straddled her, seeking her wrists and pinning them to the ground.

  Her breasts heaved with fear as she tried to twist again. She tossed her head, and clamped her teeth into his arm. A grunt of pain grated from his lips, but he jerked her hands higher, leaving her with no part of his flesh to bite.

  “Where are your accomplices, bitch?” he demanded harshly. Vaguely she realized that he spoke to her in French, the common courtly language from Hadrian’s Wall to the borders of Spain since the days of the Conqueror. The words were natural, fluent, but they bore a trace of accent. They had not been his first language.

  “Tell me now, or as God is my witness, I will strip the flesh from your body inch by inch until you do!”

  Still struggling wildly, Elise lashed out in return, choosing to shout in English—language more guttural, more crude.

  “I have no accomplices—and I am no thief! You are the thief, you are the murderer! Let me go, whoreson! Help! Help! Oh, help me, someone. Help me!”

  She was stunned into silence as the back of his hand cut across her cheek. She clamped her teeth so that she would not cry out with the pain. And she saw his face more clearly.

  His eyes were not dark at all. They were blue. Sapphire blue. On fire, burning deeply into her. His cheekbones were high, his forehead broad, his nose long and slender. His face was bronzed deeply by the sun; rugged from exposure. She took all this in with the thought, How I hate this man! Loathe him. Is he a murderer? The thief? He must be. He followed behind me. He assailed me.

  “You robbed the dead. Henry of England.”

  “No!”

  “Then I shall find nothing of his upon you?”

  “No!” she shrieked. “I’m not a thief, I’m—”

  She cut off quickly. She could never tell the secret of what she was. This man would never believe her.

  And he still might be the murderer himself.

  “Can’t you see, fool? I carry nothing of the king’s—” She broke off again, trying to hide her sudden panic. Because she did hold something that had belonged to the king. Oh, dear God. No, he would never find it.

  Or would he?

  She closed her eyes, berating herself viciously for her own stupidity.

  “We shall see, madam,” he told her, his voice a deadly hiss, “if you can prove your innocence.”

  Her eyes flew open and met his. They were ruthlessly determined. “I am the Duchess of Montoui!” she declared heatedly. “And I demand that you let me up this instant!”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t care if you’re the Queen of France! I intend to discover what you have done with
what you stole.”

  “Touch me, and I’ll see your head on the block!”

  “I doubt that, Duchess.”

  He released her arms and sat up, staring at her as he crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re going to take a ride back to the castle. I suggest you be ready to talk by the time we reach it.”

  Swiftly, arrogantly, he rose, then strode to retrieve the reins of his destrier.

  Just as swiftly, Elise slipped her hand beneath the folds of her cloak and delved into her pocket. Her fingers gripped tightly around her pearl-handled dagger.

  She would have to wait until he turned. Wait until he made another move toward her. And she would have to strike swiftly and surely.

  Wait...

  And as she waited, she knit her brow in confusion. What had happened? Who was this man? A knight from the castle—or one of the thieves, thinking that she might have taken something before he had robbed the body?

  He had to be a thief. A murderer. No knight could behave so despicably.

  Dear God, here she was in mortal terror, hoping to drive her dagger into a man’s heart.

  And not long ago, the night had been one of dull and dragging misery. She had come because she loved the man she was being accused of robbing . . .

  I

  July, 1189

  The Castle of Chinon, Province of Anjou

  The rain had become a miserable drizzle. It had long ago soaked through Elise’s cloak, a plain garment of woven wool, but best for the pilgrimage she made tonight. The hood dipped well over her features and hid the luxurious length of her red and gold curls, which might—at a time such as this—have given certain men pause.