Stay the Night (23 page)

“Also true.” When Shalan tried to put his mouth where his thumb was, Phillipe held him away. He guided him over to one of the benches and sat on it, still holding Shalan before him. “It has been a long time. I cannot promise that I will be especially gentle. Are you certain you wish to match your blade against mine?”

“God in heaven, yes.” Shalan's voice dropped to a low, shaking whisper. “I have been thinking about you, about this, since I first saw you.”

Without another word he knelt down between Phillipe's thighs, his fingers swiftly releasing the front of his trousers. He flipped his hair back with his hands, but it fell forward again as he bent his head to envelop the straining penis head with his mouth.

Wet heat and erotic suction made Phillipe stiffen and curse softly as he caught Shalan's hair with his hand and held it back. His eyes burned at the sight of his shaft stretching and disappearing between the other man's lips, while his ears drank in the soft sounds of suckling and muffled groans. Shalan worked him with the greed of a hungry youth and the skill of an old lover, sucking Phillipe's cock steadily with deep, slow pulls of his mouth.

Blood roared in Phillipe's head, and distantly he heard Alexandra's voice.
You're a big, strong, immortal guy. You can hold on another minute, can't you?

He could not. He seized Shalan's hair, dragging his mouth from his cock and bringing it up to his. He pulled him onto his lap as he kissed him, thrusting his tongue into his mouth as deeply as he had his penis, taking what he needed and giving as much as the other seneschal would take.

Shalan broke the kiss first. “Now I begin to understand.” He curled up and rubbed himself against Phillipe like a lonely cat, eager and purring. “It is too bad that there is an entire planet between our territories.”

Phillipe cupped his hand between the smaller man's legs, cradling the weight there. “There will be nothing between us tonight.”

He rose, putting Shalan on his back on the bench so he could strip him out of his trousers, regaining some of his self-control as he leisurely put his mouth to what he uncovered. Shalan tasted as piquant as his sea-wind scent, and his hard, smooth skin proved unusually sensitive for a Kyn male. His cock, a thick, fist-long spike that begged to be stroked and kissed, was covered with an intact, velvety foreskin that slowly reddened and peeled back from the slick head as Phillipe toyed with it. When Shalan cursed he took him into his mouth and soothed his weeping cock head with his tongue, but as soon as Shalan groaned with pleasure Phillipe drew away and returned to his love play.

“Do you mean to deprive me of my wits?” Shalan croaked at last.

“No.” But Phillipe liked having the seneschal naked, straining and quivering under his hands. “Well, perhaps a little. I want you to remember this night.”

“Trust me, Navarre.” The other man laughed helplessly. “I shall.”

Phillipe straightened, pausing for a moment to run a hand down the sinewy leanness of the seneschal's thigh.

“You will have me on my knees again,” Shalan muttered before he turned his head and pressed his mouth against Phillipe's thigh, sinking his fangs into his flesh. He took only a mouthful of blood before pulling away. “Give me your sword now, Navarre. Give it to me as hard as you can.”

Phillipe flipped him over onto his belly, taking Shalan's narrow, angular hips between his big hands and pulling him up into the position to be penetrated. The head of his cock, still slick from Shalan's talented mouth, oozed the clear, silky fluid of his arousal. Phillipe rubbed it up and down the crinkled ruck between Shalan's tight buttocks, moving slowly, teasing him with brief moments of pressure.

“I will scream,” Shalan warned, moving his hips back and wriggling against him. “And then everyone will know what we have been doing with our blades.”

Phillipe leaned down, kissing him slowly and deliberately before he murmured, “I do not care if they do.”

The other man turned his head until their gazes met. Dark eyes gleamed with lust, regret, and something else. “I know you cannot give me your heart, Navarre. Do not make me want to steal it away, along with you.”

“Let me give you what we both want.” Phillipe gripped his waist, steadying him as he breached the clutching opening and pressed in.

Phillipe sank into the tight, hot channel faster than he wished, but the sounds Shalan made were not of pain. He reached under the smaller man and gripped his short, wide shaft, tugging on it as he slid the last inches of his own past the tightening ring of muscle.

Shalan began muttering words in his native language as he hung, skewered and writhing, squeezing Phillipe from root to tip.

“I have never felt . . .” Shalan lost the rest on a gasp as Phillipe pushed deep, bumping the tender head of his penis against the sweet mound hidden inside Shalan's body, the secret center of a man's pleasure.

Phillipe braced one hand against the back of the bench as he drew out and thrust back in, prodding the same spot, dragging the flared ridge of his tip over it as he withdrew. Shalan made a strangled sound. “There. There you are.”

He rode Shalan hard, not sparing him an inch as he used his strokes to bring deep grunts and cries of delight from his partner's throat. His balls tightened as he heard Shalan chant his name, and he felt him pulse under his fingers as he jetted his seed. But it was only when Shalan went limp under him that Phillipe closed his eyes and pumped his semen into the seneschal's tight, trembling ass.

He lifted him, keeping him firmly impaled as he maneuvered them both into a reclining position, and held him until Shalan disengaged their bodies and turned to put his mouth to Phillipe's for a long, fervent kiss of gratitude.

“I would stay and match blades with you again, but my master rises early.” He rose and moved with gratifying reluctance to pick up his clothes and dress. “You know where our rooms are, should you wish a rematch.” He smiled before he slipped out through the curtain of ivy.

Phillipe lay staring at the vines that had grown across the gazebo's ceiling, enjoying the lingering pleasure but unsettled by the encounter. He had never thought to take a Kyn lover; the old stigmas made it unwise to advertise his preferences, and there were more than enough mortal men who enjoyed other men in bed to keep Phillipe physically satisfied. He did not deceive himself into contemplating a relationship with Shalan; as the seneschal himself had pointed out, they served masters on opposite sides of the world. Even with their lords' blessing, the logistics involved would have made it impossible.

Still, the thought of having a Kyn lover waiting in his bed each dawn made Phillipe feel a little wistful. His jealousy of Alexandra had been due in part to the fiery passion she and Cyprien shared, as well as the loving bond they formed that had since endured so much. Who could not look upon Alex and Michael when they were together and not feel a little lonelier?

Phillipe pulled on his trousers, made his way back to his room, and collapsed on his bed. He had nearly fallen asleep when he heard the door to Cyprien's chamber open and close, and smelled his master's scent. Concerned, he rose, dressed, and followed it. He found Cyprien in the suzerain's library, sitting before the fire and smoking a cigarette.

“Master, I had thought you had retired for the day.” Phillipe saw his expression and bowed. “Forgive me. I will leave you.”

“
Non, mon ami
. Sit with me.”

Phillipe eased down into one of the suzerain's oddly shaped chairs and waited, but Cyprien said nothing.

“All is well, master?” he ventured at last.

“I am faced with some uncomfortable truths.” Cyprien told him what Alexandra had learned from treating the refugees, then took a final drag from his cigarette and pitched it into the fire. “This, at a time when the Kyn do nothing but talk of war.”

“There is always talk of war. We have managed to avoid it these five hundred years.” Phillipe leaned forward. “You do not believe that we can this time?”

“When I meet with Richard and the others and tell them of what Alexandra has discovered? I think not.” Cyprien met his gaze. “I went to war to show my father that I was a man of faith and conviction. I made you go with me; I dragged you into that horror, and I have never apologized to you for that. I am sorry, old friend.”

“I was not made to accompany you, master,” Phillipe pointed out. “I chose my place at your side. I have never regretted it.”

“Your loyalty—no, your friendship—has been a great blessing in my life.” He sighed. “I fear I will be the only seigneur opposing a war. Now Alexandra has brought me this knowledge that may very well hurl us all into that hell again.”

Phillipe sat back, almost tipping over the chair before he made it steady. “This furniture is the devil.”

Cyprien smiled a little. “Geoffrey loves to unsettle everyone.” He took an envelope from his jacket. “Should I fail to sway the others, you will need this when you return to America with Alexandra. It names you as commander over all of the suzerains. You will need to send copies to all of our
jardins
.”

Phillipe didn't touch the envelope. “My place is still at your side, master.”

“Not this time,
mon ami
. If war is declared, Richard will name me as his successor and have me serve as his general. I will not be returning for some time, if at all.”

At last Phillipe understood the crushing weight on Cyprien's shoulders. “Alexandra will not go back without you. The last time you were separated it almost destroyed your minds.”

“That should serve me well when I lead our warriors against the Brethren,” Cyprien said. “I am not convinced we can prevail over them, not with the weapons and tactics they will employ. Should I fall in battle, Alex will be left alone.”

They had spoken of this once before, Phillipe remembered, when Richard had taken Alexandra. Michael had come to England to fight to the death over her. His master had asked him, if he failed, to free his
sygkenis
, take back to her homeland, and replace the bond she shared with Cyprien. Fearing that his master would be killed by the high lord, Phillipe had agreed.

“Phillipe?”

He looked at Cyprien, and the irony of the situation made him speak without thinking. “You are ever trying to give me your woman, master.”

“You are like a brother to me,” Cyprien said simply. “I could not bear the thought of her being with anyone else.” He hesitated, and then added, “I had never considered how difficult that might prove for you until tonight, when I went to look for you, and . . .” He glanced toward the garden.

Phillipe thought of what he had said and done in the gazebo, and recalled the sounds Shalan had made, and rubbed his hand over his face.
“Mon Dieu.”

“Your private life is your own,” Cyprien said. “Only now I realize how much I have asked of you, without ever once considering your feelings.”

“Master, it is not as you think. I have been with women, and I have enjoyed them. I love Alexandra like a sister. It is only . . .” He trailed off, unsure of the words. “At least now you know why I cannot be what you are to her.”

“That is why I struggle with this,” Cyprien said. “You should be free to choose your own life companion, even if the rest of the Kyn do not recognize another man as such. But Alex loves you, and more important, she trusts you. Should the worst happen, I beg you to take her and bond her to you as your
sygkenis
. For my sake, and for hers.”

Phillipe loved them both, so there was only one answer he could give. “I will do whatever I can, master. I promise you.”

Chapter 12

R
obin was tired and worried. He knew that if he couldn't find Nottingham and the manuscript, the contessa would carry out her threats. Forcing Chris to come with him to Italy made him feel as manipulative and scheming as Salva, but he knew that if the contessa killed her partner, Chris would never forgive herself.

He had been kind and patient. He had explained as much as he could, and had seen to her comfort. She refused to stop fighting him, but she was a stubborn wench. She didn't know about his past, how he kidnapped Marian to take her to Scotland and prevent her marriage to Nottingham.

Chris, like Marian, was completely devoted to her duty, and made it all too obvious that she cared nothing for him. He found it deeply ironic that the first time he met a woman who might make him forget about his long-lost love, she wanted no part of him or his life.

As with Marian, he had accepted it and silently promised himself that he would not force himself on her. Knowing Chris was ready to drop from exhaustion but too upset to rest, he had even assured that she would sleep through the nineteen-hour flight from Atlanta to Rome.

He had not expected her to like the situation, or to give him any significant amount of assistance. But her refusal to believe what he had told her, coupled with her endless derision, had set him on edge. Even so, he made allowance for that. Chris was an intelligent, resilient woman. She would adjust and come to accept what had to be.

Or so he had thought until she hit him.

Robin's head snapped back as her fist struck his jaw. She could not hurt him, not with her mortal strength, but he saw pain fill her eyes as she cradled her bleeding hand.

That she would injure herself trying to hurt him infuriated him as much as the scent of her blood aroused other feelings inside him.

“You did better with my dagger.” He seized her by the arms. “Shall I retrieve that for you while you still have one hand working well enough to hold it?”

Chris swept her foot behind his legs, using it to unbalance him. He held her as he went down, landing on his back with her on top of him. She flipped away from him, kicking him in the side, and he tore off her shoe trying to catch her foot.