Lucien's Khamsin (17 page)

“Not in the least,” Petros declared, taking a chair across from Lucien. “It’s nice to see him with a grin on that ugly puss.”

“Where is the lovely lady, anyway?” Christina asked.

“I bid her sleep,” Lucien said. “She was up most of the day, reading in the library.”

“Too much energy after sapping yours last eve?” Petros asked with a grin.

“Lucien’s cum must have energized her,” Christina put in.

Lucien crossed his booted feet, completely relaxed with his friends. “Keep it up, you two. That cat-o’-nine is just itching to scratch your backs.”

Petros winked at Christina then sucked in a quick breath through his nose. “I think we found our mole in Pavli,” he said. “But he may have had an accomplice here.”

Lucien frowned. “Why do you think so?”

“I sent Briton over to Pavli’s room to gather up his belongings. Buried amidst his things was a Constantine medallion. He must have used it to communicate with Stavros. From other stuff we found, it’s pretty obvious he was in thrall to Stavros.”

“Son of a bitch!” Christina blazed. “I knew I didn’t like that bastard!”

“After his execution, Nestor came to me to confess he and Peleus put rancid meat atop the good stuff we sent out to the plague victims,” Petros said.

A dangerous look darkened Lucien’s face. “Why?” he barked, the one word lethal in its voice and tone.

“Because Pavli ordered them to put nothing but rancid meat on the wagon that night. Both men reasoned it was wrong and didn’t want to get in trouble, but then neither did they want to make an enemy of Pavli. They put just enough rancid stuff on top for Pavli to smell it. The rest was good.”

“Will you punish them?” Christina asked.

“They did what I wanted,” Lucien replied for Petros. “They should have come to you, but I can understand why they didn’t. There’s no need to discipline them.”

“But you still think there’s a Stavros spy here?” Christina queried. “Do you have any idea who it is?”

“And why you believe he wasn’t working alone,” Lucien amended.

“The fool kept a diary,” Petros said with a sneer. “Nothing that would incriminate him, per se, but there were a couple of entries suggesting he had turned more sensitive information over to someone he called Bilitis’ daughter but did not identify her any further.”

Christina flinched. “The spy is a woman?”

“Apparently so.”

Lucien turned his gaze to Christina but she was staring at the floor, her lips pursed tightly together, her eyes shifting back and forth, as though she could find the name of the traitor written on the carpet.

“I’ll question each of the women and see whose father is named Bilitis,” Christina said as she raised her head. “What do you want me to do when or if I find her?”

“Nothing,” Lucien said quietly and both Christina and Petros turned to stare at him.

“Nothing?” Christina asked. “Why not?”

Lucien shrugged. “It isn’t important. It wasn’t important about Pavli.” He looked at Petros. “Perhaps one of these days we should slip a spy into Stavros’ camp.”

Petros nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps we should.” It would not do for Lucien to find out there was already a spy in place in the enemy’s camp.

“You don’t think this woman poses a threat to you, Lucien?” Christina asked. “To any of us?”

Lucien unclasped his hands, and put his fingers to his right temple and rubbed. “Look for her if you want, Tina. If you find her, bring her to me. I’ll question her then send her back to Stavros. For now, I’d appreciate it if the two of you would find somewhere else to congregate.”

“Another headache?” Petros asked.

“Too much sex is more like it,” Christina laughed. She slid off the table. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

Lucien nodded but didn’t answer. When she was out of the room, he glanced up at Petros. “You’re sure about that name?” he asked. “Bilitis’ daughter?”

“Aye, I’m positive.” He turned to look at the doorway through which Christina had just exited. “Her father’s name was Telly, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, Theodopilous,” Lucien agreed.

“Then why that strange look you gave her, which she didn’t see, by the way?”

Lucien laid his head on the chair back. “What look?” he asked.

Petros drew in a long breath. “Perhaps I read you wrong.”

“I believe you did.” The Revenant prince swiveled his head toward his friend. “Are you going to stay here and annoy me or are you going to let me daydream for a while?”

“You can’t daydream at night, Luc,” Petros said with a sniff. “Fantasize, I would think, but not daydream.” He got up, his bones creaking with age.

“Then let me fantasize,” Lucien ordered. He locked eyes with Petros then turned his head away, closing his eyes to indicate his removal from the conversation.

Petros walked to the door. He stopped, his back to Lucien, stood there a moment as though with indecision then went out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Lucien opened his eyes and stared at the far wall. He could hear Petros giving orders to the ever-present guards who went everywhere Lucien did and who guarded him day and night. Though the words were spoken softly, Lucien heard each one of them and smiled sadly to himself. Petros took no chances with the life of his friend and never again would he allow Lucien to be placed in harm’s way if he could prevent it.

Pushing aside thoughts of treachery and betrayal, Lucien let his mind drift back to the night before. There was comfort in thoughts of Khamsin and the wicked little body that had kept him enslaved to it from early dusk to just before the rise of the sun. The taste of her, the scent of her and the feel of her was carved into his soul now—as well as his heart—and he could feel the loneliness sloughing off him. For the first time since he could remember, he was content.

Yet the headache still plagued him—as it had for days. Sex had not relieved it, though it was not as acute as it had been. He rubbed at his temple, closing his eyes to the pounding pain over his right eye.

A soft, gentle hand eased over his, pushing it away as cool fingers grazed his left temple as well. Tender circles spiraled in unison and the scent of his lady filled Lucien’s nostrils.

“Is there an elixir for the pain, milord?”

Lucien gave into the comfort that was pressing delicately against his temples. “There is tenerse, but I would just as soon not take it if I don’t have to.” He reached up for her hand and pulled her around his chair to sit in his lap. Once she was reclining against him—her head on his shoulder—he encompassed her within the perimeter of his arms, holding her securely. “Why are you not sleeping?”

“I slept most of the night,” she protested then smiled. “Then I went through the clothing you had sent to me and marked those I liked best.” She smoothed her hand down the nightgown she was wearing. “This I like especially well.”

“You should be sleeping, wench,” he said, “and not inspecting clothing.”

“I wanted to be with you.”

He laid his cheek on the top of her head and looked out the window at the mist-shrouded night. “Would you like to go for a ride?”

“Doesn’t your head hurt?” she countered.

“Aye, but I’m used to it.”

“No,” she said. “I would rather stay here.”

“I promised to take you riding,” he reminded her.

“And you will, but not until you are over the headache.”

He smiled and tightened his grip. “Aye, Your Grace. I will do as you command.”

Khamsin gave an unladylike snort. They were companionably silent for several minutes then she asked what was worrying him.

“Why do you think I’m worried?”

“I can sense it,” she said, “and besides, you wouldn’t be sitting here alone if something wasn’t bothering you.”

He said nothing for a moment then sighed deeply. “Have you ever been betrayed by a friend, wench?”

Khamsin sat up and turned so she could look him in the eye. “Petros?”

Lucien shook his head. “Christina,” he replied. “She is a spy for Stavros.”

A frown shifted over Khamsin’s face. “You know this for a surety?”

“I’ve suspected it for some time but didn’t want to believe it,” he answered. “Tonight, it was confirmed.”

“May I ask how?”

Lucien had carefully removed all memory of Aristotle Pavli from Khamsin’s mind and he knew he had to be careful with his explanation. He cleared his throat, giving himself time to formulate an answer.

“One of the thralls came to me a year or so ago and asked if he could use the library to better himself. I saw no reason why he couldn’t so I allowed him to do so.”

“Did he want to become of the Blood?” she asked.

Lucien smiled. “You are learning about us, aren’t you?”

“I made good use of the library myself today, milord,” she stated.

“As did he, but his research—if that is what it could be called—seemed a bit strange to me.”

“What was he researching?”

“There is an old saying that goes ‘know your enemy’,” Lucien replied. “I think the thrall was doing that, but instead of trying to find out about an enemy, he was trying to learn all he could about his ally.”

“Christina?” she asked. “Was he in league with her?”

“Apparently so. I found a volume of poetry sitting on the desk after the thrall had left one evening and thought it strange that a man like him would be interested in such verses.”

“What kind of verses?”

“It was a mid-twentieth-century work called
Songs of Bilitis
by Pierre Louys. It was a volume of love poems between women.” He flexed his shoulders. “Gay women.”

Khamsin’s left eyebrow crooked upward. “I take it this man is not the poetic type?”

“He was a loudmouthed bully with a penchant for cruelty toward women.”

“Was?”

Lucien shifted in the chair. “He died recently.”

“Had you read that book?”

“Not likely, wench. My reading tastes run to history,” he said with a grunt. “I like to see just how accurate the reporting is.”

“Since you’ve lived it,” she said.

“Aye, since I’ve lived it.”

“So the book made you suspicious. Did you ask the thrall about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I already suspected Christina was sending information to Stavros but it wasn’t anything I didn’t want him to know in the first place. I thought if she had an accomplice, Petros would find out about him sooner or later. Petros would have taken care of the situation.”

“And did he?”

“I did, but not for the thrall’s spying.”

Khamsin felt a shiver pass down her spine. “Did you kill him?”

“Not personally, but I ordered it.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“He pissed me off,” Lucien stated. “And we’ll discuss that bastard no more.”

Feeling chastened, Khamsin returned her head to his shoulder. His right hand was rubbing up and down her arm, the fingers of his left hand entwined with hers.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Not really. Are you?”

He ducked his head and pressed his lips lightly to the column of her neck. “Not for food, wench, but a midnight snack wouldn’t be amiss.”

“It’s past midnight, milord,” she said.

“A pre-dawn snack, then,” he amended and moved his hand to her breast to gently knead the lush mound.

“Dawn is but two hours away, milord,” she pointed out. “Do you think you are up to the task?”

“The coming of the sun slows me down, Khammie,” he replied. “It doesn’t bring me to a standstill.”

“Slows you down,” she said. “Long, slow movements, eh?”

Lucien unthreaded his fingers from her left hand and reached up to mold his hand around her other breast, squeezing both and running his palm over the nipples.

“Very slow,” he said, nibbling her neck. “Very measured, unhurried strokes that thrust deep and withdraw. Thrust deep again then remain well-seated in the soft, moist cavern it has entered.”

“Leisurely thrusts, milord?” she inquired, wriggling on his lap for beneath her rump was a hard, insistent rod that moved against her.

“Aye, wench. Very deliberate, calculated strokes that slip in and out with premeditated precision.”

“Strokes that might be sped up just a bit toward the end?” she wanted clarified.

“Strokes that will most definitely speed up,” he agreed.

“Hard strokes, milord?”

“Rammed in with accuracy, wench.”

He slid his hand down to the apex of her thighs and cupped her, his middle finger tapping for entry.

“And what, pray tell,” she asked, “am I to do while you are doing all that measured thrusting, milord?”

He gathered the fabric her nightgown that prevented him from touching her bare flesh and inched it up, crumbling the lightweight cotton in his hand.

“Lay there in a wanton state,” he answered. “Arms and legs flung wide as I kneel between your creamy thighs, lift that sweet ass and impale you upon my rock-hard shaft.”