Nicole Jordan
Authors: Master of Temptation
Contents
This book is dedicated to veterans of all our wars, my late father and my brother included, with thanks for their courage and sacrifice.
I
wanted to know what passion was like,” Caro said. “I had read about coupling in medical texts and…I was curious.”
“Did I satisfy your curiosity?”
“I suppose so.” Which was a masterful understatement. Passion was so much more devastating than she had ever expected. At least passion with this man was.
Max put his finger to her lips. “I had never experienced anything like that night. And pray don’t tell me it was the island’s magical spell. It was far more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have no idea, do you?” Reaching up, he gently pushed a tendril of hair back from her forehead. “Let’s just say you helped me face returning to the war.”
She was taken aback by the look in his eyes. It was almost…sensual. No man had ever looked at her that way, with desire. Except for Max. Except for that night.
“You have haunted me ever since,” he said simply, his voice no more than a whisper.
He had haunted her as well….
Ancient Myth or Enduring Truth?
Around myriad hearth fires, tales are recounted of a time long vanished—songs of romance and passion and glory, of a legendary leader who wielded his sword for right. Legend holds that he perished but that his legacy lives on, his sword harbored by an enchanted isle, enduring to safeguard and protect humankind.
Most believe the world is kept safe by powerful rulers and mighty armies. Only a select few guess at the truth. For a millennium, the Guardians of the Sword have stood against evil. Operating in secret, they use an arsenal of guile and skill to champion justice and defend right with might.
Prologue
The Isle of Cyrene,
August 1813
The ruins seemed enchanted in the moonlight. Silver pools rippled luminously in the night shadows, fed by a hot spring that cascaded gently down terraced stairs of granite, the last vestiges of a Roman bath. Yet the spellbinding sight failed to soothe Caro Evers as usual. Her restless tension only heightened as she rode closer.
Halting at the foot of the terrace, Caro slid from the aging mare’s back. Beyond the cliff’s eastern edge stretched the shimmering Mediterranean, calm and serene beneath the brilliant disk of the moon. This was a spectacular place, even on an island known for its uncanny beauty, but tonight the serenity seemed a stark contrast to her disquietude.
She felt as nervous as a girl meeting her secret lover.
Which was absurd. The major wasn’t her lover, no matter what foolish fantasies her mind insisted on conjuring. She wasn’t even certain he would come.
In agitation Caro bent to pluck a delicate white orchid, then left her horse to graze on the wild grass and ferns that grew among the crevices as she made her way toward the baths. A fresh salt breeze ruffled her muslin skirts, scented by honeysuckle that twined among the ancient stones and with pine from Cyrene’s wooded mountain slopes. Although night had long fallen, the rock beneath her bare feet still held warmth from the summer sun as she climbed the carved steps that had been trod for more than a millennium.
When she passed beneath an arched portal, her heart leapt. A man stood at the parapet wall above her, gazing out at the vast, moonlit sea.
Major Maxwell Leighton.
She recognized him at once, even though they had met only three days ago. Few of the islanders possessed such a tall form, such powerfully set shoulders, such authoritative bearing. And no one else could make her pulse quicken with a mere glance from his compelling blue eyes, as he could.
Since the major’s arrival on a mission of mercy, she’d spent nearly the entire time with him, locked in a desperate battle, fighting for a dying man’s life.
You came tonight,
Caro reflected with relief. He obviously intended to bathe. He had already removed his boots and the short blue jacket of his Hussars uniform, and wore merely breeches and a white shirt.
When he glanced over his shoulder at her, she suddenly became conscious of her own disheveled appearance: the skirts of her oldest gown swirling around her bare feet, her curling brown hair unpinned, spilling in even wilder disarray than usual. She tried to control her self-conscious flush.
He spoke in a low voice. “Are you certain you want me invading your haven?”
No, I’m not certain.
She came frequently to the Roman ruins to bathe in the pools, usually when she was physically spent and aching after a hard bout of fencing practice. Rarely did she allow anyone to intrude on her solitude here. But after the strain of the past few days, the major needed the peace and beauty of the ruins to allay his exhaustion. Needed the soothing effects of the silken waters. They both did.
“I don’t consider your presence an invasion,” she replied honestly. “I asked you to come.”
Climbing, Caro moved to stand beside him at the crumbling stone wall, her heart beating faster simply at his nearness.
It was startling how her body responded to him. She had never felt such a primal reaction to any man. The island of Cyrene was said to have a mythical ability to seduce the senses, but until now she’d always thought herself immune to the spell. True, Maxwell Leighton was one of the most strikingly handsome men she had ever met, with his deep blue eyes, lean features, and raven hair. But she had known stunning men before. Quite a number of them, in fact, for Cyrene had more than its fair share.
She rarely had felt such powerful feminine feelings, though. For three days now she had tried to repress her fierce attraction to Major Leighton, as well as the missish emotions that were so uncharacteristic of her.
Most disturbing was the heat and intensity in those eyes; when he looked at her, he aroused a wild yearning in her blood, making her feel as if she couldn’t take a deep breath.
Willing herself to calm, Caro focused on the glimmering vista of the sea. She could hear the soft whisper of the waves below as they swelled in a gentle, timeless rhythm.
“Is Yates still sleeping quietly?” she asked, breaking the hush.
“Yes, thank God,” the major responded. “For the first time in weeks he has found a semblance of peace.”
Lieutenant John Yates had lost a leg in Spain during the most recent grueling battle against Napoleon’s forces, and the wound had refused to heal. When he’d grown weaker and more feverish by the day, he had begged his commanding officer to take him home to his island, but the raw wound had turned septic during the voyage.
Unwilling to abandon the dying man, Major Leighton had remained on Cyrene, waiting for the end that had never come. Miraculously the young lieutenant’s condition had turned around early this morning; his fever had broken, and he was expected to survive.
“I am immeasurably grateful to you,” the major murmured. “You saved Yates’s life.”
“It was not just I,” Caro demurred. “Dr. Allenby has the true medical skill. I merely helped.”
“No, you were the one who stayed by his side hour after hour.”
True, she had nursed the lieutenant constantly because the island doctor had other patients to tend. But Major Leighton had played a vital role as well—keeping vigil between his agitated pacing, obediently performing whatever tasks were needed without complaint, holding the delirious lieutenant down while she poulticed the terrible injury and poured noxious-tasting medicines down his throat and applied cold compresses to his burning body.
“Yates is alive,” Leighton insisted, “because you refused to let him die. I think it was your sheer willpower that saved him.”
Caro felt absurdly warmed by his praise. “Well, I am known for my stubbornness.”
That drew a fleeting smile from him. She had never seen him smile, and the charm of it made her breath falter. Still, it had been Leighton’s concern for his wounded subordinate, rather than his potent masculine appeal, that had drawn her to him from the first.
They had grown closer during the long, dark hours of their ordeal. They were no longer mere strangers, not after sharing such a turmoil of emotions: fear, despair, hope, and finally, profound elation. In winning their victory, they had formed a bond that was almost tangible.
She found herself fiercely regretting that he would be leaving on the morrow.
“I think you give me too much credit,” Caro said. “According to John, you were the one who saved his life by warding off a saber attack.”
“Yet he would never have been wounded in the first place if he hadn’t leapt directly in the path of a cavalry charge in order to shield me. I am greatly indebted to him. As I am to you.”
At the fervency of his tone, Caro turned her head and saw the major gazing down at her in intense contemplation. When she met his dark-lashed eyes, an unexpected heat washed over her, starkly primitive and unmistakably sexual.
Caro looked away. It was foolish to feel such yearnings. She doubted she held much sexual appeal for this beautiful man. Her looks were comely enough, but she suspected he found her femininity wanting after observing her for the past few days.
She couldn’t blame him. Ladies of genteel station did not deal with blood and gore and dying men by choice, assisting the island doctor with patient surgeries and the injuries of unrelated men.
Nor did they engage in dangerous missions across much of Europe, wielding weapons in defense of a valiant cause—to root out evil and tyranny.
She was not like most other women. Her natural gift for healing set her apart from her peers, but her clandestine vocation separated her even further. She was a Guardian, a member of a secret society of protectors sworn to uphold the ancient ideals once championed by a legendary leader.
But her unconventional career was
not
a subject she could discuss with an outsider. Certainly not Major Leighton, who would leave Cyrene tomorrow, likely never to return.
The thought of his leaving sent a pang of distress welling within Caro. One thing was certain: She would never forget him. Although she fervently wished she could.
Maxwell Leighton made her long for things she’d convinced herself she didn’t want or need. At the ripe age of twenty-four, she had forgone the things most women considered important—marriage, children, husband…even lovers.
Lovers.
Caro felt an ache constrict her chest.
In her wildest fantasies she might have wondered what it would be like to experience this man’s lovemaking, but he was unlikely to choose her as his lover. After battling beside her for the lieutenant’s life, she imagined he regarded her more as a comrade in arms than an object of desire.
“You will continue to care for Yates?” he asked, his voice dark with concern.
“Of course,” she replied with a sigh. “I don’t think you need worry, Major. He is past the danger now. He will heal eventually.”
“But he will be forever maimed.” Leighton shut his eyes, while his body gave a faint shudder.
She thought she understood his despair. He felt responsible for his lieutenant’s sacrifice. And he himself was clearly suffering from the terrible stresses of war.
The major hadn’t been wounded in battle as his subordinate had been, but after serving as a cavalry officer for eight years, he had invisible wounds that were just as raw. His emotional pain was palpable. Through their dark hours together, she’d seen the torment in his eyes that hinted at the inner demons he was fighting. A battle-weary soldier sick to his soul of death and destruction.
She wanted to help him, to bring him comfort somehow, but she felt at a loss. His wasn’t a physical wound that could be healed by potions and poultices.
“The lieutenant says you are a hero,” she said finally.
Leighton’s response was a faint scoffing sound. “If you only knew.” He looked at his hands, as if seeing them still stained with blood. “You are a healer, but I take lives. And I am not even considering the countless men who have died under my command. Or the…friends I’ve lost.”
“But think of the countless others you have saved.”
His reply was filled with bleakness. “That’s the hell of it. I couldn’t save them.”
Her heart ached for him. She didn’t need him to explain his feelings. He felt the guilt of surviving when he wasn’t able to save others.
As a healer, she had fought similar battles herself, attempting to defy the Grim Reaper. And too many times she had lost.
“You cannot hold yourself to blame for the madness of war, Major,” Caro said quietly. “You can only keep striving.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It takes remarkable courage to confront death as you do, day after day. But I—and all our countrymen—am supremely grateful to you and the other brave men like you who are willing to keep trying.”
For a long moment he didn’t answer. He simply stared down at her, searching her face, his eyes dark and fathomless as the night.
“An angel of mercy,” he said finally. “Are you always this comforting?”
Caro felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “I try. As you said, I am a healer. And I don’t like to see anyone in pain.”
“And you think I am in pain?”
“Are you not?” she asked softly.
He gave a harsh whisper of a laugh. “You’re too damned perceptive.”
Eager to shift the focus of his intense contemplation, she responded with another question. “Must you return tomorrow? Perhaps you could remain on Cyrene a while longer.”
“It’s tempting, I admit.” He glanced to his left toward where France lay north of the island, then farther west, toward Spain, where the bloody Peninsular War was being fought. “I’m not eager to return to the slaughter. I have little stomach for watching my men become cannon fodder.” The major shook his head. “But they need me. I can’t forsake them.”
“Even a few days would do you good. With the lieutenant in such a critical state, you had no chance to enjoy the peace of our little island. I assure you, it can prove a balm for the soul.”
“Are you saying your island possesses some peculiar magic?”
“No magic, but the sun and fresh air and the sea are healing. And legend holds that Apollo cast a spell here to create a lovers’ paradise.”
“I’ve never been one to believe in such things as spells.”
“Nor I,” Caro agreed.
But spell or no, Cyrene was a haven of beauty with its azure seas, sun-splashed slopes, and golden valleys. It had the power to soothe raw, ravaged nerves, bitter wounds of the spirit, even the deepest grief. Which was why she had asked the major to come here tonight.
He glanced behind him at the moonlit ruin with its shining, terraced pools. “There does seem to be an enchantment about this place.”
His unsettling gaze focused on her again, and a long silence followed.
Then slowly he reached up to slide his hand beneath her hair, capturing her nape in a gentle vise, half turning her to face him. Caro drew a shallow breath as he stared down at her mouth, his lids half-lowered, fringed by black lashes.
