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THE SACRIFICE
Chapter One

 

Anastasia awoke with a start, blinking against the dank blackness that greeted her, struggling against images she couldn’t control and of which she should have no knowledge. Dark sensual images that haunted her.

The coarse woolen blanket that draped her scraped the stiff tips of her nipples and drew a desperate moan from her lips. While she slept she had unlaced her linen shift. Her face now burned with that knowledge and from the heavy moist pulse that throbbed between her legs.

Was she destined to take her final vows, in a mere three days hence, still plagued by forbidden thoughts and shocking desires? Surely Lucifer was tempting her mortal soul.

She flung off her covers and sank to her knees. The rough stone floor chafed her but she paid no heed. She vowed to persist all night if praying would deliver her from this awful curse.

Her sobs echoed against the walls of her sparse cell in the abbey but only a mocking silence followed. No guardian angel answered her prayers.

Yet, the life for which she was destined awaited her. She could never doubt that. Had she not prepared all her life for the holy nuptials with which she would become the bride of her Lord?

To be raised in privilege allowed her to appreciate her sacrifice to live in poverty, and having been born a girl, obeisance had been her life. She would offer those gifts with a generous spirit.

Poverty and obedience, yes. But what of chastity?

While she had no carnal knowledge of men, still, she willingly offered the sacrifice of celibacy as well.

A thought startled her. Perhaps her prayer for deliverance had just been answered? For how could she offer the last as a gift? A gift that had no meaning since she had no knowledge of what she offered.

She sprang to her feet and tucked her toes into small leather slippers, certain now of what she must do.

She grabbed a small torch from its wall holder and hurried to the circular stairwell leading to the back gardens. A snap of cold air bit her fair skin as she stepped out. The sound of wild geese squawked overhead.

She paused after she passed the fishpond and looked up into the sky. Dark clouds loomed ominous. She would have to move swiftly to avoid the storm.

Long before the first hint of sun teased the horizon, Anastasia found herself on a drawbridge, crossing the moat surrounding a castle and standing before Hawkwood and its foreboding gates of iniquity, frozen with fear.

Immediately sentries on duty blocked her path. A streak of lightning crackled in the sky and the heavens let loose with a sudden downpour as though issuing a final warning.

Every novice at the Cloister heard rumor of Count Maxwell and about the dark sexual secrets that simmered behind these walls. Whispered admonishments filled the Abbey of pleasures of the flesh lurking within the fortress.

She clutched her cloak tighter, soaked now, the heavy cloth plastering her shift to her skin.

"Who goes there?" The men-at-arms raised their swords and bucklers.

"A ... visitor." Anastasia hesitated. How was she to explain what she sought?

"Is Ian expecting you?"

"Ian?"

"Count Maxwell."

"I... I don’t believe, sir."

They drew nearer, their eyes sweeping over her small wet frame, and then peered at her face, hidden beneath her hood. The younger man spoke in a husky voice and glanced at the other. "I’ll take her in. You stay here."

They signaled above and the iron-studded portcullis lifted. Lightening flashed, jolting her. She mistepped and nearly fell but for the strong hold of the soldier who reached out to grab her. When she looked up, the castle’s spiked turrets, like giant lances, silhouetted against the illumined sky. A shiver stole down her spine at the awesome sight.

"Hurry along, now," he scolded, firmly dragging her through the gatehouse and toward heavy wooden doors.

Within minutes she was entering a large antechamber. A single blazing torch cast ghostly figures along the gray stonewalls, the flames forming shadow-like robes that mimicked a sensual dance, sinful in its promise. The bite of incense hung in the air. A scent so familiar it should have lent comfort but within these walls smelled sultry, hinting at heathen rituals and mystery forbidden.

The guard led her through a wide barbican that took them to the far end of the keep and then up the winding stairs of a tower. When they reached two floors up, she stepped into immediate warmth. The smell of wood smoke and pine scent filled the air and a blazing hearth graced almost an entire wall bracketed by books on both sides. Volumes of books equaled nowhere but in a monastery or abbey.

On a wooden stand in the corner perched a large hooded falcon. Anastasia recognized the bird by his white feathered legs and sharp claws. It must be asleep, for the only sound was the soft crackle of dried sagebrush in the roaring fire. The soldier pushed her farther into what Anastasia assumed was Count Maxwell’s private solar.

"’Tis a visitor, my lord."

Anastasia looked to where he directed his words. A man sat before a roughhewn trestle table, head bent to paper, a large hound stretched out on the floor beside him. Anastasia startled to see the hound suddenly raise his head and peer at her. She doubted the missive was heard by his master, so deep appeared the man’s concentration. His long tapered fingers encircled the clipped quill with which he wrote with a languid hand. The candles burning at each corner of his desk flickered light over inky black hair that fell in soft waves to broad shoulders.

"Count Maxwell?" The guard repeated.

So this was the master of the keep, thought Anastasia. The infamous Lord of Pleasure. Even before her cloister, she heard tales of his power over women with indulgences he’d learned as the captive guest of a Saracen sultan. Only those women obsessed by wicked demons were heedless of any warnings.

It was whispered their desire for him drove them to madness in the end. But it was he who had disappeared and left his vast holdings amidst a cloud of rumor and thus remained, a recluse in these mountains, unrepentant and carrying on his sinful practices.

Without sparing a glance, the depraved Count answered his guard. "Give her to Duncan. He likes virgins."
Anastasia drew in a breath, at first stunned by his response and then disconcerted to know that he sensed her purpose.

How could he know? Perhaps her journey here was destined, fated by her guardian angel so that she would truly be worthy of her sacrifice.

Count Maxwell continued to concentrate on his script but then spoke again in a velvety voice that so belied its deep masculine pitch. "Duncan could use the amusement." He waved a dismissive hand.

Before she could wonder about Duncan, the guard took her arm and led her away. When she glanced back, hoping for a glimpse at the legendary warlord, her hood fell to rest on her shoulders. The hound reared up abruptly and started forward.

"Damascus, be still," the Count scolded.

The hound whirled on him and barked and then turned back to Anastasia. The Count looked up and his quill stopped. His eyes met hers. Dark orbs, reflecting light from the banking fire, moved over her face and then suddenly flared with a primal knowledge that sent flames to her groin. She stifled a cry, sure she had but imagined the exchange.

The falcon sparked to life, squawking and rattling his perch. Were the animal’s legs not strapped down with leather, Anastasia would have feared he’d fly for her head.

"Claudius," the Count growled. The bird quieted.

"Bring her here." He flattened his palms on the table and rose, his gaze intense. Even from across the room, she could feel his power. The guard drew her back into the room until she stood across from the Count with only the table between them. She lifted her eyes to his face but remained impassive, proud in her determination to end her quest and silence the senseless ache that kept her from her destiny.

Raw strength radiated from his tall frame. A muscle ticked in his jaw, it’s sharp line shadowed with new beard growth. But what drew her was the deep cleft in his chin. It was the only softness in a face seemingly chiseled from the mountainside in which this great castle was carved. That and a wide full mouth.

When he came around from behind the table, her eyes involuntarily fastened on his muscled chest, in full view under his rough tunic that opened down the front. Taut smooth skin and dark hair drew her attention. And then just below, his member, hard and thick in his chausses. She gasped on a shocked breath.

"Surprises me, too," he said silkily. He shot his guard an amused glance. "Not since I was a young squire have I hardened at the sight of a fully clothed woman."

He moved to open himself. She jumped back, jostling the guard braced behind her, her eyes wide.

Count Maxwell released a husky chuckle. "As much as I’d like to feel your lips on me, you need not fear. I’m simply giving myself much needed room."

He loosened the ties and then reached for her, cupping her elbows. "Come." He drew open her cloak, letting it fall to the floor. "Let’s see what else you can do for this world-weary lord."