The Wind Dancer by Iris Johansen

and the clean fragrance of pine resin and
laurel leaves that clung to the linens. She had never slept in a real bed before and wished
she could savor the luxury of the moment. She had always believed moments of pleasure
must always be lived to the hilt because the next might never come. During the bad
times, she could bring out the memory of a moment of beauty and suddenly the situation
would not seem so terrible that she could not get through it.
    Sleep beckoned with an irresistible allure. She should really get up and blow out the
candle so Lord Andreas would not think she was careless and wasteful....
     

Chapter Four.
    Cristo, what the hell was the matter with him?
    Lion gazed down at Sanchia seething with frustration that almost exceeded the lust
hardening every muscle of his body.
    Candlelight flickered over the rich auburn of Sanchia's hair and stroked the silky
smoothness of her bare shoulders above the coverlet. She was curled on her side, her
cheek buried in the pillow, her pink lips slightly parted. Why did he not wake her and tell
her she must take him into her body and let him use her to rid himself of his terrible
need? She was his property. She had given him her promise that she would obey him in
all things. She would yield her body to him without complaint.
    Yield. He wished the word had not come to him, for it evoked memories of the many
cities that had yielded to his sword. Rape and pillage invariably followed those
surrenders. Looting and raping were the rewards a victorious army expected, his father
had taught, and Lion had grown accustomed to both over the years. In spite of Lorenzo's
mocking charge he knew well that chivalry was only for fools.
    Yet he did not want Sanchia to yield to him because he owned her and she had no choice.
    Santa Maria, what was the matter with him? He had been unable to muster any desire for
Giulia after he had left Sanchia, and the failure had shocked and outraged him. He had
stormed out of her chamber with every intention of satisfying the hunger that Giulia had
been unable to appease. A man was a fool to worry about challenges when he needed a
woman's body to put out the fires. Since his body was issuing this peculiar demand for
Sanchia alone, it was only sensible he should give it what it wanted.
    He reached out and drew the coverlet down so he could see Sanchia from the top of her
shining hair to her small feet. She was a brilliant butterfly against the stark white linen
sheet, all velvet golden flesh and silky wine colored hair. Why did he find her slender
loveliness a thousand times more arousing than Giulia's more voluptuous beauty? He had
always preferred full-figured women...
    Ah, this was better. The blood was pounding in his veins and the quickening in his loins
was gaining in intensity until it was almost unbearable. In another moment there would
be no question of stopping himself from mounting Sanchia.
    He bent closer, his gaze on the pinkness of her distended nipples. Her breasts were truly
magnificent. The mere thought of touching them sent his heart slamming against his rib
cage. He would have to have gowns made for her that would reveal the beauty of her
bosom and--
    Sanchia stirred, sighed, and rolled over on her back.
    Dio, she was small. She looked like a child except for those erotic breasts and the soft
thatch of hair protecting her womanhood.
    But she was no child, he quickly reminded himself. She had said she was sixteen; most
women had been wedded and bedded for at least two years by the time they had reached
her age. His mother had given birth to him when she was fifteen. He should feel no guilt
about Sanchia's age, and not a single compunction because of her helplessness to resist
him.
    Sanchia murmured in the inarticulateness of sleep.
    Lion's gaze flew to her face. Her long lashes cast dark shadows on the curves of her
cheeks. But there was another shadow high on her right cheek, he noticed suddenly. Then
he realized it was not a shadow but a faint