ONCE UPON A PILLOW by Christina Dodd
Free Excerpt

Shocked to see her lover from the past on the tour, Laurel is even more surprised to find their love rekindled when a twist of fate leaves them no choice but to spend the night in the famed Masterson bed.

Not until her kidnapping did Lady Helwin realize how badly security in Trecombe had disintegrated.

When she heard the hoof beats galloping down the beach toward her, she turned - and smiled. Any woman who appreciated masculine beauty would have smiled. The beach stretched on in a smooth, unbroken line of silver sand and sheer cliffs, the wind blew off the sea, and Rion Masterson rode like a centaur, black cape and raven hair flying behind him, eyes glittering in the late afternoon sun, pleasure in the exhilarating ride emanating from every line of his fine form. A handsome figure of a man, an adventurer who had gone abroad to seek his fortune - and failed miserably.

Now he sought prosperity closer to home, and Helwin wanted to wish him luck - sarcastically, of course. She'd observed the newly returned nobleman many a time as he visited her uncle's house. She'd admired his grace, his wit, the skillful way he used his green eyes to tempt and seduce - not her, but her cousin Bertilda. She could have told him Bertilda might relish a dalliance with the dangerous lord of Castle Masterson, but Bertilda vetted her suitors' finances with the cool eye of a cutpurse.

But Helwin could tell Rion nothing. She was not permitted to show her face to visitors. Out of sight, out of mind, had been Uncle Carroll's philosophy about Helwin, and thus far it seemed to be working. Except for the occasional careless inquiry from one of her father's old friends, no one cared about Helwin's fate. Helwin might as well resign herself to living out her life as a lonely spinster.

But she could still enjoy a solitary walk on the beach, and she did thrill to the sight of handsome, daring Rion Masterson riding toward her ... right toward her. Right at her, although surely by now he'd seen her.

She tried to move out of his path.

He swerved as if to follow her.

She waved her arms to call attention to herself.

He laughed, an open-mouthed, merry laugh that frightened her in its intensity.
Why was he riding at her so determinedly? Was he the kind of man who found pleasure in running down a helpless woman?

Or had someone - Uncle Carroll, even Bertilda - told him she would be here and offered him a reward for eliminating that annoying remembrance of former days?

Helwin caught her breath. Her heart skipped a beat, then leaped into a pounding frenzy. Bertilda. That witch Bertilda had insisted Helwin go for a late afternoon walk. She had insisted Helwin wear her purple velvet cape.

Bertilda had set her up.

Helwin fled, swerving to reach the boulders scattered at the bottom of the cliff. If she could make it that far, Rion wouldn't dare ride his precious war horse through the rubble and take a chance of laming him.

She could make it. Surely she could make it.

The stallion thundered behind her. She could almost feel its hot breath on her neck. But she was safe ... almost there ... when the horse charged past her. She had only a moment of optimism, a bleak hope that Rion would ride on when, with an arm under her ribs, he scooped her up.

She opened her mouth to scream, but in a single smooth movement, he brought her up and over, flinging her face-down before him on the horse. The wind rushed out of her lungs, and she gasped, trying to get air.

"There you are, darling," he shouted. "You put on a good show, but I vow no one saw us. We'll be safe for the night."

What did he mean? What could he mean?

What had Bertilda done now?

The horse was warm, its gait smooth, but hanging head down hurt her belly, and watching the sand fly past produced a dreadful sensation of dizzy helplessness. She tried to struggle up on her elbows and tell him he'd made a horrible mistake.
He pushed her down, his hand in the middle of her back. "Just a few more minutes." His voice was wretchedly amused. "Castle Masterson is directly ahead."

Indeed it was. She'd seen it from afar many a time. Perched on a broad, granite-hewn inlet of land that thrust into the sea, Castle Masterson's gray battlements chewed at the sky with primitive stone teeth. Previously, Helwin had gazed on the castle and sighed for the romance of those former times. Now she could think only of the narrow cliff path that crumbled away with every new storm, and how she did not wish to ride its length face down on a horse like a bag of corn. "You're going to be sorry!" she shrieked.

"Hush, dear. Samson is a difficult beast and rears when he hears loud noises." Rion tossed the hem of her cape over her head to muffle her squawk of dismay. The horse slowed as they reached the bottom of the path, then labored as they began to climb.

Helwin fought with the flapping folds of the material and wondered bitterly if he took her threat seriously. For who would make him sorry? Not Uncle Carroll, with his cold eyes and handsome face. He wasn't home to notice if his only niece failed to return, and until he returned, there would be no rescue.

Then, of course, he would come after her, but only because - 'od's mercy! In brief glimpses below the hem of the cape, she saw the beach fall away as they climbed. As they clambered up the narrow path, the beach retreated and the cliff hung straight over the ocean. Below her, the waves crashed on the jagged rocks. The setting sun turned the shadows to purple. One misstep would send them plunging to their deaths.

With a swift box on the ears and a hearty scolding, she'd correct Rion as soon as she set foot on the ground, and with any luck she'd be back in Smythwick Hall before Bertilda had had time to crow about her clever ruse. And Bertilda had reason to fear; she'd faced Helwin's fury only twice since Bertilda and her father had moved into Helwin's home, and both times Bertilda had come out much the worse.

So Helwin sagged onto the horse, letting it carry her along the narrow path to the top.

When they reached the top, her head spun, her belly ached, and she barely heard the castle's postern gate open or the cackle of male mirth as Rion rode inside.
"Did ye capture her, then?" a rough voice called.

"Aye, that I did. Everything went off without a misstep." He slipped from the horse. "I told you I'd turn our fortunes!"

Helwin shoved at the cloak and tried to kick herself free.

Rion dragged her off and flung her over his shoulder. "Be calm, my beauty." He gave her upraised bottom a gentle pat and peeled off a mighty laugh - a laugh which stopped abruptly when she clawed her nails into his back. "There'll be time enough for that later," he joked.

The men chortled.

But Helwin heard the note of irritation which tinged his voice. Good. She'd show him irritation - just as soon as she got rid of this cloak and stood on her own two feet.

A door opened. They entered the castle. They started up stairs.

She struggled with the clasp on her cloak. Dropped it to the floor. Looked down to see a dozen man-servants and knights in the vestibule gaping at her. A few of them raised their goblets. A few staggered and sniggered.

"Lord Masterson," she snapped.

Rion bounded up the stairs, reached the level of the great hall, took a turn, went up another flight.

"Lord Masterson, you've made a mistake!"

He kicked a door open, stalked inside, and kicked the door shut.

The light had faded to dusk, but as he turned, she saw a whirl of furnishings: a clothes cupboard, a stand with a jug of wine and two glasses, a fireplace where flames licked at the logs. A massive walnut bed, with a heavy carved headboard, a great canopy and faintly exotic bedposts. A bed weighed down with history.
The Masterson bed.

Turning again, he tossed her on the fur-laden mattress. Before she'd sunk into the welter of feathers, he landed beside her.

"Listen to me, you dolt!"

"No time to talk, lass. If your plan is to work, we've got some compromising to do." Sliding his hands into her hair, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Temptation washed over her. In all her twenty-two years, she'd never been kissed. In sooth, she'd given up all hope of ever being kissed. Now, here she was, flat on her back in a man's bed.

And not just any man's bed. In Rion Masterson's bed, the man she'd watched court her cousin. The man she'd secretly dreamed of and lusted after. The man she'd wished would court her.

Now she didn't know whether to fight or, for one wicked moment, taste the fruit of sin. After all, what harm could come of a brief yielding? She was a sensible woman. She would stop him before he went too far. And Rion's lips were marvelously opulent and skillful, the exact opposite of the brutish man he was. He kissed like a man enthralled with kissing, lingering over each soft touch as if he relished learning the contours of her mouth. Her upper lip. Her lower lip. The corners and, when he slid his tongue within -

She boxed his ears. "Oh, vile villain. Release me!"

He reeled backward, swearing.

She wound up for another blow.

Catching her clenched fists, he slammed them on the mattress beside her head.
Briefly, she caught a glimpse of his infuriated expression, and braced herself for a slap such as her uncle would bestow.

Instead, he took a long breath. He threw his leg over her legs, leaned his chest to hers. In the low, soothing voice he might have used for a fractious mare, he said, "You're an innocent. I understand that. But don't fear. Every maiden comes to this time, if she's lucky, and if she's truly lucky, she lands in my bed. I promise" - he nuzzled her neck - "I'll fulfill your every romantic dream."

In this light, he couldn't see her well. That was the problem. That, and a definite family resemblance between her and Bertilda marked her as his chosen prey. She strained away from him, away from his warm breath and tongue that traced the contours of her ear. "No!" she said. "I don't have any romantic dreams."
He chuckled indulgently. "Ah, sweetling, I know better."

She sucked in a shocked breath. How did he know better?

In a voice as warm and golden as heated honey, he said, "You whispered your dreams to me in the alcove in your father's gallery, remember? You told me to ignore your protestations so we could be together always. And I live to obey you ... Bertilda."

Bertilda. She would get even with that witch Bertilda. "But I'm not -"

He smothered her objection with a kiss. His eyes closed, his eyelashes a dark fringe on his skin. He smelled like soap, horse and leather. He weighed heavily of a man's desire, and this time, when she tried to hit him, he restrained her with his arms braced on hers and his hands holding her head. Thrusting his tongue into her mouth, he sampled her as if she were a delicacy prepared just for him, and she ... she liked it. The madness that swept him along pulled at her, too. She closed her eyes. Her senses bloomed in the darkness. Tentatively she accepted him, answered him, delicately sucked on his tongue.

He moaned, a deep blissful sound, and freed her hands.

Catching his shoulders in her grip, she kneaded them like a cat.

He shifted, lifted himself - and his fingers settled on her breast.

Her eyes sprang open in shock. How dare he? How dare … she dug her nails into him.

He ignored the pain, caressing her with slow circles of his thumb.

She dug her heels into the mattress and tried to scoot away.

He controlled her with his strength and pulled at the lacings of her bodice.

She hit at him, she flung her arms toward the headboard to pull herself away ... and beneath the pillow, her hand landed on a short, smooth, heavy piece of wood. A cudgel. Ah, aye, a man like this had best sleep with a weapon.

She stopped struggling. Slowly, she lifted the cudgel behind his head.

Something of her tension must have transmitted itself to him, for he looked up just as she brought the cudgel down. With a dreadful thud, the wood cracked across the back of his skull. He dropped, a dead weight, right on top of her.

She lay there, trembling. She hadn't killed him ... had she? Taking a breath, she groped for the pulse in his neck. It throbbed strongly, and she sighed with relief.

With a grunt, she pushed at him, rolling him to one side.

He groaned.

She gasped and shoved him off onto the floor.

He landed with a thump that shook the floorboards.

From below she heard raucous laughter and shouts of encouragement. She needed to get out of here, but how? From the sounds that drifted up the stairs, Rion's men were celebrating their master's impending matrimonials and the acquisition of an heiress.

If they only knew ...

Cudgel gripped tightly in her hand, she slipped off the bed and checked Rion again. He appeared to be hearty, if knocked cold and blessed with a large lump on the base of his skull. She prowled the chamber. She opened the door and peeked out. The master's bedroom was at the end of a wide gallery, and just over the railing was the great hall crowded with Rion's men. Silently she slipped back inside, shut the door and dropped the bar. She would wait until everyone fell asleep. Then she would go.

#

Rion woke to sunshine and the twittering of birds outside his window. His head ached abominably. He was cold. And when he opened his eyes, he realized he rested on the floor without rug or pillow. He must have drunk far too deep last night ... although he couldn't quite remember last night ...

He sat up abruptly. The aches in his muscles made him groan, but he damned well did remember last night. He'd kidnapped Lady Bertilda, an admirable heiress, if a silly twit, and brought her to Castle Masterson. He'd carried her to his bedchamber, placed her on the bed, planted one very pleasant kiss on those luscious lips - and been knocked silly, probably by his own well-wielded cudgel.

Who would have thought Lady Bertilda had the wit to find the weapon he kept always beneath his pillow? Or that she had the arm to land him such a blow? It almost gave him hope for their marriage.

Staggering to his feet, he crept toward the bed.

The woman slept sitting up, coverlet clasped about her hunched shoulders, weapon clasped in her hands as if she'd defend her virtue again.

He stared. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. Then he shook her hard.

She came awake, blue eyes fierce, cudgel rising.

He dodged and demanded, "Who in the plague are you?"

Cornwall, England, 1583

CHAPTER ONE

Within a beautiful old English manor house lies a sumptuous antique bed, one of many Masterson family heirlooms that have been sold along with the house. As Laurel Whitney leads the last tour group through the house before it's closed to the public, she regales the visitors with romanticized tales of how the exquisite bed affected the lives of the couples who slept in it.

The actual stories -- of a bawdy medieval knight trying to woo his reluctant bride; an insolvent Elizabethan aristocrat who plans to ruin a wealthy heiress but beds her impoverished cousin instead; and a feisty Regency lady whose scheme goes awry when she mistakenly manacles herself (and a dashing colonel) to the bedpost -- are funnier and certainly sexier than anything a tour guide could ever tell!

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