Fiery Tales.

Undone.

Lila Dipasqua.

Acknowledgement.

A special thanks goes out to Carolyn Williams, Donna Jeffrey, Franca Pelaccia, Vickie Marise, Mary Barone, Kelly Mueller, Janice Leyh, and Elise Rome. You each made this book wonderful in your own special ways. Finally, my thanks to Count Patrice de Vogue, owner of Vaux-le-Vicomte, who personally took the time to answer my research questions about his beautiful 17th c. chateau.

Dedication.

Please see the back of the book once you finish it! This important dedication contains a SPOILER.

A Historical Tidbit The court of Louis XIV was as decadent as it was opulent. It was a time of high culture and corruption. Of elegance and excesses. The pursuit of sinful pleasures was a pastime. s.e.x, an art form. Louis was a l.u.s.ty king. He and his courtiers were connoisseurs of the carnal arts.

It was during this wicked time period that Charles Perrault, the creator of The Tales of Mother Goose, first began writing down fairy tales-the folklore that had been pa.s.sed on verbally for generations. It wasn't long before fairy tales became a highly fashionable topic of discussion in the renowned salons of Paris.

Female authors also tried their hand at this wonderful new genre. It was Charlotte-Rose de Claumont de La Force's 17th century fairy tale, Persinette, that would later inspire the Brothers Grimm to write Rapunzel.

Perhaps, just perhaps Mademoiselle de La Force was inspired by hearing stories about characters such as these...

Happy Reading!

Lila.

Once upon a time, there was a woman who was shut away in a tower.

It was said she'd been there for years. Rumored to be a prisoner of her own making. No one knew much about the mysterious beauty. Or the secrets she guarded. It was certain she'd live out her days cloistered. Yet one day, out of the forest, they say her prince appeared. One look at the lovely enchantress, and he was enthralled. Upon hearing her ethereal voice, he was undone... What happened next, you ask? Well, he scaled the tower and rescued the beauty, of course...

Was that the end? No, my dearlings, that was only the beginning.

And what was to follow was the stuff of fairy tales...

Chapter One.

1660.

Just before midnight...

s.e.xual excess was known to alleviate tension. An evening of unbridled l.u.s.t had a soothing effect on the mind as well as the body. But as Simon Boulenger struggled to maintain his grip on the window ledge-sharp stone cutting into his fingers-he felt anything but relaxed.

Muscles in his upper body corded as he sc.r.a.ped his boots against the stone wall, searching for a foothold. The full moon's silvery light illuminated his predicament.

His feet were too far from the ground below to simply let go and drop.

He grabbed hold of the closest tree branch. Satisfied with its st.u.r.diness, he began his descent, branches and leaves brushing and sc.r.a.ping him along the way until he reached the lowest limb and dropped to the ground.

Definitely too bright a night for an amorous encounter with the beautiful wife of a high-ranking politician of the Republic of Genoa.

Brushing the dirt off his shirt, he slipped into the shadows where the stable boy waited with Simon's horse.

He'd paid the grimy mite to give a warning of two quick whistles at his mistress's window should Marco de Franco return inconveniently early, which he had. Simon's circ.u.mspection was born of necessity. Though the Republic of Genoa was a good distance from Spain, he always took precautions. The Genoese's loyalties were with the Spanish. And there were those who would pay handsomely for the capture of the man the Spanish called El Demonio Negro-the Black Demon.

The boy handed him the reins.

"Bravo. Grazie," he said, as fluent in the language as any Italian in his employ.

Dropping more coins into the boy's dirty hand, he rode off, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. If Marco de Franco were to learn that his lovely wife had spent the last few hours in the throes of pa.s.sion with the son of a French peasant, it would send the pompous fool reeling. It wasn't that de Franco cared if Francesca entertained lovers, for he was preoccupied with the pursuit of power and his own extensive extramarital affairs. But to learn she'd engaged in a carnal encounter with a lowly commoner would be too much for his arrogant sensibilities to digest.

As he negotiated the next bend in the road, Simon caught sight of his carriage in the distance. Moonlight glinted off its roof. His men were there waiting for him, just as he'd ordered. He slowed his horse, his smile disappearing.

The brief sojourn in the Republic of Genoa was over.

Time to face France.

And what awaited him there was far more perilous than a nocturnal liaison with a highborn lady.

He drew in a fortifying breath, and let it out slowly, mindful that he was still too far from his two men for them to notice.

After many months at sea, he'd returned to France three weeks ago to pay the Crown's share of his recent captured prizes from Spanish ships-never imagining what he'd find. Now those images haunted him. Guilt and anger were a constant clash inside him. And a.s.suaging his torment with women and drink in Genoa had proven futile.

Reaching the carriage, Simon dismounted.

Paul took the reins from him. "Good evening, Captain," the young man said.

There was nothing b.l.o.o.d.y well good about this evening any longer. "Let us be on our way," he ordered, though it was the very last thing he wanted.

Inside the moving carriage, Simon's mood only darkened by the moment. Merde... They'd dangled his dream in front of him.

Then betrayed him.

He'd come a long way from the orphan rescued from starvation in the streets of a French fishing village. He was now the commander of a fleet of privateer ships for France, dressed and spoke like an aristocrat, and was at last wealthy.

But he was still not a n.o.ble. Or an official officer in the King's Navy.

His lifelong dream to elevate himself from his station of birth and obtain a respectable place in society was dead.

As dead as Thomas...

Tightening his jaw, he glanced out the window and watched as the darkened trees threaded past. He'd been a colossal fool. And now he was caught in a treacherous trap. How the h.e.l.l was he to get out of this? He wanted out. He had to get out. But how do you stop dancing with the devil once you've sold him your soul?

The carriage stopped dead with a sharp lurch, Simon's shoulder b.u.mping against the window frame. Instinctively, his hand shot to the hilt of his sword.

He jumped from its plush interior, sword drawn, battle-ready.

"I'm sorry, Captain." Paul leaped down. "It is one of the wheels. We will fix it quickly, sir, and be on our way." The young man raced around to the other side of the carriage to join the driver and the broken wheel.

The delay grated on Simon's already thin patience, his frustration churning inside him.

Before he could utter the profanity burning up his throat, a blow to his chest shot the air from his lungs and knocked him off his feet. The back of his head slammed against the ground, dazing him. He squeezed his eyes shut. His sword, still clutched in his hand, lay with him on the packed dirt.

As he drew air back into his lungs, awareness seeped into his senses. There was a body on top of him. Not just any body, but a soft one, with ripe b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed to his chest-the unmistakable body of a full-grown woman.

She gasped near his ear and struggled to an upright position. He could feel the firmness of her thighs on either side of his hips, her hands shoving at his chest, and her lower body squirming against his groin.

Steadying himself against the pain at the back of his skull, he opened his eyes. She stilled. Her gray garb and shoulder-length headdress covered her entirely, leaving her face her only visible feature.

And it was exquisite.

The moon's silver light caressed her soft-looking skin, but it was her eyes that drew him. Although the night forbade him the ability to detect their true color, they were light, bright, and spectacular to behold. Her dark brows were delicately arched. Her cheekbones beautifully p.r.o.nounced. And her mouth-Dieu. A hot current rushed through his veins as he stared at that lush mouth. Just the right fullness.

The kind of mouth sure to offer a man untold carnal bliss.

Her lips were parted. The sound of her quickened breaths burned in his ears. Inflaming him further.

Every bedazzling detail of her face and the erotic press of her lower body against his own seared into his senses.

Transfixed, he sat up slowly, his c.o.c.k straining against his breeches. The heated reaction she effortlessly elicited from him was astounding. So was being suddenly knocked off his feet by a beautiful woman in an unattractive garb in the middle of the night.

Her eyes widened. She squirmed again and made to flee. The friction shot a bolt of sensations along his p.r.i.c.k that reverberated all the way up his spine. He gripped her arms, stilling her, barely catching the groan that surged up his throat.

"Let go!" she demanded, threads of panic and anger in her tone.

He didn't want her to leave so soon, but he didn't wish to scare her, and so he slackened his grasp, knowing full well she was going to bolt.

Shoving hard at his chest, she bounded to her feet.

"Wait! What is your name?" The words tumbled from his mouth. But she ran through an open iron gate and disappeared behind a stone wall.

Reeling, Simon rose and walked to the gate, ignoring the astonished looks of his men who he noticed were now standing near the horses. He'd no idea how much they'd witnessed. Nor did he care.

Paul rushed toward him. "Captain? Is everything all right?"

Simon scanned the shadowy grounds for any sign of her. "Yes." No. She'd vanished. Yet she'd left him burning.

Utterly seduced.

He could see little. The umbrage of the trees hid much from view. What lunacy was this? How could such a bizarre encounter have stirred his blood this way?

Studying the stone barrier that ran parallel to the road as far as he could see, he wondered why she'd been out all alone at this hour of the night, and what such a captivating woman was doing hidden behind such a formidable wall.

"It is a convent, sir."

He turned to Paul. "Pardon?"

"A convent." He picked up Simon's sword and brought it to him. "The wheel can be fixed easily. We'll be on our way shortly."

The carriage was the furthest thing from his mind as he stood at the threshold of the convent grounds, scanning all visible windows and openings of the stony structure.

Ah, h.e.l.l. He sheathed his sword. "Wait here."

Heart pounding, Angelica pushed open the wooden door she'd left unlocked and rushed inside. With fumbling fingers, she secured the latch, then raced down the dimly lit corridors, causing each torchere she pa.s.sed to flicker and dance.

Reaching the chapel, she halted abruptly.

It was empty.

She offered an instant prayer of thanks.

Not only had she made it back in time for the Third Vigil, but she'd escaped whatever might have befallen her at the hands of the man she'd just encountered outside.

The hour was late. The road was deserted. And men who wandered about at this time of night were best avoided.

Racing to return to the convent before she was expected in the chapel, she'd emerged from the thicket and hadn't seen the stranger, shrouded in shadow, until it was too late. She felt as though she'd collided with the stone wall that surrounded the convent instead of a man. Her chest still hurt.

She couldn't afford to be as careless as she'd been this night. She was always guarded. Always careful. Rarely did she leave the convent. For years, she'd embraced a cloistered existence in exchange for security.

However, tonight, unable to turn her back on a family in need, she'd let her conscience win out over her caution.

And run right into danger.

She placed her hand over her agitated heart, willing it to calm. She was safe now.

In a decade, he had still not found her. Nor would he ever.

As long as she remained within these protective walls, she was safe.

Simon entered the convent through a partially open window.