Warrior Rising (32 page)

She quickly went back to Agamemnon's side, this time ignoring the appreciative looks of the generals. She refilled his goblet and leaned into the king's side, whispering to him, “I have news of Achilles.”

Agamemnon's shrewd gaze darted briefly to meet hers and what he saw there made him clap his hands together and command, “More music and dancing!” The music flared as pubescent girls clothed only in gold chains undulated through the tent, pulling the attention of the men from their king.

“What have you heard?” he asked quietly.

“Achilles and the Myrmidons are leading the charge tomorrow,” she whispered, nuzzling his ear.

She felt the jolt of shock that went through his body. “You are quite sure about this?”

“Odysseus himself is passing the news.”

“If this is true . . .” His arm tightened around her. “You are a jewel of rare price, my dear.”

“I am your jewel, my lord. Always your jewel.” Briseis smiled smugly and snuggled into his side, sneaking one soft hand down to stroke the inside of his thigh. No, he would not tire of her. It didn't matter what she had to do, she would remain Agamemnon's war prize, even when they returned to Greece.

“Kalchas!” Agamemnon lifted his voice over the sensuous beat of drums.

“Here, my lord.” The old prophet seemed to materialize out of the air itself.

Just like a poisonous mist,
Briseis thought, although she always kept her disgust for the revolting old man carefully hidden. He was a favorite of Agamemnon's and Briseis was far too cunning to make an enemy of him.

“Fetch Ajax to me.”

“Ajax, my lord?”

Briseis noted the generals overhearing Agamemnon's command looked similarly confused, as they should. Ajax was brilliant on the field of battle. Off the field of battle he could hardly put together a complete thought. The man was literally as big and strong and stupid as an ox.

“Yes, Ajax. I had a dream last night that he was key to a great victory tomorrow. I wish to tell him of the dream and of the reward I plan to gift him with for his heroic actions.”

“Yes, my lord.” Kalchas bowed and scuttled from the tent.

The generals who had overheard smiled and nodded at their king. Dreams were sent by the gods, and seeing their king acting on one of his was something of which they all approved.

Of course Briseis knew Agamemnon was lying. The only thing he'd dreamed of the night before had been her open thighs. He'd told her so that morning as, upon waking, he'd put his face between them.

She nuzzled his ear again and whispered, “What are you up to, my lord?”

In one swift motion Agamemnon pulled her onto his lap so that she straddled him and his erection pushed intimately between her spread legs. She leaned into him and, veiled by her hair, he spoke, “If tomorrow Achilles fights the Trojans, it will be his last battle, as well as the day we are finally victorious. I have waited almost ten summers for the damned prophesy of his death to come true, and I will wait no more.”

“But I hear from my sources in the Myrmidon camp that they believe Polyxena is thwarting the prophesy. Perhaps that is true— you know even Poseidon's minions could not kill her.”

Agamemnon bit her neck and whispered, “All Achilles need do is to kill Hector and his death will follow. Zeus has proclaimed it. Not even an oracle protected by a goddess can change that. Polyxena has been keeping him from the battlefield, and thus away from Hector. Perhaps Achilles' arrogance has led him to believe his little oracle can somehow protect him on the battlefield. I'm simply going to be sure Hector's path to Achilles is clear and then let fate take over.”

Briseis laughed huskily. “My lord, you are brilliant!” Then she moaned and rocked against his hardness, closing her eyes and pretending she straddled the strong young body of a warrior.

"The spell couldn't be that simple,” Achilles said.

“I keep telling you—it isn't a spell, it's self-hypnotism, and it is that simple. And that complex. The mind is amazing. It alone can make a person believe he's sick, or better yet, believe he is perfectly well when he should be sick. I've seen some miraculous things in the ten-plus years I've been in practice.”

“And this
self-hypnotism,
which is not a spell but seems very much like a spell, can actually help me keep the berserker at bay,” he said, taking a thick strand of Kat's hair, wrapping it around his finger, and then bringing it to his lips. “It's like a sable's pelt. I'll never tire of touching it.”

“I got lucky,” Kat said, tilting her head so that he could touch her hair more easily. “Polyxena had a seriously nice head of hair.”

Achilles smiled. “I forget that this body has not always been yours. What color was your hair before?”

“Blond. It wasn't long like this, but it was pretty good hair, too.”

“You would be beautiful in any form to me,” he said, and kissed her lips gently.

“That is a very sweet thing to say. But you're not going to get me off subject so easily. Yes, self-hypnotism, which is
not
like a spell at all, can help you learn to control your body and your emotions so that you can keep both relaxed enough, no matter what is going on with you, to avoid the triggers that cause the berserker to possess you.”

“Ah, and then our son will not accidentally trigger me to be possessed by the berserker when he believes he cannot possibly drown because he is the grandson of a sea goddess,” Achilles said, looking into her eyes.

Trapped in the blue depths of his soul, Kat saw a future where she lived and loved at this amazing man's side and she knew she would want his babies—she'd want them, and their grandchildren, and whatever was the ancient and magical Greek world's equivalent of the traditional family and the picket fence. Hell, she even wanted the damn dog. She wanted it all. “And what if he is a she?”

Achilles blinked, obviously not having considered this as a possibility. Then he snorted and his lips twitched up in his little almost smile. “I suppose I will have to double my practice of self-hypnotism then—or perhaps not practice it at all. Would becoming a berserker be a good or bad thing when suitors try to woo my daughter from me?”

Kat grinned. “I think control is still the key here. If he shows up sagging or wearing emo pants and eyeliner, we let the berserker loose. If he looks like a good kid, you just growl and scare him a little.” Achilles' brow knitted together in confusion. Kat laughed. “How about this—you only eat the suitors we don't like.”

He frowned at her. “Not even the berserker actually eats people.”

She lifted her brow.

“Well, not usually he doesn't,” Achilles amended.

Kat was just trying to decide if she really wanted to question Achilles further about the whole “usually he doesn't eat people” thing when a woman's shriek carried clearly into their tent. Achilles had just leapt to his feet when the shriek was followed by gales of giggles. He'd taken one hesitant step toward the tent flap when Kat grabbed his hand and pulled him back to bed.

“As embarrassing as it is to admit, that is Jacqueline. And, no, she doesn't need rescuing.”

Achilles sat back down on the bed beside her. “Is she always that loud?”

“No. That's her ‘oh, baby, I think I just won the lottery shriek and giggle.' Which means that I can tell you with one-hundred-percent accuracy Patroklos is not still pissed off at you. He is out there giving Jacky the time of her life.”

“Huh.” Achilles grunted. “The boy is certainly causing a ruckus. He and Jacqueline should be quieter—more reserved.”

Kat's brows shot up. “Achilles,
you
are a stodgy old spinster. My god, listen to you—you sound about a hundred years old.”

“I am not a spinster.”

“And to think Hera and Athena accused Jacky and me of being spinsters just because we're, well, old. You, Mr. Hero Warrior, are actually an old fuddy-dud, without being old.” More giggles drifted through the tent to them, this time punctuated by a deeply sensuous and insistent male voice. “And he,” Kat jerked her chin in the direction of the tent flap, “is definitely no ‘boy.' ”

“Are you lusting after my young cousin?” Achilles asked, blue eyes sparkling.

“How about I answer that question after I get all the details from Jacky tomorrow?”

“You are a tease,” Achilles said and, growling playfully, he pulled her back on the bed with him.

“Yep, and you are a spinster,” Kat said, pretending to struggle.

“Would a spinster do this?” Achilles bent and covered her mouth with his. The kiss was not wild and out of control. He remembered to pace himself—to monitor his breathing and be sure that lust didn't overwhelm him and bring on the berserker. But that didn't mean the kiss wasn't deep and passionate and an intimate promise of more to come.

When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, Kat was breathless. “If I take back the whole spinster thing, will that mean you're going to stop kissing me like that?”

“Never,” Achilles whispered.

“Glad to hear it, because I don't want you to ever stop.”

“I won't my Katrina, my princess. . . .”

And Achilles made love to her. Slowly, languorously, letting her body serve as his blueprint he built her pleasure, one touch at a time, until they both found completion.

As Kat drifted to sleep in his arms she thought that having a man who loved her slowly and carefully was the most erotic experience of her life.

Venus materialized inside the dim tent after the lovers were deeply asleep. Moving silently as a shade, she brushed the bed curtain aside and smiled down at Achilles and Katrina.
True love,
she thought happily.
I knew this woman was meant for somethingspecial the first instant I saw her
—
and Love is never wrong.

Then she raised her hands over the couple and whispered the spell:

From her raised hand a waterfall of diamond dust sprinkled over Achilles' body. The warrior smiled and drifted deeply into Love's magical embrace.

Sighing with self-satisfaction, Venus left their bedside, easily finding the place where Achilles' famous armor lay discarded in the corner of the tent. With a slight flick of her wrist, she and the armor disappeared. Venus had one more stop to make to sprinkle a little conciliatory magic on stubborn Jacqueline, and then she had only to wait till dawn when she would meet Patroklos, clothe him in Achilles' borrowed armor and a touch of her power and then this whole war issue would be dealt with. Venus sighed again. . . . It was always work, work, work. When this was over she definitely would treat herself to a much deserved vacation.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Jacky came awake slowly. She was having the most deliciously erotic dream. Spike (from season six of
Buffy
, so he was still the Big Bad) had his glorious cheekbones between her caffe latte thighs and he was putting that beautiful mouth to excellent use. She'd always believed there was a whole other world in that mouth. . . .

She jolted awake.

There was, indeed, a beautiful blond man's face between her legs, but her thighs were young, too damn skinny and too, too damn white. Not that that little fact really mattered much to her at that moment.

“Patroklos . . .” she murmured. He looked up at her and paused briefly in his work.

“Yes, my beauty. Are you awake?”

“Almost,” she said sleepily, considerately spreading her legs so that he fitted more comfortably between them. “Why don't you see if you can bring me the rest of the way
awake
?” As he got back to business, Jacky thought it was like he'd been blessed by the Goddess of Love herself, which, she realized, might truly be possible and made a mental note to thank Venus. Then Jacky found that she was having trouble thinking at all. . . .

"Psst! Kat! Wake the hell up.”

Kat's eyelids fluttered. God, was she having an awful dream? She could swear Jacky was bending over her, shaking her with one hand while she carried a wooden bucket (bucket?) in the other.

“Go away,” she rasped to what she hoped was a dream apparition. “I'm calling in sick—crazy people be damned. Let them counsel themselves today.”

“Get up, fool. You're not dreaming. I got somethin' to do and you're comin' with me.” Jacky snapped back the bed sheets, exposing all of Kat's naked body. “Damn, you're young,” she said, studying her friend.

Kat rolled out of bed and snatched up her underrobe. “Do you mind? You do not need to see all my business.”

“Please. I
know
all your business. By the by, your thighs are much thinner in this life than they had gotten in the last one.”

“Jacqueline. Your ass is narrow.”

Jacky sucked air and got ready to launch into an all out assault when a deep snore made both of them turn to statues. Kat looked slowly back at the mound of bedclothes and the naked man. Jacky tiptoed and peeked over her shoulder.

Achilles lay on his side, his torso and one scarred but distinctly muscled thigh poking nakedly from the crisp linen sheets. Kat turned back to Jacky and put her finger against her lips. “Shh!” She snatched up the rest of her clothes and grabbed Jacky's hand, hauling her from the tent. Outside Kat looked incredulously up at a sky that was just beginning to show a hint of rosy dawn's fingertips. “What in the holy hell are you doing: one—awake at this insane hour, and two—waking me up, too?”