He is the law. And she is the outlaw…

Musketeer Arnaud de Sillègue d’Athos is ready to bid adieu to the King’s Guard and to lay down his sword. Yet he’s been charged with one final mission—to apprehend a dangerous enemy of the king, the Belle Dame Sans Merci. Despite his desire to apprehend a woman who causes such destruction, Athos refuses…until he sees a sketch of her. It’s the same villainess with whom he had been locked in a passionate, sensual moment.

Emmanuelle Vazet never gives up control, even if briefly, in the arms of a blue-eyed stranger, she felt the need to give in and let desire take over. But now circumstances have placed her at the scene of a murder. Her reputation—and a ridiculous name— has preceded her, even if she is innocent. Now her nameless lover is the enemy. A royalist. A musketeer who could be her undoing…unless she becomes his undoing first.

Information:

Title: The Unforgiven: Athos (a By the Sword novel)
Author: Michele Hauf
Genre: Historical Romance
Length: 415 pages
Release Date: February 2015
ISBN: 978-1-63375-212-2
Imprint: Select Historical

Pricing varies by country and can change without notice. Please confirm pricing and availability with your retailer before downloading.

Excerpt from:

The Unforgiven: Athos
by Michele Hauf

Copyright © 2015 by Michele Hauf. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Prologue
WINTER, 1637
PARIS, FRANCE

“You are not even curious?”

Cocking the heel of his gloved hand upon the hilt of his rapier, Athos, musketeer of the King’s Black Guard, spread back his shoulders and lifted his chin. He matched Lieutenant D’Artagnan’s curious blue gaze with a bemused look of his own.

How this young man had matured in the few years Athos had known him. He’d transformed from a naïve Gascon youth to one of the king’s most valued blades. As well, he was now lieutenant of the household troop of the king’s musketeers known as the Blacks. Athos claimed a portion of pride in knowing he’d guided the man toward such an esteemed goal.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos started slowly, measuring his words—for words were like coin to be used sparingly. And yet, he could not disguise a fanciful tone. “Am I not the least curious man you know?”

“Oh, indeed. Intrigue does not turn your head unless it steps forth and strikes you across the jaw. You are a man who heeds orders and fulfills them to an excellent degree.”

“So long as it serves the king.”

“Long live Louis XIII,” D’Artagnan agreed. “And”—a waggle of the lieutenant’s dark brow cued a playful secret—“our beloved Queen Anne. But know, I understand you have plans, Athos.”

Moments ago, Athos had served D’Artagnan his resignation from the king’s Blacks. His service to Louis XIII had stretched well over a decade, but he’d had enough of intrigue and royal command. An estate south of Blois waited his arrival. And the flask of hard ale tucked inside his doublet required tending.

As expected, D’Artagnan had expressed shock at his desire to leave the king’s service, but, also, understanding. What remained unspoken was that both men knew Athos craved a hiatus from service. Time to renew.

He wanted to closet the ghosts of a life lived for the king’s command, for swashbuckling adventure, and the glorious moment. To drag himself up from the soul-wrenching heartaches of his past. Remnants of chagrin d’amour—heartbreak from an unhappy love affair—clung yet to his bones.

Athos needed once again to breathe the unsullied air of peace. To take back his soul.

Though, truth be told, he wasn’t sure his soul worthy of salvation.

“One final mission, and you will be free to pursue your heart’s desire for the rest of your life,” D’Artagnan assured.

Athos gave a sigh of resignation, and stroked his Van-Dyke style beard. “What is this mission you believe I should be so curious about?”

D’Artagnan strode purposefully around the desk to stand toe to toe with him. “It regards le Pacte des Justice.”

Athos winced. The Brotherhood of Justice, a cabal of spies, rebels, and traitors who had spread their twisted version of justice throughout France for nearly a decade. After a confrontation with one of their suspected members, Athos had personally tracked the Brotherhood. Once, during a duel, he had seen the brand of an arrow burned onto his opponent’s wrist—the mark of le Pacte des Justice.

Athos had put forth much energy and many a long night riding the dark and perilous highroads in search of the band of criminals. Frustration, all of it. He should never have begun the investigation. But she had once mentioned an interest in the group. That woman from his past—the reason his soul yet ached. He could not doubt she had been tied to the nefarious Brotherhood in some way.

“I have no interest,” he stated.

D’Artagnan stretched out a leg, slyly preventing him from turning to exit the office. “After all the time you have spent investigating the Brotherhood, you would now so easily walk away?”

Athos eyed the lieutenant. He owed D’Artagnan much. Just the fact that the man had tolerated him as a friend these past years—deadly secrets and a passion for drink tended to make friendship with him a trial—offered reason enough at least to listen to what he had to say.

“The Brotherhood is in Paris,” D’Artagnan offered.

It was no use. Athos could not summon curiosity. He had given his resignation! He stood but two strides from the beginning to an end. The end to mysterious missions served without question. The end to war. The end to pain. The end to heartache.

He gripped the brass door pull. “Good day, my friend. You have my resignation in hand. I will write from Blois. I pray you will visit?”

“Please, Athos,” D’Artagnan said. “One final mission. You are the only man for the task. You know every detail regarding le Pacte des Justice. We believe la Belle Dame sans Merci is involved.”

That gave Athos pause, but he would not react. His decision was made.

“Where is your thirst for adventure?” D’Artagnan persisted. “For the king’s command? What of that motto of yours—j’y suis, j’y reste?”

Here I am, here I remain.

“I shall remain here in my heart, mon ami.” Blood hardening in his veins, Athos nodded once. Decisive. “Au revoir.”

He wished him well, truly, but a happier and more peaceful future awaited.

Chapter One

THE NEXT DAY…

Winter gifted the growing shadows in the narrow Parisian streets with a glittering of fine snow. Not enough to do more than mix with the dirt and mud and create a muck, nor to spread a thin layer of newness across the groomed hedgerows ornamenting the Tuileries.

And never enough to erase the foul resonance that lingered from the executions performed at the place de Grève.
Clouds cloaked the sky as Athos pushed through the bustle of humanity gathered in anticipation of yet another hanging. Children dressed in rags and bare feet ignored the chill of winter’s touch and shouted hurrahs for the vile show. They danced the Tyburn jig, a moniker borrowed from the English, but made all the more macabre by the French fascination with death.

Athos scanned over the heads of children ranging in age, he guessed, from two to early teens. He spied a particular dark-haired boy clinging to his mother’s skirts. Wide juvenile eyes followed him as he strode by. He winked at the urchin and received a smile. Pity the child had no shoes to comfort him from the cold. Would that he could make them all safe and warm in homes with abundant food and love.

There were too many days Athos had wanted to turn away from the world and burrow his head into a smothering darkness. He had forgotten the man he once was. Forgotten him at the bottom of an empty cask of wine. And in doing so, had abandoned his uncertain future to the unwieldy weight of his past.

The time had come to step up to that future and claim it. A new responsibility beckoned, one he’d ignored for years. Thinking of it gave him hope, made him—just a little—excited.

Soon. A new beginning.

The roar of celebration pulled him from his reverie. Indifferent to the event, he closed his thoughts to the macabre gaiety.

He had a few matters to attend before leaving Paris. His room on the rue Férou had been paid in full this morning.
He had bid a fine farewell to Porthos last evening, sharing wine and memories of escapades over a four-course meal that had impressed Athos as much as he knew Porthos had hoped it would impress him.

Then there was Aramis… No, he did not have time for the man this day.

Anacreon was stabled but a short walk away. The feisty Andalusian stallion should be re-shoed by sunset. Until then? Between the place de Grève and the stables stood a fine establishment, the sign of the Green Fox. Athos now had all the time in the world. Time for a hot meal. Time for a round, or two, of drink. Time, even, for a farewell tumble with a well-curved wench.

Yes, he decided contentedly, on this day he would bid adieu to Paris by indulging in her finest offerings.

As he strode onward, the crush of people jostling to witness the hangings—two thieves were to be executed this day—grew so thick Athos feared the mass of humanity stretched across the pont de Nôtre Dame and crowded onto the island. Indeed, from experience, he knew a man standing in the cathedral tower had excellent view of the events across the Seine’s stew-colored waters.

As the tumbril rolled to the gallows, he consciously fought not to lift his head to regard the grisly scene. He knew what a warm body, fouled and ragged, hanging from the noose, looked like. He’d witnessed far too many such sights in his lifetime. Had been…too close. He’d grown numb to death.

He’d grown numb to life.

The decision to turn and walk away from D’Artagnan’s request had been the right one. The lieutenant had followed him out from the musketeer headquarters, yet hoping to convince Athos to take on the mission. Mention of la Belle Dame sans Merci had boiled the blood in Athos’s veins.

How Athos would love to put an end to that wicked woman’s reign of terror. But he had already fulfilled a quest for vengeance involving a similar woman. And for that one vengeful act he continued to suffer, for her ghost yet haunted his soul.

Damn love and all its indiscretions! Love made a person vulnerable. It reached in and gripped a man’s heart and twisted. A tight and painful twist.

Never again would he look a woman in the eyes with more intention than desire—for he did enjoy the carnal pleasures. And right now he craved a dance with a nameless woman who entertained lust in her eyes and the promise of heaven in the sway of her hips and the purse of her lips.

He reached the outskirts of the execution square and pushed by a young pretty in a high-hipped gown of burgundy satin. Citrus oil saturated his senses. For one fleeting moment he lost himself in the fresh aroma that defeated the surrounding foulness. He favored a woman who smelled of flowers and fruits, the lure of the feminine. His kind of woman.

And his downfall.

When his strides distanced him from the sweet fragrance and the smoke from a nearby bonfire filled his nostrils and dried in his throat, he swung around, seeking one last wistful glance at the lemon-scented demoiselle.

He swept his gaze over a bobbing sea of beaver hats plumed in red, white, and black. Gesturing hands slashed before his vision, but he ignored the common, the unremarkable. He wanted—Well, he would know it when he saw it.

But there! Lingering before a narrow passageway bisecting the soot-coated walls of the Hotel d’Ville—the city hall—from a string of stables echoing with the clang of pounded iron, stood, not the woman who promised femininity and fruit, but someone much more intriguing.

Ah. His farewell.

Wide eyes locked to Athos’s gaze. He could not determine their color from this distance, but they glinted defiantly. Shadows caressed the vision, from her braided locks capped by a wide-brimmed hat pulled to the top of her eyes, to the hem of her skirts that danced a long way to the ground. A man’s high-buttoned doublet of dark fabric finished the look.

Black plumes tickled a pale cheek, setting off the pomegranate fullness of her mouth. When her lips parted, perhaps to speak, Athos swallowed at his increased heartbeat. Arousal warmed his chilled body.

“Bonne bouche,” he murmured. A delicious morsel.

Entranced, he could not move. Elbowed and jostled, he held his ground while maintaining a steady fix on the woman’s eyes. Yes, they offered a challenge. Not a tease or a flirtatious promise, but a call to the dueling grounds. A particular form of duel that would tether a man and woman into a compromising position.

Amidst the execution horror and the winter bleakness, Athos wanted only to feel something right now. And be it in the arms of a mysterious woman, all the better.

He stepped forward. The vision of deep red lips and dark leather turned and dashed away. But not without a returned glance.

Follow me, those glittering eyes silently coaxed.

And he did.

Shoving his way through the crowd, he burst from the swell of stinking life. Ha! Once again in pursuit. And, here, he had given leave of that task.

She moved swiftly, as if a leather-winged griffin seeking solace within the ash-and refuse-tainted shadows. The alleyway opened to a street bracketed by snugly stacked limestone houses. A jog to the left stood the hallowed grounds of St. Gervais; a turn would find him in the cobbled courtyard to the cathedral’s burial grounds.

Avoiding the sacred, the woman swerved right. She dashed across the street and down another dark passageway that wove between aging houses. Another turn, and a descent down a slanted coach-run quickened their pace.

Here, the city quieted. Wet cobbles echoed with each tread of his boots. The scent of burning firewood hung heavily in the cold air. He thought to race forth and sweep the fleeing woman into his embrace. A hard, demanding clasp that would either force a scream from her, or…

Or what? Devilish anticipation crooked his mouth to a smirk. She ran swiftly and easily maintained her distance. Not as teasing as he’d prefer. He could not make a dash for her if he tried.

But ahead loomed her ruin. An old limestone garden wall sequestered an ancient grouping of stone and thatch houses from the bourgeois world of brick and red-tiled roofing.

With an audible gasp, she turned and slipped into a dark alley that narrowed to but a child’s width. Success! Athos raced into the cleft and pressed the woman’s shoulders against the rough, snow-dusted wall. She did not cry out. Victory flashed in her eyes. ’Twas as if he had pursued the devil wearing the guise of a femme fatale. But he was not one to resist the devil’s call to sin.

“You want this?” he asked, but cared not for the answer.

“More than you know.”

Ah, an agreeable wench.

Her lips were cold, but he warmed them with a hard, bruising kiss. She welcomed the insistence. “I need you, mon bonne bouche.”

“Then take me,” was her husky reply.

Her hands found hold around his back. Gloved fingers inched up under his leather doublet and tugged his well-worn Holland shirt from his chamois breeches. With a greedy pull, she tugged him close enough to gauge his want, which grew hard as it pressed against her hip.

Sweet mercy, this was almost too easy.

His cock ached for its due as he ground it against her, rubbing into the hard curve of her hipbone. She wore little beneath her skirts, for he did not sense the intrusion of cage-like wooden panniers or the many layers of petticoats women so frequently endured.

“Not up for the festivities?” he said into her mouth as he kissed her plump, slick lips.

“Too macabre for my tastes. I prefer more singular company.”

Gliding his fingers along her jaw, he savored her smooth, flawless flesh. Young, she was, but not naïve, for she balked at no touch. Instead, she answered his every challenge with motions just as bold and demanding. From his mouth she stole his breath and dueled with his tongue.
A break in the clouds flashed a beam of elusive winter sunlight across their stolen liaison. He could not stop kissing her, sucking her flesh, and tasting. Her flavor was irresistibly un-namable. A rare vintage. No lemon scent here, only the brisk cold air and the strangest tang of smoke. ’Twas as if she had stepped from the flames straight into his arms.

“Are you the devil’s familiar, then?”

A wicked purr preceded her muffled laughter. “Do you wish to speak or roust? You cannot do both, monsieur.”

“Oh, but I can.” He pushed his fingers into the lush softness of dark hair, loosening the wide ribbon at the back of her neck that held it in a clutch like that of a jealous lover. Heavy curls splayed across his cheek and filled his palms. “Does conversation vex you?”

“Perhaps. Oh, quickly,” she said on a gasp. Her fingers tugged the silver buttons at his waistband. Expert fingers, he noted, which most certainly had done this before.

Had he caught himself a whore with whom to dance his farewell to the cruel city of Paris? Seemed likely.
Did he care?

A firm grip assailed his cock. A hiss plunged over his lips. Lost in the motions of desire and frantic need, he let out a moan as the cool slip of her gloved fingers enveloped his hard shaft and began to work him up and down.

Very well, he could forego conversation. The woman knew exactly what she wanted, and how to get it. Dieu, she would bring him to climax quickly.

Her other hand pulled aside her leather skirts—which opened easily; they were actually slit down the front. Beneath she wore suede breeches, which he quickly unbuttoned and slid down. Pressing rough, hurried kisses down her chin and along the column of her neck, he groaned as a thrust inside her hot depths welcomed with a moist, sinful hug.

Closing his eyes to the world, to the past, to the unsure future, he plunged deep inside his fiery savior.

“No devil’s imp, but a sweet dark angel,” he said. “You appeared to me at a most opportune time. Mmm, but I needed this.”

“As do I.”

“You’re so…tight. Sangdieu!”

“That’s right,” she urged. “Take what you will. You are a man with wants. I have wants, as well.”

She was entirely supported by the wall behind her and the power of his thrusts. He pressed a palm over her breast, regretful she wore not a low bodice, but instead a neck-high doublet jeweled with many small metal buttons that would require far too much patience to attend. But he could feel her heartbeats. They pulsed double-time to his thrusts. Two heartbeats for every gasp of breath from her parted lips.

He ground his hips into her so fiercely he might have been forcing the wall down as he had in sieges past. But she took it all. And he took, as well. This mindless surrender to a stranger was exactly what he needed.

Release built in his cock, flowing throughout his body, screaming to explode. He sensed the same tremors shake his dark angel. How he loved to savor a woman’s orgasm, to know that small mastery over her.

“Release,” he commanded. “Give yourself to me. Yes, my prize.”

A kiss to her lips felt her teeth. She clamped hard on her lower lip, fighting the pleasure, perhaps prolonging the imminent. But there wasn’t time to stretch things out to play at capturing a ride with la petit mort. He could not delay his own climax; it was ridiculous to think of waiting.

He let out a cry muffled in the woman’s mass of long black curls. He pressed his face against her neck. Her pulse pounded at his temples. His body shuddered, riding the felicitous wave.

Amidst the high of surrender he could not help wonder…she had not cried out. Had not come. Had he been too quick with her?

Why, again, did he care? Curiosity was not his curse.

Death’s triumphant cries rose in the background. As did cheers from the satisfied crowd.

“Do you hear?” Her body stiffened against his lax, lusciously strained muscles. She worked up her breeches. In the distance, the crowd’s roar crescendoed to thunder. The thud of iron hooves drew closer to their hiding spot. “I must be off.”

Stealing more kisses from her passion-bruised lips—for he sensed heaven had slammed its pearly gates—he worked lazily at his breech clips.

“You are a dark angel,” he murmured. “An angel who can roust like the devil. And yet, why did you not—”

She slipped from his grasp and while pushing her skirts down her thighs, and started toward the street.
Athos swung out and gripped her wrist. “No.” Never had he felt so sated, and yet so damned dissatisfied. He slammed her shoulders against the limestone wall and pressed a hand flat to her chest. The pace of her heart reeled out of control. “What are you?”

She shook her head, not understanding.

“You…you are so utterly cold! You intend to dash away as if I am nothing more than a trick in the night. But whores are not so lovely, so…divine.”

“I am not a whore!”

“No, I do not believe you are, for such women prank themselves in frippery and painted faces. But why?” His tone softened to wonder. “Why did you not release? You could have.” He caressed her cheek. “You were right there with me.”

“Release?” She jerked her chin from his touch. Now her gaze turned cold as the frozen ground. “And grant to a stranger the one thing I can yet control?” Her lips thinned to a sneer that would level the Old Lad Himself.

“Never.”

She pushed from his grasp and strode away. The dull clicks of her footsteps bespoke that she wore boots beneath her strange costume. Another masculine touch.

Never. Growled with such determination, the word pounded like a dull drumbeat in Athos’s brain. He turned and pressed his forehead to the wall where a stray strand of her hair tickled his nose.

A cold woman, indeed. And yet, she’d stoked the embers he’d long thought fizzled to ash. Ah, but he did favor a willing woman. And yet…not so willing to surrender.

Not a whore. But what? A fallen angel to haunt his nights with dreams of what they had just shared?
Did it not figure?

“Adieu,” he murmured against the wall. “Adieu, my Lady Paris. You have stolen away in an angel’s wicked embrace. Fitting.”