A sizzling novel of passion, peril, and searing sensuality from “a master among master storytellers” ( Affaire de Coeur )—a magical weaver of spellbinding tales, enticing characters, and unforgettable romance. The darkly handsome warrior found her in the hot desert night, the last survivor of a caravan devastated by a brutal attack. But Thea could hardly have found a less likely savior. Brooding and powerful, the infamous Lord Ware felt no need to rescue a total stranger, but Thea’s striking beauty and fighting spirit moved him. So the knight in tarnished armor carried her away to his secret stronghold at Dundragon, where she would become his prisoner, his tormentor, his lover . . . and the one weapon his deadly enemy could use to destroy him. Praise for Iris Johansen “Iris Johansen knows how to win instant fans.” —Associated Press   “Iris Johansen is a powerful writer.” — Atlanta Journal-Constitution   “[Iris Johansen is] one of the romance genre’s finest treasures.” — Romantic Times   “A master among master storytellers.” — Affaire de Coeur   “Johansen serves up a diverting romance and plot twists worthy of a mystery novel.” — Publishers Weekly   “[Iris] Johansen has . . . a magical quality.” — Library Journal   “[Johansen is] a consummate artist who wields her pen with extraordinary power and grace.” —Rave Reviews   “Iris Johansen is a bestselling author for the best reason—she’s a wonderful storyteller.” —Catherine Coulter   “Iris Johansen is incomparable.” —Tami Hoag Woven with searing sensuality, here is the unforgettable story of a woman who is carried away by a powerful Lord to a secret stronghold, where she becomes his prisoner, his tormentor...and his lover. Woven with searing sensuality, here is the unforgettable story of a woman who is carried away by a powerful Lord to a secret stronghold, where she becomes his prisoner, his tormentor...and his lover. Iris Johansen  is the  New York Times  bestselling author of many novels, including  Killer Dreams, On the Run, Countdown, Firestorm, Fatal Tide, Dead Aim,  and  No One to Trust.  She lives near Atlanta, Georgia. Chapter One APRIL 21, 1189 SYRIAN DESERT THE MOONLIT SILVER SANDS shimmered hazily before her eyes. The mountains on the horizon seemed an eternity away. Thea staggered, fell to her knees, then struggled again to her feet. She must keep going. . . . She must not waste the night. The darkness was less cruel than the burning light of day. Barely. She tried to swallow. Panic seared through her. Dear God, her throat was too dry; she would strangle. She drew a deep breath, trying to calm the wild pounding of her heart. Fear was as much her enemy as this burning desert. She would not be frightened into taking the last few swallows from her water bag. Tomorrow she might reach an oasis. Or even Damascus. She had been traveling so long, surely Damascus was a possibility. She would not give up. She had not escaped those savages just to succumb to the desert. She stopped and concentrated. See, she could still swallow. She had not reached the point of total desperation. She started jerkily forward again. Think of coolness, smoothness, glowing threads of gold on fine brocade. Think of beauty. . . . The world was not this desert. Yet it seemed to be the world. She could not remember anything but glaring sand by day and shifting sinister shadows by night. But tonight the shadows seemed more alive, less evanescent and more purposeful. Coming toward her. Pounding toward her. Not shadows. Horsemen. Dozens of horsemen. Armor gleaming in the moonlight. The savages again. Hide. Where? No shrubs in this barren place. Run. No strength. There was always strength. Call on it. She was running. The water skin and the basket on her back weighed her down, slowing her. She could not drop either one. The water skin was life. The basket was freedom. The pounding of hooves was closer. A shout . . . A sharp stitch in her side. Ignore it. Keep running. Her breath was coming in painful gasps. The horses were streaming around her, in front of her, surrounding her. . . . “Stop!” Arabic. Saracens. Savages like those others. She darted blindly forward, seeking a way through the ring of horses. She ran into a wall of iron. No, not a wall. A broad chest garbed in iron mail. Huge gauntlet-clad hands grabbed her shoulders. She struggled wildly, her fists pounding at the mail. Stupid. Hit flesh, not armor. She struck his cheek with all her strength. He flinched and muttered a curse, his hands tightening with bruising force on her shoulders. She cried out as pain shot through her. “Be still.” His light eyes blazed down at her from beneath the steel visor. “I won’t hurt you, if you don’t fight me.” Lies. She had seen the blood and rapine and the killing. . . . She struck his cheek again. And again. Her shoulders went numb as his grip tightened again. Her body arched with agony. She slowly lifted her fist to str