The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Once upon a time there lived a maiden fair of face, wise of heart, and keen of mind. She was well-beloved of her mother, the Comtesse d’Anjou, and was the darling of all the household. Her eyes were as green as the pine forests in springtime, and her hair was the color of autumn chestnuts. Her name was Mariana.

It was when Mariana was eight that she first laid eyes upon her kinsman.

The entire castle had been in a flurry for a week. Mariana’s mother had commanded that all be made ready for the visit of her distant cousin, the Marquis of Poitou.

“Now, tonight thou must be on thy best behavior,” the comtesse admonished her daughter as she helped her into her fanciest crimson gown. “The Marquis is an honored guest, and thou must be polite to everyone. Show everyone what a gracious lady thou art, and thou shalt make thy mother proud.”

“Shall any visitors be young, as I am?” Mariana asked.

A gentle smile spread over the Comtesse’ face. “I believe the Marquis has a son, but I have never met him and I know naught about him. Now behave well!”

Mariana was proud to stand beside her mother and father when the Marquis and his entourage rode into the courtyard and dismounted. A tall man with black curls bowed to her father and mother, then her parents embraced him.

The guests were soon escorted into the great hall of the Chateau. The Marquis and his family were shown to their seats; in a few moments, they were served supper. While the adults discussed goings-on in England and the Empire, Mariana’s mind drifted. She sat at supper for what seemed like an eternity, and her legs and arms itched; they longed to stretch and be active.

It seemed like she had been sitting for weeks, but finally dinner was over, and Mariana was allowed to stand up and move. The guests were shown into the parlor, and she wandered around aimlessly until she saw a boy about her size.

He had a hawkish nose and black curls. Mariana could somehow tell that they were of the same age, although he was somewhat taller than she. Her eyes took in his entire fair countenance, and for a moment could not believe that such a beautiful boy existed on all the earth. Unable to help herself, she ran to him immediately.

“Art thou an angel?” she asked.

Affrighted, the boy turned towards her, and his hazel eyes widened in surprise. “Nay, my lady,” he replied, taking her hand in his own and bowing. Shivers ran down Mariana’s arm, across her shoulders and down her spine. “I am called Caron de Poitou.”

“Thou art Caron de Poitou?” Mariana gasped. “Then thou art my kinsman!”

In a moment, a taller, dark-haired figure stepped over to them. It was her uncle, the Marquis. “Ah, Mariana, Caron, I see that you have met. Indeed, you are akin, but distantly. Although you are cousins, Caron, Mariana is related by the fourth degree, and then once removed.”

Mariana curtseyed to the Marquis, who nodded and walked away. Caron looked uncertainly at her with his hazel eyes.

“Thou must come and play with me!” Mariana exclaimed joyfully, and seizing the boy’s hand, dragged him into the side room. “Tell me everything about thee!” she demanded.

Bewildered, Caron stared at her. “Aye, well, I am told that I am to become a knight, and I must learn swordplay and cavalry.”

“Cavalry? Thou meanest horses?” At her cousin’s nod, an excited smile spread over Mariana’s lips. “I love to ride! I have been riding since I was four.”

For the first time, Caron smiled back. “I did not know that damsels rode! Please, might I see thy horse?”

Grinning and taking his hand, Mariana led Caron to the stables, where they brushed her young stallion and discussed all manner of riding and tricks with horses. Mariana was worried for a moment that she would stain her shoes and stockings, but Caron lifted her onto his shoulders. He seemed put out for a moment when he realized she was likely as good a rider as he, but soon got over it when she mentioned that she could read.

“I have little interest in reading,” Caron said. “My father saith it is important for a knight, but I would rather ride! My mother said it is unseemly for a woman to read.”

“I am sure my mother would have words with thy mother, Caron,” Mariana replied. “Maman says, how is a noblewoman to be a good wife to her husband if she cannot aid and advise him?”

“I have never heard of an attitude like that,” Caron said.

“I’d wager that they would not have so many troubles in the Empire if they were to elect a woman,” Mariana smiled.

“Would God select a woman to lead the Empire? Our Lord was a man,” her cousin pointed out.

“Where did Our Lord come from but from Our Father and Our Lady?” Mariana countered.

Caron had no reply to that, so he was content to listen to some of the tales Mariana had read about in her books. From then on, the two were inseparable, and when a week had passed and the Marquis and his entourage were to depart, their farewell was tearful.

“I know knights are not supposed to cry,” Caron whispered as he flung his arms around Mariana, “but I find the tears coming nonetheless.”

“Promise me that thou shalt write,” Mariana sobbed into Caron’s shoulder.

Caron swallowed hard despite his tight throat. “I shall redouble my efforts at handwriting, dear cousin.”

Caron was true to his word, and a letter arrived from him a month later. Although Mariana had to employ her mother’s help to make out Caron’s clumsy script, she soon knew about his adventures with his reading and writing tutors and his mishaps on horseback.

Mariana wrote back promptly, and thus began a correspondence that lasted ten years.

When he was fourteen, Caron was beginning to master horsemanship, and was a fair swordsman for his youth. The happiest day of every month, though, was when a letter would arrive from his cousin.

“I have become adept at needlepoint,” Mariana had written in her latest missive, “and although I find it dull, my father appreciates the new banners I have made for his soldiers.

“I have just completed a marvelous new book, the Roman de la Rose. For the first time, Father said it was unseemly for a woman to appear so well read, but after a few words with Maman, he agreed that I would make a splendid wife someday. Father came home last week saying that the Vicomte de Charente had asked for my hand, and the marriage alliance would be a good one! I have seen this Vicomte, though — he is old, and fatter than Louis VI — and thankfully, Maman helped Father see reason.”

“Goodness me,” Caron thought to himself. “I have never considered marriage, yet Mariana’s parents seem to think she is ready!” The idea of Mariana married made him uncomfortable somehow, but he told himself that it was merely the notion of her marrying someone four times her age.

By the time she was seventeen, Mariana was the darling of Anjou, and her father had trouble deflecting all of the marriage proposals — but he was determined that his daughter not marry someone that she had never met.

In the late summer of that year, Mariana had ridden to a convent to visit one of her aunts. Upon her return one August evening, one of the servants approached her.

“My lady,” he said, “Thank heaven for thy timely arrival. Thy mother has been asking for thee.”

Mariana was shown into the Comtesse’s chamber, and immediately noted that the Lady did not look well. Her mother was propped up in the poster-bed and surrounded by pillows, but her eyes were sunken and her face pale.

“Maman!” she said, and ran to the Comtesse’s bedside. “You look . . . well.”

“And thou, Mariana, art a terrible liar,” the Lady said. “As thou knowest, I am old.”

“I do not like where this is leading, Maman,” Mariana said, holding the woman’s hand. “I have never thought of thee as old.”

“Nonetheless, it is true,” the countess said, “And I know my time is not afar off.”

“Do not say such things!”

“I must,” said the old woman, a firmness in her faltering voice. “There are secrets I must impart to thee.”

Mariana blinked. “I knew not that thou hadst secrets!”

“‘Tis why they are called secret, dear,” said the Comtesse. “Just as my mother passed on our family’s legacy to me, so I must pass it on to thee. Ages ago, an ancestress of ours was a priestess in the Temple of Artemis.”

“A what of the where?”

The Comtesse d’Anjou sighed. “It is a shortcoming in thy education that thou knowest not the feminine of ‘priest’, and I regret that I have not been able to correct that until now. Long ago, in the land of Greece, the priests and priestesses of Artemis kept secret learning, knowledge that I must impart unto thee now.”

“I thought that the pagan priests of Greece used trickery to make their doings seem like divine miracles!” Mariana exclaimed.

“Do not be so astonished, my dear,” the old woman responded. “Nay. Perhaps there was trickery at other temples, but the knowledge I seek to impart to thee is not heterodoxy, but the secret workings of the human heart and soul.”

Mariana regarded the Comtesse skeptically.

“Trust me, as thou hast always trusted me,” the Lady whispered. “Knowledge is neither good nor ill; ‘tis the use to which it is put that defines it as sinful. If thou wilt attend my words, then I can teach thee about the patterns in which people think, and how to address the dreaming part of one’s mind as well as the waking part.”

“As thou hast never steered me astray before,” Mariana said slowly, “and I know thee to be worthy and honest, Maman, it will be my honor to attend thee as my teacher.”

“Good, good,” the Comtesse said, patting her daughter’s hand. “Now attend me well.”

As their conversation continued long into the night, the countess whispered to her daughter what her mother had taught her. At one point, Mariana agreed to sit still and do naught but listen, while her mother spoke gently and intensely to her. A careless observer might have thought Mariana’s attention wavered when her green eyes fluttered and closed; yet in a few minutes she was awake, and with her whispers helped the aging matron to fall into a gentle slumber.

When he was eighteen, Caron de Poitou received a distressing letter from his beloved kinswoman.

“Dear Caron,” Mariana had written, “I thank thee for thy constant letters! How they comfort me in difficult times; yet I long for comfort in person! A horrible darkness has fallen over my home. Last night, the doctor and the priest left in sadness, for my father hast passed away.”

The breath caught in Caron’s throat. The Comte d’Anjou dead? And less than a year after the passing of the Comtesse? This meant that Mariana was now Comtesse d’Anjou! Her titles and lands would be a valuable prize! He fervently hoped that she could avoid a forced marriage.

“I wish my succession could have been with more joy, or warning,” her letter continued, “But my father’s wounds were too grievous, and now Anjou has no one to lead our soldiers in battle. All the household looks to me for guidance and leadership. Although I give it as best I may, I know that I am not my father, and my life is now full of constant challenges.

“Pray write again soon and turn my heart to merrier things!

“Thy affectionate cousin,

“Mariana d’Anjou.”

Caron spared no time, but immediately sought an audience with his father. “My lord,” he began as soon as he was shown in — before even the Marquis had raised his head to acknowledge him — “The Comte d’Anjou is dead.”

The lord of Poitou gaped at his son. “Our Father in Heaven! Alas, poor Raoul; poor Mariana!”

“Indeed, it is on that topic that I have sought thy council,” Caron said. “Mariana has no one to command her soldiers. May I take my leave?”

The Marquis looked at his son gravely, then shook his head. “Alas, Caron; thou couldst only take such a position with the Dauphin’s permission, and I am certain that the old goat would not grant it.”

His son dashed Mariana’s letter to the ground. “Then what can be done?”

“Perhaps there is a way,” Poitou mused, ruffling through papers. “I remember noting that there is a circuit nearby that needs a lieutenant. Yes, here it is: the royal patrol rides twice monthly from Authion to Aubance and back. I could arrange for thy posting there. Would that be adequate?”

The Marquis knew at once from the relieved smile forming on his son’s face that the proposition was acceptable. “It would, Papa, I mean, my lord,” Caron said. “I thank thee.”

“Thy nobility is a credit to our family, Caron,” the Marquis of Poitou replied. “Thou art becoming a fine knight.”

Two weeks later, the royal patrol arrived in Anjou, and Mariana had little interest in seeing the soldiers until one of her servants announced that the lieutenant wished to see her. With a sigh, Mariana agreed to receive him.

When a young knight with a hawk-nose, hazel eyes, and black curls walked in and grinned at her, Mariana was about to give him a dressing-down for his presumption — then realized who he was.

“Caron!” the Comtesse cried, and flung her arms around his neck.

For his part, Caron wrapped his arms around her and sighed as his heart calmed down — it had begun a frenzied beating as soon as his company had come within sight of the Chateau d’Anjou. In a moment, the two released each other and studied the other’s features; and Caron found his heart beating again. Firmly, he told himself to keep his bearing and not behave like an eight-year-old in front of the Comtesse, as lovely as she was.

Although her slimness surprised him, Mariana had rich, straight, chestnut brown hair that she wore in a thick braid that fell almost to her waist. She had a generous smile that shone in her deep green eyes, and wore a lovely blue gown.

“I am sorry for thy loss, my lady,” Caron said formally.

“I thank thee, sir knight, Caron,” Mariana grinned at him. “I cannot believe ‘tis thee! How camest thou to be here?”

“When I received thy news, I requested leave to join the royal company in Authion, Mariana, I mean, my lady,” he replied. “My apologies, I did not mean to address thee informally.”

Mariana studied his face. “‘Tis alright, my kinsman,” she told him. “Thou mayest call me Mariana — but, truth be told,” she continued with a knowing grin, “I like hearing ‘my lady’ upon thy lips.”

“As thou dost wish, my lady,” Caron said with a smile, and Mariana smiled back.

For more than a year, Caron’s company visited the Chateau d’Anjou once a month, and Caron was honored to dine with the Comtesse. Although many lords set their eyes upon the lovely noblewoman, her reputation — and that of her kinsman, who later became the captain of the royal company — dissuaded any less than-honorable attempts to marry the Lady.

One evening in the late autumn, a messenger arrived at Anjou to speak to the Comtesse. As he was one of her retainers, Mariana showed him in at once.

“I am sorry to disturb thy Grace at this late hour,” the messenger bowed, “but it seems that thy usual nemesis is up to her scheming once again.”

Mariana sighed. “And what has the Vicomtesse de Charente done this time?”

“The Baron de Dijon is dead,” the messenger told her. “Although the death has been ruled natural and the Baron was given the last rights, rumor is that he was poisoned.”

Mariana groaned. “And with the old Baron dead, his single younger brother is the new Baron. Resisting the marriage alliance with Dijon was hard enough with a married Baron wooing for his brother; it will now be harder.”

The messenger nodded.

“And if I marry Dijon,” the young Comtesse mused, “I will have to move to Burgundy, leaving the Vicomtesse the most powerful noble in these parts.”

Mariana regarded the flickering embers in the fireplace thoughtfully as she continued. “And as yet our evidence that the Vicomtesse poisoned her last lover, that Baronet de Cerbere, is not conclusive. If only we could prove it!”

She frowned. “It is time to beat Charente at her own game. Philippe, in the morning, ride to the royal court at Paris and see if we can find a suitable husband for her — one that will not be as easily discarded as her past lovers. Someone in another country, if possible.”

The messenger bowed and took his leave.

Philippe left at cock-crow the next day, and within four hours Mariana’s servants announced another visitor. Perplexed — for she was not expecting another caller that day — the Comtesse entered the receiving room.

“Mariana! My Lady!” came Caron’s rich tenor voice as he lifted her up. Mariana squealed as he spun her around in the air and set her down. “I wished thee to be the first to know — I am engaged!”

Mariana felt as if something had died inside her, but managed to keep her smile.

“Engaged,” she said. “Congratulations, dear cousin. To whom?”

“Her Grace, the Vicomtesse de Charente!”

“Our Father in Heaven,” Mariana gasped. “Caron, thou canst not!”

“Why not?” Caron said, perplexed. “I know her father asked for thy hand, but that was years ago.”

“Why, ‘tis . . . ‘tis . . . ‘tis her reputation, Caron. She has had many lovers, and is suspected in the death of the Baron de Dijon.”

Caron looked at the Comtesse strangely. “My lady, Dijon’s death was ruled natural. Unless the Vicomtesse can control fate, she cannot have been involved. She has been unchaste? I remember, years ago, thou didst say unto me that ‘tis foolish to have one law for women and another for men. I have been in the company for more than a year now, and I know how the soldiers behave. Why hold the Vicomtesse to a standard to which I cannot hold my friends?”

“Caron, Charente is a scheming, untrustworthy woman. I beg thee to reconsider!” Mariana told him.

Caron regarded her coolly. “My lady, I do not need thy approval, although I had hoped for thy support. I am sure my father will give both when he hears of the match. As far as the Vicomtesse being a scheming woman, ‘tis not she that thou describest. By thy leave, my lady.”

Caron turned on his heel and went forth from the chamber. Mariana managed to find a chair and sat down.

Two weeks later, Caron’s company arrived on its regular circuit, and Mariana was surprised when he requested an audience. She felt herself relax in a way she had not done in a fortnight.

“That was thoughtful of him,” she thought as she sat in her receiving room. “As it is our custom to dine together, Caron can ask to see me with no damage to his reputation, and I don’t have to lose face by asking that he come.” Still, she resolved, she would be the one to apologize first.

Caron entered in a moment. “I am sorry,” they said in chorus.

Both laughed, and Mariana rose. Caron came over to kiss her hand, then enfolded her in an embrace.

“Let’s never fight again,” she whispered in his ear.

“I agree completely,” he replied as he let her go and removed his cloak. “I should not have reacted in anger.”

“Aye, and I should not have disapproved!” Mariana said. “Regardless of my own feelings about the Vicomtesse, I should have trusted thee to make thy own decisions.”

“I thank thee, Mariana,” Caron said gently. “I am grateful that thou hast invited me into thy home after my harsh words! Thy house is a welcome haven.”

“It is? Hast thou been hard pressed?” Mariana asked, pulling him out a chair.

“Oh, aye,” the knight moaned as he sat down. “We pursued a number of bandits last week, and finally confronted them yesterday. There were more of them than we anticipated.”

Mariana stood behind him and started rubbing his shoulders.

“Aye, thank thee, my lady — that feels splendid,” Caron continued. “After that battle — mmmmph, aye, there — I feared I would be late to meet thee. I did not wish any more time to pass before I conveyed my apologies.”

“I thank thee, Caron,” Mariana said softly. “This feels good, then?”

“Aye, perfect.”

“Ssssh, do not speak then,” the comtesse continued gently. “Let my fingers rub thy shoulders, and feel me banishing all that tension.”

Caron nodded tiredly.

“All that tension that thou hast carried over the last few weeks,” Mariana said, rubbing his shoulders, “As I massage thee, feel it all slipping away. It moves through thee and away.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“As I rub thy shoulders, Caron, feel all that discomfort sliding away. Feel thy shoulders relaxing, and thy chest relaxing, and thy stomach relaxing, and thy legs relaxing, and thy feet relaxing. Thou canst feel my massaging fingers all through thy body.”

Caron nodded slowly.

“As I continue to massage thee, Caron, feel every part of thy body relaxing, becoming heavy with relaxation. Imagine relaxation coming down on thee like a gentle fog, my knight — it settles on thy limbs, and makes them heavy.

“Thy feet are becoming so heavy, thy legs are growing so relaxed, thy knees are at peace, thy stomach is so relaxed, thy chest is relaxed, thy arms are getting heavy, so very heavy, heavy in this fog of relaxation.”

Caron mumbled something and his arms fell, loose, to his sides.

“As thou feelest my massaging fingers, thy mind is becoming more and more focused on my voice, Caron. Feel my voice soothing and relaxing thy mind as my fingers sooth and relax thy body. Soothing and relaxing. Relaxing and soothing. My voice, soothing and relaxing.

“Now as I massage thy shoulders, thy shoulders are becoming relaxed, loose, limp and heavy. Thy whole body is relaxed and heavy, limp and loose. Thy shoulders, too, are limp and loose.”

Mariana let go of his shoulders and walked around her kinsman, then pulled up a chair and sat down in front of him. Caron’s head was leaning back a little, and his eyelids were beginning to droop.

“Look into my eyes, Caron,” Mariana whispered in her most soothing, calming voice.

Caron’s eyelids opened slightly.

“Look into my eyes, Caron,” she repeated. “Look deeper, look deeper and relax. My voice continues to relax thy mind as thou focusest thy eyes on mine. Let thyself stare, stare deep into my eyes, deep into the very center, the depths of my pupils. Let thy mind and thoughts fall into my eyes, fall into the depths of my eyes.”

Mariana could tell that the knight’s gaze was completely locked on her. “Thy thoughts fall into my eyes and are washed away,” she continued. “All of thy tension has left thy body; thou art completely focused on my voice and my eyes. Thy mind is focused on my words, and thou dost not wish to look anywhere other than into my eyes. Thou dost not want to look away, Caron; thou desirest to lose thyself in my gaze. Thou canst not look away from my eyes, Caron dear; thou canst hear naught but my voice, see naught but my eyes. And now my eyes have relaxed thee so much, Caron, so much that thou art feeling sleepy.”

Caron started to blink.

“Look deeper into my eyes, and let my power enfold and enwrap thee, dearest cousin. Thou canst feel thy mind falling into my eyes and going to sleep. Listen to my voice whisper to thee, whispering tales of sleep and dreams. Let thyself fall asleep; thou canst not resist my voice whispering for thee to sleep. My words erase thy thoughts; thou canst not resist my eyes, my power, putting thee to sleep. Thy waking mind is all gone, gone to sleep. Thou art falling asleep, Caron dear. Deep asleep. Sleep.” And with that, Mariana waved her hand slowly downward in front of his face, and snapped her fingers. Caron’s hazel eyes closed fast.

“Thy waking mind is fast asleep, Caron dear,” Mariana whispered to her sleeping knight. “Fast asleep; and now thy dreaming mind is waking up, listening to my voice, completely obedient to me, completely obedient to me. Thy dreaming mind hears my voice and obeys me; thy dreaming mind hears my words and obeys me; thy dreaming mind must obey me. Thy dreaming mind cannot resist my words, cannot resist my voice, my Caron. Now it is time for me to converse with thy dreaming mind, which is wide awake, even though thy waking mind is deep asleep. Thou canst hear my voice and obey all of my whispers. Thy dreaming mind has no choice but to obey me, Caron. Thou canst not help but to answer me; thou must answer me, thou lovest to answer me. Thy mind is deep asleep, completely relaxed, and utterly in my power.”

Mariana paused. She wasn’t exactly sure what she planned to do once she was conversing with her kinsman’s dreaming mind, but she knew she had to ensure that the Vicomtesse had not deceived him. “Caron, hast thou met the Vicomtesse de Charente?”

“Yes.”

“Where was this, my Caron?”

“On my circuit.”

Of course, Mariana thought. Charente would be along his path. How foolish she felt.

“Dost thou love the Vicomtesse?”

“No.”

Mariana felt a huge weight leave her. “Why didst thou agree to the proposal?”

“My family would approve of the match.”

Mariana sighed. “Art thou attracted to the Vicomtesse?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because she is dangerous.”

Mariana let out a groan and absently allowed herself to speak her mind. “And I’m not? Well, it’s not as if we’re uncomfortable around each other. What if thou hadst fallen in love with her?”

“I couldn’t,” Caron said.

“What?” Mariana didn’t realize she’d asked a question. “Why couldst not thou fall in love with the Vicomtesse?”

“Because I love someone else.”

Mariana paled. “What? Whom dost thou love, Caron?”

“Thee.”

The universe rocked, rolled around, and then righted itself. The Comtesse d’Anjou felt life returning to her, and gave gratitude that she was sitting.

Mariana took a deep breath. “Thou lovest me, Caron?”

“Yes.”

“Why hast thou never told me?”

“I can’t let myself feel it.”

“Why not?”

“We’ve known each other since we were eight years old.”

Yes, and we’re fourth cousins once removed, Mariana thought. “So thou just canst not admit to thyself that thou lovest me?”

“Yes.”

“Listen to me, my dearest cousin,” Mariana said purposefully. “Listen to me very carefully. In a moment I am going to snap my fingers. When I snap my fingers, thy waking mind will wake up completely, but thou wilt remember nothing since thou didst fall asleep in my power. In fact, thou wilt not even remember falling asleep. But, something will have changed, Caron my dear — from now on, thou canst not deceive thyself about thy feelings for me. Thou knowest thou must admit to them. Thou dost want to admit thy feelings for me, yes?”

“Yes,” Caron mumbled.

“Well then, Caron,” Mariana giggled, as she felt her heart beating faster, “On the count of three I will snap my fingers, and thou wilt awaken; thou shalt remember nothing, but thou wilt admit thy feelings for me, to thyself and unto me, too. One; two; three.”

Mariana snapped her fingers, and Caron opened his hazel eyes and sat up. Mariana noted to her pleasure that her mother’s teachings really had worked.

“Mariana, my lady, I thank thee for rubbing my shoulders,” Caron said as he stood up. “And now I must . . .” He paused.

“Yes, Caron?”

“I must . . . I must tell the Vicomtesse de Charente that the engagement is off.”

“Why?” Mariana said innocently.

“Because . . . Because I love another.” Caron turned and walked for the door.

“Wait!”

Caron turned again. “My lady?”

Mariana walked up to him. “Whom . . . Whom is this woman that thou lovest?”

“It — it is thee, Mariana.” Caron felt the world start to spin. “I am sorry, but I cannot help it. I have loved thee for the first moment I set eyes on thee, eleven years ago, and I am sorry, now thou wilt never wish to dine with me or write to me again, but thou art the jewel of my life, and there is nothing I can do about the way I feel, for thou art the most intelligent woman in France and thy hair is like the autumn, thy smile is like the moon, thy voice is like the angels, I cannot help myself but my heart melts at the look in thy eyes, and I love thee, I love thee completely and utterly, I love thee with everything I am, thou art wise and fair and courteous and gentle and strong and kind and I know thou wilt never talk to me again, but I could not wait another moment before telling thee how I feel, even though I know it means —”

Unfortunately, Caron did not finish his sentence, as his lips were intercepted by Mariana’s kiss.

Mariana and Caron were married one month later in the cathedral of Anjou. Later that year, they made a trip to Paris; and after their appointment with the King, the Vicomtesse de Charente was summoned for a royal audience. The King informed her that she had been selected to make an important nuptial alliance between France and another great power. It was said later that the Vicomtesse’s delight faded slightly when his Highness told her that he had negotiated her union with the youngest son of the Grand Duke of Lithuania.

Caron and Mariana received the news as they returned to Anjou after a brief pilgrimage, and, laughing, drank to the Vicomtesse’s good fortune in a foreign land. “I cannot thank thee enough for showing me the evidence that thou hadst gathered regarding Charente’s predisposition for poison,” Caron told Mariana as he gently lifted her gown over her head. “Thou hadst my heart in thy keeping from years ago, but it seems I may also owe thee my life.”

“I have pledged thee my life, as thou hast pledged me thine, my darling,” Mariana grinned as she unbuckled his tunic and slid off his undergarments. “Let us think no further about the Vicomtesse!”

“Nay,” Caron told his beautiful wife as he lay down on their bed. “I have already a Comtesse — the loveliest damsel in France!”

Mariana stretched herself over him, and Caron took her hands in his, smiling gratefully at her as he felt the familiar warmth of her fingers wrapping around his own. With a quick flip of her head, Mariana tossed her long chestnut-brown braid over one shoulder, and gazed down at him; his hazel orbs stared up earnestly into her green ones.

“I love thee, Mariana, my Comtesse,” Caron said, awaiting the magical words that his wife had first spoken unto him on their wedding night.

“I love thee, Caron, my knight,” Mariana whispered; her dazzling green eyes seemed to grow larger as their gazes locked. “And now . . . thou art under my power.”

As Caron’s thoughts melted away and he lost himself in Mariana’s green eyes, he barely heard her whispering to him as she placed a tender kiss upon his lips and began to slide her pale body over his tanner one. “Everything thou feelest tonight, my husband,” she murmured, “shall be magnified one hundred times . . .”