White Rose of Night

White Rose of Night

Mel Keegan

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It is a time of conquest in which the Saxon is almost a slave in his own country, and the Holy Land is sundered by unholy war out of which there can be no winners, no real victors. And for young men like Paul Delgado and Edward of Aethelstan, no place is safe. Their own home is as filled with danger as the battlefields of Palestine, for they are men who love men, in an age when such love is forbidden.

 

On the very threshold of manhood, Paul is a landless, penniless orphan with no future — unless it is to follow the young Earl of Aethelstan to war. But Edward has no desire to sell his sword and his soul to a blood- soaked Crusade where mercy is rare, cruelty is commonplace, and the dark sorcery of an unknown land might easily swallow a man whole.

 

To repair the patchwork fortunes of the House of Aethelstan, Edward commits himself to the Crusade ... for love of the young Saxon knight, Paul sails with the eastbound ships, in the company of Normans, Templars, soldiers and squires. Before he returns, he will be a man grown, with an epic story to tell of bloodshed and sorcery, sublime sensuality, and a timeless love. Dust-veiled battlefields and the candlelit bedchambers of Saracen captains are his memories: silk and steel, delight and despair, and the magic and mayhem of a half-forgotten age.

 
PUBLISHED BY: GLBT Bookshelf
ISBN: 0-9750884-8-3
PUBLICATION DATE: 1997
WORD COUNT: 145000
SEXUAL CONTENT RATING: 3 3 3
EBOOK READER RATING:
CATEGORIES: Historical, Romantic Fiction
KEYWORDS: gay, gay historical, Mel Keegan, gay romance, erotica
 

EBOOKS BY GLBT Bookshelf

EBOOKS BY Mel Keegan

 
EXCERPT
COPYRIGHT Mel Keegan/1997

It was still early when we bedded. The sky was not yet dark and I, as Edward’s squire, found myself given a little cot at the foot of his great, wide bed in the guest chamber. It was very proper — this was the usual arrangement made for knights and squires when they were on the road. Edward shut the door, threw the bolt and stood in the middle of the room, glaring at the floor for a long time. I could scarcely breathe. We were like statues and I would swear I could feel him without touching him.

 

“My lord,” I whispered at last, “who would know?”

 

He looked up at me, frowning, and shook his head.

 

“But my lord … Edward.” I breathed his name, full of longing.

 

“No one would know, it is true, but the memory would only mock us, Paul. ’Tis far harder to break a cur of a habit once he has acquired it than to prevent him ever falling into the habit.”

 

“You are cursed sensible for a beauty,” I said, mightily disgruntled.

 

His brows flew up. “A beauty? You think so?”

 

“A beauty that haunts my dreams.”

 

“You dream of me?” Did his eyes darken? “What do you dream?”

 

Heat flushed my cheeks. “You can imagine. Oh, Edward, you are stubborn and disciplined. I have not the iron will you have. Of course I dream! What else do you leave me? Surely you would not deny me the right even to dream!”

 

He smiled sadly. “I also indulge my whims, but I know where to make an end of it.” He took a step toward me, put his hand on my shoulder. Where he touched me I was fire and ice. “There is nothing in it for us but pain. You have seen my life. You have no place in it … I wish you had.”

 

His voice was rough with sincerity but still he turned his back on me, dragged off his clothes and slid into bed before I had properly seen him. I bit my lip on useless curses, snuffed the candles and tugged off my own garments. I was half bare when I realised how bright the moonlight was. And that he was watching me.

 

The silver light shone in his eyes as he lay, bare-chested in the enormous bed. I turned toward him, let him see me. There, know what you are denying yourself! I thought with a trace of malice. I rolled off my hose, threw them onto my own little bed and stood naked in the rectangle of light from the window. He was silent, but his eyes travelled me from crown to toe, and under his gaze I felt my cock stir erect.

 

I heard the breath catch huskily in his throat. He murmured something, I could not hear what, nor would he repeat it. I was brazen before him, aroused and making no effort to conceal myself. But I was not lewd. I did not touch myself, but stood with my hands at my sides, not even posturing to fetch him on heat. He looked his fill — all he could bear, I think — then closed his eyes.

 

Tears of frustration scalded my own eyes and my balls throbbed painfully. I gazed at him long after he would no longer look at me. And then I slid quietly into my own bed and willed my stubborn erection to subside.

 

For the moment it did, but I had been half asleep for only minutes when I woke with a start to find myself humping the palliasse, which in my turbulent dream had been his back. I groaned, came, and was suddenly rigid with anxiety. Had he heard? But his breathing was shallow and steady. He was asleep. I relaxed bone by bone, turned over and grumbled into the pillow.

 

 

 
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