The French Affair Boxed Set By Natasha Sparks Copyright 2013 by Natasha Sparks This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved. Table of Contents Book One: The French Affair CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX Book Two: The French General CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE Book Three: The French Marquis CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE EPILOGUE Book 4: The French Emperor PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER Five CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT EPILOGUE Book One: The French Affair CHAPTER ONE When she awoke she found that she was tied to the bed with ropes. Not just any bed, nor any ropes. It was a bed of satin sheets, dark and cool and comfortable amidst a sea of down. And the ropes? The robes were exquisite China silk, soft and luxurious. When she struggled, they bit into her wrists and ankles tight, yet gentle as four lovers, holding her down. "Hello?" she said to the darkness. "Is anyone there?" She meant it to be polite and vulnerable and feminine. Unfortunately, a bit of fear showed through with a shrillness. She was silent for a moment, struggling to remember. Where was she? How did she get here? Who was she? This amnesia at first was frightening and she moaned softly to herself. She then became aware that she was clothed in some kind of linen and chiffon nightclothes, drifty and frilly. There was also the scent of perfume in the air. Lilac, lilies--a crush of roses? And with the rose smell, she calmed, for she knew that this happened sometimes to her--this loss of memory--when she woke up in a strange place, perhaps after too much wine. She did not feel drunk. She did not feel the aftereffects of drinking--but still. I must be calm, she told herself. Be still and calm. I may know more about this than I think I do. There was, after all, some kind of adventure going on--she felt that deep down in herself. Some kind of travel... Travel. Yes. Travel. "I am in France!" she said aloud. And she was startled to hear herself speaking, for she knew she spoke the words out loud in the French language, a language she was not born into. "My God," she said. And it came out, "Mon Dieu!" Quietly she lay back for a bit, her head drifting back into pillows. The dimness receded as her eyes adjusted, and she saw that there was some light, if only a tiny candle fluttering in the corner. She was in a room with plush curtains, beautiful old furniture and a table with a basin and a pitcher. The bed upon which she lay--no, upon which she was tied!--was a sturdy four-poster of oak. Overhead stretched a luxurious canopy of some ornately embroidered material. She shuddered. But it was not entirely from fear. There was something delicious and strange here... "Hello!" she said again. After a moment or two, there was a knock on the door. "Mademoiselle," came a voice. "Are you indecent?" "What--Who?" The door opened with just the faintest of squeaks from its hinges. It swung opened. A figure started walking into the room. A figure dressed in a long flowing robe. A dark hood covered its face. Slowly and ceremoniously it stepped in. She could see that in the middle of the hood was darkness. Like a hole into mystery. The figure came forward and then stopped by a table to the side of the bed. Here it took up a match and lit another candle. Still the figure's face was in shadow, but the light flickered into the folds of the robes, showing the white of bare flesh. A thrill of excitement coursed over her despite herself. A delicious danger danced inside her. "I trust you are comfortable in all the right ways," said the man in rich tones. "And uncomfortable in all the right ways as well." The tall man's voice was rich and deep and though it felt powerful and commanding, it was also musical and playful. "Who are you? Where am I?" "You do not remember? Ah, that, then, would be the wine. Or rather the potion I put in the wine. Rather too much it would appear. It took you hours to wake up, and now it seems to have removed what shreds of memory you had. Do you remember who you are, my dear?" "As of matter of fact... no... no... Can you tell me?" "I was rather hoping you could tell me." "Before. Before this wine you mention. Could I tell you then?" The tall robed man seemed to ignore the question. "You must not fear for you life, my dear," he said. "Your virtue? Well, that is another matter entirely. I dare say your memory will return soon enough. And your youth and delicate beauty--and might I say, your spirit--are intact. You are here in a safe place. It is my honor and privilege to be placed in charge of your-- " Thoughtful pause. "Preparation." "My preparation. For what?" "For the greatest honor that can be bestowed upon a woman!" "I'm tied up in a bed--for preparation!" With much of her actual fear gone, now she felt nothing but indignation. "This is madness! This is outrage!" "You might very well think so, but it is not my duty to comment." Empowered by this rage, she raised her voice. "Help! Help!" she shrieked. "Someone help!" The figure did not move. "Spare your sweet vocal chords, woman!" he said and then laughed as he spoke. "We are in a chateau leagues and leagues from other civilization. All our employees herein are well paid and well understanding of the sounds that may emerge from this chamber." That hushed her. "What... what sounds are expected?" "Oh, perhaps that is best left to your imagination." Suddenly, with a zinging sound, a dagger emerged from the folds of the robe. It sang through the air, shining silver fire, to settle at the nape of her neck. She could feel its point--sharp and chill against her skin. She froze. Despite her terror, her instincts told her to not move. Not a muscle. "I obtained this dagger in Egypt, on our campaign then. It is not an ordinary dagger. It is not a weapon as such. It has caused no deaths." The man chuckled throatily. "Not of the large variety, anyway." "I don't know what you are talking about. Please. At least let me know why I deserve this... this torture." "It is, as I said, the Preparation." The edge of the blade described a delicate, almost tender circle, and then slipped down her neck to her chest, on down to where a drawstring--a pink drawstring--was tied in a bow. Disregarding the bow entirely, the dagger pulled on the string, pulled hard, and snap, cut through. The lacy top of her nightclothes came away, revealing the swell of her bosom rising above her bodice. There was a sharp intake of breath. "Lovely. Lovely indeed," said the robed man. "Let us explore a bit more, shall we?" Thus saying, with a hard flick, the dagger sliced open the lace, laying bare her right breast. Then slowly and delicately, he used the tip to begin teasing downward, downward, to where the nipple rose up, red and swollen. The sensation was indescribable. There was a sharp, razory feel and terror, combined with pure pleasure that swept through her entire body. The tip of the dagger played and teased some more, describing one, two, three circles around the aureole. Despite herself, she gasped. "You see," said the robed man. "Not so bad, eh?" "Stop. I beg you." "I do not truly believe you, but I will stop. For the moment, anyway. But I wish to show you the effect that you have... the power your loveliness exerts on me." He laid the dagger down, and parted the folds of his robes. Below them was, half open at the chest, a white jerkin, stretching down to his midsection. "I am happy to say, I can use my dagger with surgical skill," said the man. "And I have been told my skill with this other dagger of mine is greater." Lifting up the tip of this jerkin was the man's large erect penis. And then she remembered. CHAPTER TWO It felt so nice to Janice when her professor kissed her on her neck as they made love. Today, somehow, it felt even better. "Ma cheri," he murmured between kisses. Was it those thick sensuous Gallic lips of his? Or that thick bushy mustache, giving each touch an extra tingle? She wasn't sure, and as they swept themselves deeper into the sheets she gave the matter less and less thought. "God, I love it when you kiss my earlobes too, Armando. Do that, will you?" "But of course," he said in English. "On the condition that we do not speak in French." "But I like to speak in French. I'm in France. You're French!" "As I said before, Janice. I want to practice. " He said it close to her earlobe, and then nibbled a bit. "Oooh. Nice. Whatever." "Whatever. That is a peculiar American word." "I don't feel like translating vernacular right now, okay." "Very well," he said, amusement in his tone. "What exactly do you feel like?" "Wouldn't you like to know?" she said, playfully. She fingered a bit of the rich patch of chest hair. "Know? Wouldn't I? I do not understand." "Know what? Like, dude, I wouldn't pause to give American vernacular too much thought. Just go with the flow, okay?" "Okay. I know okay. Okay. Have you ever thought, Janice, what a peculiar word that is, 'okay'?"