Catapulted from her protected life, young Celeste is thrust into a world of treachery and deceit when she is crowned Empress of a country on the brink of revolution. Ensnared by her council's corruption, Celeste is accused of treason and sentenced to execution.
Only one man can help her, but he carries silent rage from his years of bondage and has sworn vengeance against Celeste and her countrymen. Through the upheval of war and the collapse of an empire, the two are forced to rely on each other for their survival. But, is their growing trust and love for one another enough to endure betrayal and mend the devastation of their lives and hearts?
When honor clashes with blood lust, only strength of spirit can prevail.
What is a love affair without passion and intrigue? Ronnie has what she calls a "long standing love affair with the English language," and at age five, from the moment she could string words together, she began writing poetry, even then displaying what others said was remarkable insight and intuitive understanding for humanity. At age ten, her first published piece appeared as a script for a school play and its production ignited her passion for writing.
Her poetry has appeared in the Mirage, a literary and arts magazine in southeastern Arizona and has been featured in Songs of Honour sponsored by the International Society of Poets through which she received the "Editor’s Choice" award and was nominated as "International Poet of the Year." Other works of hers, including short stories and articles, have appeared in various local newspapers throughout the United States from North Carolina to Arizona to Idaho.
Her creativity hasn’t been limited to writing. She has modeled for and studied under an internationally acclaimed artist and metaphysics lecturer. She has been an art instructor as well as a commissioned artist.
Yet, it has been the intrigue of humanity that has continued to fuel her passion for writing and in pursuit of intrigue she has traveled abroad as far as Chile, South America. She has also attended college classes with the Blackfeet in teepees on the Blackfoot reservation in Browning, Montana. Through it all, she has discovered that there is, in every person, a hero, an artist, an adventurer, and a philosopher.
She currently resides in Lewiston, Idaho where she continues pursuit of her passion.
"I know who you are," she said, finally breaking the silence between them.
The slave standing before her visibly tensed. "Do you," he said at length. It wasn’t a question, but rather a statement of disbelief or caution.
"D, X, V," Celeste whispered.
This time, the slave’s reaction was startling. He lunged toward the Empress, clamped his hands in vise-like grips around her shoulders, opened his mouth to speak and then checked his actions. Slowly, he released her, stepped back, and crossed his arms over his chest as he struggled to control his turmoil.
"My apologies, Empress," the slave said, regaining self-control and silently berating himself for his behavior.
"The initials don’t have anything to do with your name – whatever it is," Celeste whispered, studying the slave, trying to read his emotions, and thankful he’d found control. Her shoulders felt no more substantial than fragile glass in his grip he could shatter at will. "They’re your number." She glanced at his leather armband then back up into his eyes.
The slave made no response.
"Venerable Krystan explained it to me. He said in the ancient language of Diandia the letters represented numbers. The ‘D’ represented the number five hundred, the ‘X’ stood for a ten and the ‘V’ was a five. If you put them together, they form the number five hundred, fifteen – the same number you wear. I got curious because I’d been seeing those letters everywhere I looked and when I learned they represented your number, I thought it meant something." Celeste spoke quickly, hoping the tremble in her voice went no farther than her own ears. She again offered silent thanks to God that the slave had managed self-control. Otherwise, she’d be helpless in his arms.
"You are most astute, Empress," he whispered. He kept his arms crossed over his chest as he gave Celeste a brief bow.
What else was there to say? Celeste wondered as another period of silence began and grew. She didn’t know what he liked or what he wanted. She didn’t know herself what she expected from the visit.
Celeste felt suddenly shy and terribly small again as she faced the giant slave. "I wish --" she said, and then stopped.
"Yes, Empress?" The slave urged.
"I wish, just for tonight, I wasn’t the Empress and you weren’t a slave."
"I wish it every night," he said.
"Do you mean to say you wish you weren’t a slave or you wish I weren’t the Empress?"
"Yes."
"I see," she said, not seeing at all and still uncertain, but determined. "Then I’d like you to do two things for me."
"Only two?" The slave’s dark eyes smiled even if his lips did not. He raised one eyebrow in a quizzical arch, making Celeste shiver inside.
"I’d like you to forget what we are and I’d like you to call me ‘Celeste’."
"Celeste," the slave murmured, rolling her name in the depths of his chest.
Celeste lowered her face to hide her flush of pleasure at the slave’s response and when she raised her eyes again, she saw, for a countless time, the leather armband he wore marking him as slave Five-fifteen. She’d never forget he was a slave if she saw it every time she looked up at him, and it did mar the graceful, curving bulges of his upper arm.
"That needs to come off," she whispered, not realizing she spoke aloud.
"Then, take it off," he spoke quietly in return. He sat on a marble bench and held out his arm in front of him, with his palm turned upward, as an offer or invitation to Celeste to pull off the band.
Good Lord, Celeste thought, gauging the breadth of his hand. One of his could engulf both of hers. She stepped to his side and studied the leather band. The numbers, once stamped so clearly into the leather, were now filled in with years of accumulated grime and soot and were legible only as black smears on a cracked, worn band. It looked like a snug fit around his arm and Celeste hesitated, not knowing how to pull it off without mauling him. For as curious as she had been earlier about the feel of his skin, she was now hesitant about touching him as shyness again overtook her.
"Well?" The slave asked, letting his arm drop and relax in his lap. Relaxing was the difficult part. His desire to touch Celeste was so strong, his fingers throbbed.
"I was just thinking my thigh can’t be any bigger around than your arm," Celeste said.
The slave lowered his gaze to the slit in Celeste’s gown then slowly brought it up her body until his eyes met hers again. "You are petite," he whispered. "I scarcely felt your weight at all when I caught you as you were thrown from your horse."
"I’m surprised you remember."
He couldn’t forget.