My Lady Vampire
Book Two
Sahara Kelly
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Sahara Kelly
Cover art copyright 2010 Sahara Kelly
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Acknowledgements
To my husband, who unknowingly contributed to the writing of this story by scheduling a long business trip during its creation, thus freeing me to focus on all things vampire instead of stopping to fix dinner—thanks, honey.
To my writing partner and friend, I owe the greatest debt. Without his encouragement and enthusiasm, the whole creative process would be a lonely business. Sharing the twists and turns of a story as it develops is difficult at the best of times. Occasionally it’s damn near impossible to explain, especially to one who hasn’t experienced the vagaries of plot lines and the confusing impossibility of characters who won’t behave. Thanks for being there, Partner. Although this one’s mine, you’re still part of it. I hope you always will be.
(This book was originally published as “By Shadows Bound”.)
Author’s Note
The “clothes pegs” mentioned later in this story are not the metallic-sprung, plastic or wooden clips we see today. In the past, our foremothers used pegs cleverly carved from a single piece of wood, split up the center and smoothed, with a knob on the top. They would be pushed down over the clothesline and a corner of the clothes, securing them in the fresh air to dry. They were often peddled by gypsies traveling the countryside in exchange for food and other goods. Today they are mostly collectors’ items, prized for their workmanship and the smooth patina of age, although many families still cherish one or two handed down from mother to daughter over several generations. These pegs are also sought after by craftspeople, since their shape is perfect for converting into small dolls.
Prologue
Somewhere in the south of England,
October 1816
“Sshhh…”
Tim Cooper obediently closed his mouth on the words he’d been about to utter. The stink of gunpowder enveloped him, his heart pounded as his ears rang with the echo of the shot and he knew without a doubt the blame would be assigned to him.
A harsh voice bellowed around the darkly shadowed patch of road. “Yer riches, man. Quickly now, lest there be more bloodshed this night.”
Inside the carriage there were faint sounds of distress, a whimper and a moan from a voice soft enough to be a woman’s. On the box, the driver sat immobile, eyes wide as he stared in shock at the five horsemen surrounding the coach.
Beside him—the ultimate horror. His companion, shot in the belly, crumpled in a still and bloody heap on the wooden seat.
The highwaymen held silent as the occupants of the coach readily saved their skins by divesting themselves of whatever valuables they had with them.
Finally it was over and the carriage waved away, accompanied by sighs of relief from just about everybody involved. It had been an abortive robbery involving bloodshed, something that had never happened in the past and shouldn’t have happened on this night either.
And it was all Tim Cooper’s fault.
“Back to the inn.” The voice was low and commanding. It was also tightly furious, and Tim felt a shudder of apprehension shoot down his spine. Then he lifted his chin. There was no way these unimportant country bumpkins would intimidate him. He’d get his share from tonight’s haul and be off in the morning to London. Somewhere his good looks and talents would be appreciated.
Firm in his resolve, Cooper turned his mount and followed the others as they swiftly took to forest paths only they knew, vanishing into the darkness like the wraiths from which they took their name.
The “Midnight Shadows” had claimed another victim—but this time they had broken their steadfast rule of no violence. Blood had been spilled. Their leader knew that such an occurrence would not bode well for their future as a functioning band of highwaymen. It would attract untoward attention, something they’d tried and succeeded in avoiding up to now.
The cellar beneath the inn housed many secrets, not the least of which was the cache of riches they hoarded, only taking what was needed and even then only using the most bland of their pickings. Jewels were carefully wrapped and stored, the first of their haul having been taken to London and fenced over a year after their acquisition. Gold could be melted down in small batches—and, in fact, was “cooked” quite regularly by the blacksmith in their midst.
Their leader knew the “Midnight Shadows” were neither criminals nor killers. They were men trying to survive—to keep food on the table and a roof over the head of their families. They were men who had returned from fighting Napoleon to a land that lauded them as heroes and then offered them nothing to keep them alive or even cared if they died.
Jobs were scarce, children starved and the winters would surely claim more lives amongst the newly destitute. Robbery wasn’t noble, by any stretch of the imagination, but it kept the little ones fed at the cost of mere baubles from those who would not miss them. And it brought hope to a few who had all but given up.
Including their leader. Who was, at this moment, wondering if the whip was still in its place, coiled against a far wall of the cellar.
Tonight, it would administer discipline and reinforce a rule that had never been broken until a weapon had misfired. A weapon that should have been cleaned, primed and ready—and wasn’t.
Tonight that whip would taste Tim Cooper’s blood.
Chapter One
Sir Nicholas Blaine slid from his tired horse and tied the reins loosely around a convenient post, glancing at the eastern sky where there were no signs of dawn light creeping beneath the scudding clouds. He knew it was getting near time for him to sleep. To seek the darkness that protected him from the rays of the sun—and extinction.
Or maybe, thought Nick, he should just lie down in front of this tiny inn and let the searing brilliance claim him. Roast his pale flesh to a crisp and boil the blood that still moved through his veins in a strange silent flow of hunger and shadows.
Maybe it was time to surrender the tiny spark of existence he had left. To depart in an inferno of exploding particles and finally attain a merciful—if unspeakably painful—death.
He was weary of riding, weary of seeking out gloomy dark places to shelter, weary of this hellish existence. Weary of being a creature lost in some vague world that neither permitted him his final rest, nor the ordinary joys that humanity took for granted.
He was weary of being a vampire.
And for the millionth time, Nick Blaine cursed his cock for getting him into this mess in the first place.
He hammered a fist on the closed door, uncaring if the innkeeper slept. This night he would spend what little money he had on a room. He would rest on something resembling a bed in whatever luxury this downtrodden place could offer.
In surprisingly short order the door creaked ajar onto a wavering candle and a bleary eye assessed Nick. “Wotcher want?”
“A thousand gold guineas, five women to pleasure me and an estate to rival the Devonshires. But I’ll settle for a bed.”
A snort that might possibly have been a laugh greeted Nick’s lightning-fast response. “A bed I can do. The rest—”
“Yes. I sort of assumed that.” Nick eased past the innkeeper into the ill-lit interior. “I care not about the room, man. I’m weary enough to sleep on a wooden settle in a corner, but I’d prefer a mattress in a dark and silent room. ‘Tis all I require.”
“‘Tis all ye’ll get. Come wi’ me.” He turned and led Nick up a set of dusty stairs to the second floor, pausing outside a thick ungainly door. “This’ll do yer, then. See the missus on the morrow about payment.” He pushed the door open and promptly departed, taking his candle with him.
Nick curled his lip, guessing that the innkeeper would derive some wry amusement from hearing his “guest” blundering around in the darkness. Probably trying to teach wayward visitors that the proper time to arrive at a hostelry was before the host had retired for the night.
In this instance, the man was doomed to disappointment because Nicholas Blaine could see in the dark. It was one of the many changes he’d come to accept since being savagely mauled and bitten by the most incredibly sensual woman he’d ever met.
He’d not known when he first saw her that she was one of the most evil as well.
- - -
It had been snowing, that delicate light snow that dusts the world with fairy magic and glistens in the moonlight that follows.
Sir Nicholas Blaine had attended a conference in Europe, invited by a friend he’d met in London at another meeting of like-minded scientists. Those who were fascinated by the workings of the human body but cared not for the job of healing it or dissecting it.
They were “pure” researchers, taking information from diverse sources and assembling it into patterns that made sense, theories that explained how humans lived, thought, reproduced and survived.
It was heady stuff for Nick, a man who’d grown up with a fascination for all things germane to human existence. He’d read the great philosophers, devoured scientific tomes from past ages and met current practitioners. He loved the idea that there was an underlying principle to life—an explanation that would perhaps one day make all things clear to him.
He’d delved into the workings of the human body—poorly understood at best, although improving. He knew things, he’d seen things—for his time, Nick Blaine was an enlightened young man with a remarkable intellect.
And he was also a handsome young man with plenty of money at his disposal. So his tour through Europe was one of gaiety, scientific discourse—and pleasure. There were always women glad to dance with the attractive Englishman, and always women glad to do even more.
He’d gone from bed to bed, enjoying life to the fullest, pleasuring his partners in the way he’d learned from his physical researches. Women, he’d discovered, were seriously maligned by the current way of thinking.
They could very easily orgasm—in fact he believed they should—provided they were stimulated in the correct physical locations. He saw nothing wrong with this notion, unlike many of his peers who made it plain they believed their wives utterly incapable of such improper and lustful responses.
He shrugged. ‘Twas their business, not his. He noted he was seldom without female companionship, however.
The one time he was alone found him on his way to a small eastern European resort—Rogaška. He’d heard of the beneficial mineral waters and thought he might stop there if he had chance.
An early snowstorm made the chance a necessity.
Tucked into a valley, the Rogaška estate had drawn him, lured him with its lights and the soft mist that wreathed its many windows and the trees, most now bare of leaves as the winter set in.
He wondered if the mist was from the hot springs—if there was a chance he might still be able to bathe in the waters—and gladly rode to the magnificent chateau where a warm greeting awaited travelers like himself.
There were many visitors, even at this time of year, and Nick found himself content to rest a while, explore the surroundings and enjoy the convivial atmosphere. He’d been there several days when he finally got to see the mineral springs. A quiet space had been designed around one of them, more of a cave-like surrounding than a formal bathing room. It was empty when Nick broke away from one of the several rambunctious parties to investigate. He’d had enough wine to last him for some time, and wanted nothing more than to ease his body—and the headache he’d probably have to endure the next morning—in the calming waters.
He stripped and slid into the little pool with a sigh of relief. It was really quite delightful.
“It is lovely, is it not?”
The soft voice surprised Nick and he jumped, only to sink to his chin in confusion as he stared at the woman on the far side of the water. “Er…I…”
She laughed, a lilting sound that shot through Nick’s body to his cock. He hardened beneath the steaming water, his gaze glued to the luscious curves revealed by the light silk chemise and the tumbling curls of ferociously red hair that framed her face.
“I’m sure you will not mind if I join you. Such pleasure is all the better for being shared, wouldn’t you agree?”
Nick was pretty much bereft of speech at this point, staring helplessly as the woman began to disrobe. The cloak she’d brought with her was tossed aside and with minimal effort the silk gown pooled around her shapely ankles.
She was nude—totally and completely nude—and the sight drove every other thought out of Nick’s head. When she stretched her arms high to pin her hair up out of the way, he thought he’d come right then and there.
Skin whiter than milk coated every single inch of her, reflecting the candlelight off what seemed like yards of glorious legs. Her breasts were full and rounded, lying softly against her body, distended downward very slightly from their own weight. A weight he yearned to learn with his hands.
Her nipples were hardening buds surrounded by a small island of darker skin, peaks that called to his lips. Nick swallowed compulsively, already imagining those breasts in his mouth.
From there it was no distance at all to her pussy—the fiery red curls on her mound illuminating the vee of her thighs where he swore heaven would be awaiting him.
As if she knew his lustful thoughts the woman smiled, a seductively welcoming expression, accompanied by a slight parting of her legs—a quick flash of pussy lips shining and swollen pink.
Nick ached. Cock hard and distended now, he squirmed on the ledge beneath the water, wondering if she was offering herself to him, promising things only to tease and arouse him, or if she would name a price before he could fuck her.
Whatever she asked, she could damn well have it.
Nick couldn’t remember a woman this magnificent baring her body so shamelessly—so alluringly. He couldn’t recall such an overwhelming sense of urgency grabbing him by the balls. He hungered—for her body, her breasts, her pussy—for everything he could lay hands and mouth on.
He wanted to take her with a fierce desire that threatened to erase his natural gentility. He wanted to fuck her, to take his pleasure in her. He needed to do this, whether she found pleasure in it or not. For once, his need to bury himself in a woman’s sex overrode every other instinct he possessed.
It was wild, it was hot and it got hotter as she stepped gracefully down into the swirling and steaming pool that separated them.
“What’s your name?” She stood still for a moment, water lapping around her thighs.
Nick had to unscramble his wits to answer her. What the hell was his name? “Nick. Sir Nicholas Blaine. I’m from—”
She waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter, Nick Blaine. You’re here now. That’s what’s important.” She paused. “That—and this.”
Slowly, she raised her hands from the water and poured little rivulets down over her breasts. “You want to fuck me, don’t you?” The slight accent made her words even more appealing.
Nick nodded, then cleared his throat. “Of course. You are incredibly beautiful.” He surprised himself with his ability to actually string several words together.
Her hands slid to her shining wet nipples, rubbing them, pinching them, arousing them to even more rosy hardness. “I know. I love that you’re looking at me. It’s exciting.” She lifted her breasts toward him. “I am blessed to be able to find favor in your eyes. Because I like to fuck too.”
“You do?” Nick dragged his gaze from her breasts with difficulty, eventually managing to look her in the face. She was well-nigh perfect—full lips parted over perfect white teeth, skin clear and unblemished and her eyes—strangely dark. He’d expected green, but they were so dark he could not make out an iris or a pupil. They were striking, but no more so than her body.
“I love fucking, Nick. It makes me feel alive. Wanted. Desirable.”
Leaving her breasts, her hands went once more to the water and this time she showered the soft curve of her belly. Trails of glistening moisture rippled down to her pussy, dappling the red hair with diamond droplets.
His gaze moved, like a lodestone to north, following the water as it trickled over her. “Do you like fucking, Nick? Fucking until the world disappears and there’s nothing but heat and skin and the urge to come?”
“Yes. Oh yes.” Nick moved, his cock throbbing and pulsing with eagerness. “I like fucking.” He stood, letting his arousal break the surface of the water, showing her his male length with as much unselfconscious pride as she was exhibiting.
“Mmm.” She smiled as she eyed his swollen and purpling erection. “It looks like you’d be very good at fucking. With this.” A hand reached out and softly splashed a little water over his cock.
“I’d be honored to demonstrate…” Nick remained still, vestiges of sanity insisting that he let her make the first move, no matter that he could have ripped into her without any more conversation at all.
“My name is Thérèse. Shout it aloud when you come inside me, Nick. I shall scream for you.” She backed away until the edge of the pool hit her spine then paused. “Take me. Now. Any way you’d like, anything you’d enjoy.”
Her brilliant black gaze held him in thrall as she delicately spread her pussy lips wide in invitation.
Nick groaned, a lost man. In more ways than he’d realized as he fell to his knees and sucked her clit into his mouth.
They’d fucked right there in the pool, with her straddling him, riding him to her first orgasm and screaming his name into the darkness that surrounded them as she’d promised. He’d come too, and yet it hadn’t been enough for either of them.
Within moments they were touching again, this time Thérèse scratching Nick, digging her nails into his arms until she drew blood, desire boiling past civilized behavior into the fundamental need to mate.
He nipped her shoulder and she moaned her pleasure, turning in his arms and thrusting her ass against him even as she pulled him tight to her spine. “This way, Nick. It gives me great pleasure.”
He thrust his cock into her once more, slicking through the juices she wept so profusely. She bent over, resting on the side of the pool, reaching back and parting her ass cheeks with a sharp tug. “Here, Nick. Take me here. Make me feel it, damn you.”
Ripped from his touchstone of familiarity, Nick fell into a new and arousing cavern of lust.
A mad hunger burgeoned within him, erasing any thoughts of gentility, any vestiges of courtesy or chivalry. He grabbed his cock and sought her tight ring of rosy muscles, deaf to anything but the need to fuck.
She accepted him without a check, tight now, almost too tight for his hardness. It was enthrallingly arousing and she moaned her pleasure. “God, yes…more.”
Her white ass cheeks shone with sweat and water and obeying a blind impulse, Nick lifted his hand and smacked her—hard.
“Yes…oh God, Nick—yes—more—harder—” She sobbed out the words, her ass pushing against him in demanding thrusts, laughing and groaning as he obeyed her.
His palm came down sharply on the whiteness of her skin, leaving marks where he struck and the sound of his blows echoing over the bubbling water around them. She drove him higher, needy cries and mewls of pleasure greeting his every pounding slap, encouraging him to hit her again and again until her ass was red and glowing with heat from his rough punishment.
He was near his peak, balls hard between his legs, cock quivering with the need to erupt and flood her darkest places with his come.
She trembled too, muscles shuddering, breath panting harshly beneath him. Nick reached beneath her and savagely plunged his fingers into her body, thrusting again and again into her as he took her ass with his cock.
She screamed, a long howl of delight as she sank into great shaking spasms of orgasm around him.
He shouted her name as he exploded. “Thérèse…” Nick released his come, spurting hotly into her ass, muscles clenching and easing only to tighten again as his balls spewed their cargo down his cock and into the woman he held.
His world faded down to her ass and his orgasm, all else disappearing into the darkness. He barely noticed her straighten before him, so lost was he in his release.
He vaguely felt her tug free of his cock, but the warmth of the water in the pool cradled him as he softened and pulsed his final eruption. His knees weakened and he stumbled a little, glad of the shelf now as he collapsed wearily onto the natural seat it offered, closing his eyes in exhaustion.
He sensed Thérèse as she drifted to his lap and straddled him once more, dappling a soft kiss on his ear.
“Mmm.” Automatically his arms lifted to hold her close and he opened his eyes with difficulty.
She smiled at him, catching him by surprise. Two long fangs lay pristinely against the swollen ruby lips.
He blinked and opened his mouth to speak.
It was too late.
He felt the first sharp ripping pain of her bite against his neck and the words on his lips became the beginnings of a scream, cut off before it could betray his agony.
At that moment, Sir Nicholas Blaine lost the only life he’d ever known, his existence swirling around him and dissipating into dark curls of blood diluted by the waters of the pool.
And yet he did not die. He became a creature who now slept in shadows and roamed the darkness.
He became a being who could be mistaken for a man—yet was not. Something that survived but did not live. He became something he despised and yet could not willingly end.
He became a vampire.
And it was this vampire that attempted to rest on a lumpy mattress in a darkened inn several long years later, only to be disturbed shortly thereafter by the sounds of horses, muffled but discernable to his vampiric and extraordinary sense of hearing.
Several persons were arriving at the inn and doing so in a manner that could only be described as surreptitious. Nick’s curiosity got the better of his tiredness.
After all, what did he have to lose?
Chapter Two
Nick moved silently from his room through the inn, making less sound than the walls and woodwork of the building itself. Creaks and groans from ancient timbers masked the passage of his feet as he followed the clinking jingle of harness and the thudding of hooves.
Although there was a perfectly usable barn not far away, Nick realized that these riders were much closer. The horses were turning, their saddles creaking as their riders dismounted.
All this Nick could hear from the ground floor—and he knew it was happening below him in some well-concealed cellar. There was the unmistakable snick of a bolt being drawn back, the gentle groan of a door opening and then the shuffle of feet as people passed through. The horses were left, snorting and whickering softly, apparently munching on something to settle them down.
Nick acknowledged that this was, of course, none of his business. The fact that his otherworldly abilities allowed him to hear all of it, not to mention listen in on conversations that might follow, didn’t mean that he should eavesdrop where he was not invited.
However, Nick’s curiosity had never quite been extinguished. His body might have changed but his brain still worked very well. At least it did during those times when it wasn’t cluttered with hunger, depression or the scent of blood.
Fortunately, at this particular moment his thoughts were clear and unfettered although tired. And even through his exhaustion, his interest was still aroused by the unusual arrival of several people who were immediately squirreled away in a secret hiding place.
Logically, there had to be an entrance from the inn itself to the lower domains. Anybody worth his salt would have made sure that escape was possible both to and from the cellar without anybody knowing about it. Thus Nick would start searching for this egress and perhaps learn more of the odd goings-on.
It took him all of three minutes to locate the false back on a cupboard in the aged kitchen. He saw no one during that time—apparently those below stairs were not anticipating any threat of discovery from above.
Nick seldom made use of the abilities his “changing” had wrought. His night vision and his enhanced hearing he took for granted, ignoring them most of the time. His strength he reined in, knowing that it was out of kilter with his appearance. He could snap a mortal neck with his bare hands, but to do so was to invite inquiry and consequent disaster.
His sense of smell did little for him other than tease him when he hungered. The remaining differences he’d noted were scarcely of use. Until now. Until he needed to creep unseen into a cellar containing people he’d prefer to observe rather than meet face-to-face.
Deliberately, Nick relaxed every muscle in his body. After his “change”, he’d spent some time analyzing the phenomena he’d become. Then the science had given way to the emotional depression and the consequent pain of realization. But those early experiments had stayed in his memory—to be recalled as needed.
Now, he was glad of it. Focusing his concentration down into a place filled with whirling shadows, he knew he was blurring in appearance, blending with his surroundings, becoming something that might have been glimpsed from the corner of an unsuspecting eye, only to disappear when looked for. A cloud of particles that resembled a human body—and yet was not.
The bitterness threatened to rise in his throat and distract him, but Nick fought it down, deliberately focusing on what lay beneath him rather than the crushing weight of his curse.
And as he silently rippled down the old spiral staircase into the gloom at the bottom, his mind thrust all other thoughts away in order to absorb the scene.
Across the dimly lit cellar stood a man with his back to the room, naked to the waist, arms bound with ropes and hooked high on the wall above him. Around him was a silent ring of other figures, far enough away that one tall individual had room to move.
And as he did, the brittle, harsh crack of a whip made them all jump. None more so than the man whose back the thong lashed.
A pitiful whimper racked him.
“Take your punishment, Tim Cooper.” The tall figure flicked the whip once more, voice cultured and low. “You broke a rule tonight that could mean death for all of us.”
“You have no right…” The man choked out an oath.
“The Leader has the right. We gave it to him.” Another man spoke and turned away from Cooper. “Best you learn that now before you get us all dancing with the nubbing cheat.”
Nick recognized the cant. Somebody had done something that could result in the ultimate punishment—death by hanging.
And as the whip fell once more, breaking the skin and bringing a shower of bloody droplets away with it, he realized the perpetrator must be the unfortunate Tim Cooper. “‘Tis your job to clean and prime our weapons, Cooper. We all have jobs that are equally important.” The leader flexed an arm. “You failed at yours this night. A weapon discharged accidentally because it was not prepared. A man may have died because of it. That is completely your fault, you fool.”
“So what?” Cooper shuddered a little but lifted his head.
Nick could sense the anger building within the man hanging against the wall. He was in the wrong, yet was one of those who would refuse to acknowledge it. Things, thought Nick, were probably going to get rather ugly.
“So I will not see our group jeopardized by one idiot who’d rather drink than attend to his assigned task.” The whip fell once more with unerring accuracy. This leader of theirs knew his way around the leather. Nick was impressed.
“We cannot linger, Hermes.” An older man spoke up. “Our evening’s take has been secured and we’ve doled out the necessary.”
The men reached for their coats and masks. This was truly a gathering of “gentlemen of the road”—highwaymen—thieves who would waylay travelers and relieve them of their valuables.
Hermes, their apparent leader, nodded. “Go along then. We’ll not meet again until the sign appears.”
“What about him?” One man nodded at Cooper.
“I’ll take care of him.” Hermes’ voice was firm. “He’ll see the error of his ways or not be a part of our group again. ‘‘’Twill be his decision. One of you take his horse and leave it outside Dame Wandle’s. He won’t be needing it again tonight.”
Nods and murmurs of approval greeted this statement. Within minutes the cellar was empty but for Hermes and his captive, the only sounds coming from the outside area where the horses had been tethered.
“Well, Cooper. I must now educate you so that you understand what discipline is. What it means.”
“As if a yokel like you and your mates could teach me anything.” Cooper spat on the floor to the side of his feet. “Give me what’s mine and I’m gone. History. I’m for London where there’s real money to be had, not this pittance you dole out as the whim takes you.”
The whip lashed down, harder this time, curling around Cooper’s ribs and probably catching his nipple. He coughed back a cry. “Lashing me won’t help you. I know things. I can talk to the right people. You should be careful about what you do to me. I doubt Mistress Swain would care for that hulking husband of hers to be deported or hanged, would she? And what about their brats? They’d starve, wouldn’t they?”
In spite of the blood dribbling down his spine, Cooper still ranted on in what was probably an adrenaline-fueled attack of bravado. Threats poured from his lips, venomous and cruel, increasing in tempo as the lashes from the thong drew deeper welts across his back and shoulders.
It could have rendered him senseless, scarred him for life or loosed a flow of blood that would eventually have killed him. The fact that his whipping did none of those things was clearly escaping Cooper’s notice.
It wasn’t escaping Nick’s. He took a long look at “Hermes”—an apt choice of names, since Hermes was the God of Thieves.
Quite tall and lean, the skill of his whipping arm was undeniable. What little light there was proved insufficient for Nick to distinguish coloring or facial features clearly at first glance, but what he could see told him that this man was not a local farmer or tradesman. There was breeding in the shape of the face, a flash of clear skin in the candlelight and a definite lack of country accent in the voice. It occurred to Nick that the highwaymen had chosen their leader well—someone who could command, plot and organize with common sense and intelligence, and a person not afraid to administer punishment when necessary.
All qualities prized by those who followed him. Except for Tim Cooper.
“You should be thanking me.” His voice was a hiss now, but still defiant. “What’s one servant more or less to that arrogant bastard?”
Hermes sucked in a breath and released it on a sigh. “The answer to that is obvious to anybody using the brain God gave them.” Once more the whip flicked, catching Cooper’s neck this time and leaving a small red mark. “While the ignominy of being robbed by highwaymen is something most of the upper classes wish to conceal lest they appear weak and stupid, killing is a crime. Punishable by death.”
“And what do you think would happen if I said you or one of the others did it?” Cooper’s voice was sly now, betraying an edge of craftiness that made Nick clench his teeth.
Strangely enough, that was the reaction from Hermes too. Teeth clamped on each other so hard Nick could quite clearly hear the grinding of the enamel surfaces.
“What the fuck am I to do with you, Cooper?” Apparently Hermes was running out of options.
“Not so smart now, are you?” Cooper snarled the words over his bloody shoulder. “Think a few lashes with your toy are going to shut my mouth? Think again.”
Both heads swiveled as the sound of mounted riders clattered into the silence. At this hour, neither man believed more guests were arriving at the inn. Hermes’ body went taut and Cooper tensed against the wall. Apparently the authorities were more alert at this time of night than had been anticipated.
“I believe I may be of assistance?” Nick strolled into the cellar as if entering a drawing room for tea. To say his arrival was a shock would be to understate matters considerably.
Hermes’ jaw dropped and Cooper’s head twisted around on his neck with an audible crack. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Merely an interested bystander who happened to be in the vicinity.” He tilted his head as the sound of fists pounding on the inn door disturbed the late night silence. “It would seem that there are still folks out and about at this late hour.” He crossed the shadowed room to stand beside Hermes and stare at Cooper’s bloody back. “And it would also seem that you, sir, have a disposal problem.”
Hermes stepped further into the concealing shadows. “I have no time…” He shook his head and cursed. “This is most unfortunate, sir.”
Nick shrugged. “I can take care of it for you. You have no reason to trust me, but then again, you also have no other options that I can discern.” The rigid discomfort of the other man was easy to read. “Look, I have no interest in your activities or that of your cohorts. I do, however, agree that discipline within any organization is crucial and I admire the way you administer yours.”
His eyes fell to the whip still lying comfortably in Hermes’ hand. “I have some skill with…with…mesmerism. I can ensure that friend Cooper here has no recollection of tonight. Or any night with your band if you so desire.”
“You can do that?” The voice was curious, not friendly, but definitely curious.
“Yes.” Nick stepped into what little light there was and let the man take a long look at his face. He knew that his unusual eyes would be clearly visible and he took the opportunity to pour quite a bit of confidence into his gaze. It would reassure Hermes, perhaps, and get him away before his presence was discovered.
There were thuds and voices upstairs. Hermes nodded. “Then do it. I must away.” He hurried to the door then turned. “We shall be in your debt, sir. May I know your name so that it might one day be repaid?”
“Nicholas Blaine at your service.” Nick bowed and straightened again.
There was a silence for a heartbeat longer than there should have been. “Thanks, friend Blaine.” And Hermes was gone.
The door had barely closed behind Hermes when Nick sprang into action. He was on Cooper before the man could open his mouth.
Ripping the ropes from the wall, Nick reached for Cooper’s throat, grasping it so tightly that the man’s eyes bulged with fear and the inability to catch a breath. “Now listen to me and listen well. It is in my power to see that you survive this night. It is also in my power to see that you don’t.” His fingers tightened brutally around Cooper’s neck. “Do you understand?”
The terrified man nodded, his face paling even more as he saw the fangs slide effortlessly from beneath Nick’s lips.
Nick hadn’t planned on feeding tonight. Hadn’t needed to, thank God, nor had he felt any of the hunger that preceded his blood lust. But if a convenient meal were to present itself—as it did in the shape of Cooper—then he was not a vampire to turn it away. He doubted there were any who would.
Without hesitation Nick found the pulsing vein in Cooper’s neck and pierced it, letting the hot tangy liquid flow over his tongue. He knew that taking blood would reduce his prey to lassitude, taking too much would kill, taking just enough would render him insensate for several hours.
He’d experimented over the years, his scientific background useful for comparing results. Even while satisfying his own hungers, he’d learned things—helpful if strange things—one of which was now going to save a life. And oddly enough, it was Cooper’s life he’d save.
Carefully, Nick drank from the man, taking more and more of Cooper’s weight as his consciousness faded. Usually Nick would stop at this point, leaving his victim somewhere relatively comfortable, to wake in a few hours with little more than a headache and no memory of Nick or his fangs.
This time he drank more deeply. The forgetfulness he wished to induce must go back further than a few hours. He had no wish to render Cooper mindless or dead, but he would erase as much of the man’s memories as possible.
It would take some time for him to recover. Time that would, hopefully, be sufficient for Hermes to undo any damage done by Cooper’s ill-advised shooting.
And Nick was getting a bonus—a meal rich in strength and youth—sweet delight when compared to some of the feedings he’d been forced to endure.
It was over in mere seconds.
Cooper slumped unconscious in Nick’s arms, his back no longer bleeding, but clearly beaten harshly.
It would suffice. Nick could dump him pretty much anywhere he chose. These were times of lawlessness and savagery. Another man attacked for the slenderest of motives would occasion little outcry amongst those used to such things.
As an afterthought, Nick pulled a dusty bottle from a nearby shelf and tapped off the top, dousing Cooper with the fragrant brandy. He sincerely hoped the innkeeper would not miss the liquor while adding a postscript to his prayer that it wasn’t a good vintage.
All this took precious moments of time though, and Nick knew time was in short supply. The tramping feet above would be searching thoroughly, maybe even finding the secret inside entrance to the cellar—or at the very least the outside door.
It was definitely time to leave.
Hefting Cooper over one shoulder with ease, Nick gingerly unlatched the well-oiled lock and peered into the darkness outside. The horses were gone, only a few scraps of hay left to show they’d ever been present. It was a stall of sorts, built beneath the inn, shielded by the natural rise and fall of the landscape. Bushes had grown around it adding to the privacy, eventually creating a nice little hideaway. But nobody could be accused of deliberately creating it for nefarious purposes.
There were probably many such shelters of one kind or another attached to inns, farms and other places where protection from the elements would be a welcome advantage.
Nick crossed it with strong and rapid steps, the solid weight of his burden unnoticed on his shoulders. A quick glance at the sky told him there was no time to waste—dawn was not far off now. He kept to the shadows, sneaking past the two men who waited outside the inn with horses. Their masters were inside looking for—whatever it was they sought.
Luckily a reasonably well-kept road led away from the inn. It was down this thoroughfare that Nick strode—far enough from the inn to occasion no comment or association, yet near enough that he could return before the sun rose.
A convenient patch of hedgerow, a quick tip of his arms and Cooper slept amidst the grasses and dandelions of an English countryside. He stank of brandy and Nick knew that upon awakening he’d have no idea how he got there or where he’d been for quite some time. Nor would he be able to account for the marks on his back.
Hurrying back to the inn, Nick pondered the situation. He hoped Hermes would be able to reassure the rest of his men that at least one problem had been taken care of. Avoiding the official-looking horses and their riders, Nick ducked back into the inn and was in his room shortly thereafter. He rapidly made sure the shutters were closed, then jammed the bolt in the substantial door and tucked the dusty curtains tightly across the window frame.
Satisfied at last that he would be secure for at least one day, Nick slid from his garments and lowered himself naked to the bed with a groan of pleasure. It was clean, not completely uncomfortable and—he hoped—safe.
What the next night would bring, he had no clue. But for now, he was fed and he was beyond tired, thus he let sleep claim him. Not the comforting and calming sleep of a normal mortal being, but the deep unmoving slumber of an immortal.
The regular “little death” of a vampire.
He had no way of knowing that others were arriving in the daylight at the very same inn, while he lay semi-lifeless in a small and darkened room.
Or that Cooper had been discovered and that mayhem had been reported as occurring on the local roads.
Nor did he know that in the strange game of chance that comprised his existence, Fate was about to deal him a very unexpected hand of cards.
Chapter Three
“And then I heard this horrid noise, a human scream terrible enough to freeze one’s blood…” The woman’s voice shuddered dramatically as she related her tale. “It was the coachman. He’d been shot.”
Murmurs of outrage greeted this statement. “Terrible. Just terrible. What is the world coming to?”
“We’re not safe anywhere anymore.”
“I always take outriders with me now.”
“Where’s that dratted servant? I ordered tea simply hours ago. Does she expect me to sail to India and pick it for her?”
Nick stilled on the staircase of the inn as the chirping babble of female voices assaulted his ears. He’d awoken at dusk, freshened himself as best he could and decided to check out the lay of the land, uncertain of what road to take next. He had to “settle” with the Mistress of the house for his room anyway.
But he’d not anticipated this chatter of voices, this very feminine chatter of voices. It was quite a shock to hear such a din in an out-of-the-way location buried deep in the countryside.
A harassed-looking lad emerged from the small parlor where the women were loudly discussing their irritations. He grimaced at Nick. “I wouldn’t go near there if’n I was you, sir.”
Nick grinned. “Sounds like about a hundred ladies.”
“Only three and a helper lady or summat.” He shuddered. “That’s more’n enough fer me.”
“I will consider myself warned.” Nick nodded at the lad and quietly moved down the stairs, hoping to avoid that room and the feminine threat it contained.
His luck, as he had come to expect, was nonexistent.
“Oh—pardon me, sir…” Soft tones sounded from the open doorway.
Caught squarely in the small passageway, Nick had no other options but to turn around. “Ma’am?”
There was a brief silence as Nick looked at the woman in the doorway. Slim and delicate, her blonde hair curled softly around a face that would have enchanted a Renaissance painter. Full lips had parted as he’d turned and limpid blue eyes were widening as her gaze traveled his length. “My God. Nicky?”
Oh fuck. Nick recognized her immediately. Isolde Haverford. The most licentious woman in the tightly constrained world of the Ton and one he’d bedded enthusiastically a long time ago. As the man he’d once been.
His first thought was that she’d not aged in the least. His second was an unspeakable oath as the implications of her recognition sank in. She knew who he was. And he’d been so assiduous in trying to erase all traces of his existence from his former life.
To the world he’d known, he was apparently deceased. Sir Nicholas Blaine was rumored to have met his demise in Europe, thus ending the direct Blaine line and sending the estate to a distant branch of the family.
And yet here he was, in front of Isolde, clearly—to her eyes anyway—alive. What a fucking mess.
Isolde’s lips curved into that welcoming smile he remembered well. “Nicky darling—you’re alive! I’m just overwhelmed…and meeting you here of all places…” She advanced purposefully on him leaving him no option but to stand and await her pleasure. “This is truly a delight and makes this hideously awful journey worthwhile.”
Nick bowed politely over the hand she’d extended. “Isolde. It’s good to see you again after so long. You look well.”
Her laughter chimed around his ears. “So formal, darling.” She leaned close, keeping her hand clasped in his. “I still remember how marvelous we were together. You made me come—what—three times? Or was it four?” Her eyes turned hungry. “You knew how to touch me, Nicky. Nobody else has ever managed to do it quite that way.”
“I—er—” Nick dipped his head to conceal his gaze. “You are too kind.” What else did one say to such an outrageous comment? He did not want Isolde recalling that when they bedded with such enthusiasm, his eyes had been blue.
She laughed again. “But what on earth are you doing in this godforsaken place? And where have you been all these years? Oh Nicky—there’s so much we have to talk about…”
She drew him toward the parlor, an inexorable force tugging his arm. “I want you to meet my mama-in-law. Oh, that’s right—you wouldn’t have known I’m married, would you?”
He shook his head.
“I married dear Gawain two years ago now. Did you know him? Gawain FitzAdams?” She raised an eyebrow in query, but didn’t allow him the chance to respond. “He swept me off my feet…and here’s his dear mama. Do let me introduce you.”
Nick found himself dragged across a small and dingy parlor to a chair next to the fire. An elderly woman was frowning at him, “Who’s this?” Her mouth snapped out the words.
“An old friend, Bellemère. A very old friend…Sir Nicholas Blaine. Nick, this is the Dowager Countess FitzAdams, my husband’s dear mother. We all thought Nick dead, he’s been gone so long.” Isolde turned to Nick and smiled seductively. “Too long, I believe. He’s been missed.”
The message was unmistakable and brought a snort to the older woman’s throat. “Looks like.” She tapped her cane on the stone floor next to her chair, ignoring Nick’s attempt at a polite bow. “Chandler.” She squinted around. “Chandler, damn you. Come here.”
A figure moved in the shadows behind the Dowager. Tall and slender, a woman appeared, gowned in sober grey from head to foot. Her eyes remained lowered respectfully. “I’m here, your Grace.”
“About time. Go and find out what happened to my tea, gel. Make yourself useful.” The old lady snarled out the command. “And while you’re at it, fetch me a drop of brandy. These old bones could use more warmth than this atrocious fire is putting out. And make it a good vintage, damn you.”
Since whatever heat there was radiated directly onto the Dowager, Nick realized that the old woman was used to having her every whim obeyed instantly. And probably by that poor companion of hers.
Dropping a quick but elegant curtsey, the companion headed for the door, passing Nick as she did so. For one instant, warm brown eyes met black eyes…a casual brush of glances. For Nick the result was anything but casual.
If church bells had rung in his ears he couldn’t have been more surprised. Only years of hiding his emotions permitted him to remain still as shudders of sensual awareness poured down his spine like the icy waters of a river in flood.
His cock stirred hungrily, his fangs ached within his gums and he blinked, unable to comprehend for a second or two what had happened.
Chandler’s face had paled as they exchanged looks, but now it flushed with a delicate bloom as she wrenched her gaze from his and hurried away. Nick could not have described her well at all, but the memory of those eyes burned inside his brain in the most peculiar way.
With difficulty, he turned to Isolde, feigning an air of disinterest he was far from feeling. “Chandler? I don’t recognize the name?”
“Bellemère’s companion. A distant relative, I believe. Nobody of importance. Although she is quite…helpful…to Gawain and myself.” An odd expression crossed Isolde’s face. “And Bellemère, of course. We’re quite lucky to have her, I suppose. Not that she could hope for a better position.”
Isolde shrugged. “But enough about her. Tell me of your adventures, dear Nicky.” She seated herself on a small settle and gestured to the cushion beside her. “And what you’re doing in this awful place…”
Ignoring the subtle hint, Nick strolled to the mantel and leaned against the brickwork. “‘Tis a question I find trembling on my own lips. How could such elegance and beauty could be found lurking amidst such humble surroundings?”
It was outright evasion, but Nick knew women. Give them an opening to talk about themselves and they would take it gleefully. Isolde’s answer confirmed his theory once again.
“Oh darling, it was too awful. Our wheel came off—right off—on our way to FitzAdams Towers. We could have been killed. We’d only been away for a few hours. Visits, you know. This was the nearest inn with a blacksmith that could repair it. We’re supposed to be home by now. ‘Tis only a matter of a couple of miles further too. Just the worst cursed luck.”
“Dratted roads.” The Dowager mumbled something. “I suppose Hetty’s asleep?”
Nick looked at the third lady in the room, draped in a blanket and snoring soundly on another chair. “If that’s Hetty over there, then yes. She seems to be resting comfortably.”
“Good.” The Dowager nodded. “She’s not a young gel anymore. Accidents will happen but they rattle her brain too much these days.”
Isolde glanced surreptitiously at Nick. “A bosom bow of the Dowager.” She whispered the words sotto voce. He acknowledged the information with a slight lowering of his head and a quick smile.
“Should’ve had outriders too.” The Dowager continued her soliloquy. “Dangerous parts around here these days.”
Nick watched the old woman. “You surprise me, ma’am. Dangers? In our very own countryside?”
She folded her lips together angrily and glared at him. “Are you mocking me, young man?”
“Not at all. I just find the notion of danger and these quiet villages difficult to reconcile.”
She snorted. “Well, just ask Hetty. Held up, she was. Robbed right in her own carriage. Bloody highwaymen.” The cane thwacked on the floor for emphasis. “They should all be strung up. Hung from the highest gallows and left there until the crows have picked their eyes out and eaten the flesh off their bones.”
A rattle from the doorway distracted Nick’s acute hearing and he watched as Chandler entered bearing a tray.
“Ah, good. You took your time, you ninny.”
Ignoring the insult, she made her way gracefully to the Dowager’s side. She also ignored Nick.
He opened his mouth to say something—anything—that would get her to look at him once more, when Isolde interrupted. “Oh…oh…” She clapped her hands together. “I’ve had the most splendid notion.”
Nick felt his skin tingle a little with something that could have passed as apprehension in a mortal man. Isolde’s “splendid notions” usually involved her and somebody else, naked, in bed. He had long since passed the point where a romp with her would be attractive in any way.
He could see her clearly through eyes that had watched his own life span wither and die. Isolde was superficial, selfish, convinced that the only way to prove her femininity was to spread her legs and also convinced that life revolved around fucking. She had aged well and was still an attractively sensual woman, but the idea of bedding her left Nick cold.
He possessed a strong urge to mate, of course. Fucking gave him pleasure and release, especially when coupled with the act of feeding his thirst for blood. Thérèse had seen to that.
Nick clamped down on his errant thoughts and focused instead on Isolde’s excited face. “You shall accompany us, Nicky. Ride with us as we return home. Give us your protection for the rest of our journey and set dear Bellemère’s mind at rest. Then you can stay at FitzAdams Towers before continuing your journey instead of in this dingy place.” She blinked wide blue eyes at him. “Do say yes…oh please do say yes?”
Nick knew he had no choice. To refuse would be to occasion comment and questions he did not wish to answer. Yet to agree would be to reenter a world he’d purposely left a long time ago.
Then the Dowager’s companion moved slightly and once again he received a quick glance from a pair of large warm brown eyes.
He turned to Isolde. “How can I possibly say no?”
* * * * *
Verity Chandler knew her hands were shaking as she took the empty brandy glass from the Dowager’s grasp. Why this man should affect her so, she had no idea. He was dangerous—of that she had no doubt whatsoever.
There was an air of leashed power surrounding him like the faint glow of a distant star in the night sky. Something hard to see but definitely present.
Or perhaps she was just creating a mythical magic where there was none simply because he’d helped her the night before.
Of course, he didn’t know it. Would never know it, if she had her way. It would be unthinkable for him to discover that she was “Hermes”, the leader of a gang of highwaymen. Even more unthinkable would be the knowledge that a certain Verity Chandler had fallen head over teenage heels in love with Sir Nicholas Blaine long, long ago.
He didn’t know her, hadn’t recognized her or remembered her name. As she hastened to prepare the Dowager for the rest of their journey, Verity silently chuckled at her own stupidity.
It had been almost—no—more than twelve years since she’d seen him. He’d changed in that time and God knew she had as well. Besides, during most of his visit to Oakleigh he’d been sharing drinking adventures with her brother Clive, both of them at Cambridge, both living life to the fullest and enjoying all the vices available to their set…wine, women and probably song. Although Verity knew Clive couldn’t sing a note.
“Move, gel. Sometimes I think your head is stuck in the clouds. That’s what you get for being a Long Meg.” The Dowager snapped harshly at Verity and jerked her from her reminiscences.
Used to such treatment, Verity let it slide by simply lowering her head in submission. They were to re-enter the coach shortly, as soon as Sir Nicholas had collected his belongings and settled his account.
Verity spared a moment from her duties to wonder if he had sufficient funds. For some reason he looked…desperate. There was a sense of despair behind his dark gaze. Last night he’d come through with a solution that had relieved her and quite possibly saved a few lives. Even now, Cooper was in the small room he rented from Dame Wandle, lost and confused, trying to recall where he’d gone after the Michaelmas fair.
That had been over four weeks ago and shortly before he’d joined the Midnight Shadows. Truly, Nick had kept his word and uncannily erased Cooper’s more inflammatory memories.
The men would be relieved. She was quietly ecstatic. And now Nick himself was to travel with them to FitzAdams Towers at the behest of the lovely Isolde.
A cold curl of distaste unfolded within Verity’s breast as she helped her employer clamber into the carriage and tucked her securely beneath the blankets and furs. Isolde had more in mind than a charitable offer of hospitality, Verity would bet money on it. And there seemed something more between Isolde and Nick than just a mere acquaintance.
Could they have been lovers? It seemed possible. She was certainly beautiful enough and had a strongly whispered reputation for lasciviousness prior to her wedding. Even though marriage to the handsome Gawain had laid much of that to rest as far as the Ton was concerned, there were those who did not forget such things.
Verity settled herself in the very corner of the carriage, facing backward. She was used to the uncomfortable position—the customary lot of a companion. She had a room and food, both of which she’d been lacking when she’d arrived at FitzAdams Towers. She also had employment with the Dowager Countess FitzAdams.
And she had a secret. Beneath her lumpy feather mattress, in her tiny room under the eaves in the attic of the Towers, was a small bag. It was growing slowly heavier with each nocturnal journey Verity took under her alternate identity—that of Hermes.
She hid a smile from her fellow travelers. They were in no danger from highwaymen this night since the brave leader of the small band was actually sitting inside the carriage for once. There would be no masked men, no threats or weapons…no whip.