My Lady Vampire
Book Three
Sahara Kelly
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Sahara Kelly
Cover art copyright 2010 Sahara Kelly
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
To my family for their constant support and understanding of my need for alone-time to write—my love. Thanks, guys!
To a friend who is so much a part of all my stories in one way or another—thanks just doesn’t quite cover it. You rock, Partner.
And to the readers, without whom my characters would wander, lost and alone—I love you all. May you find your fantasies within the following pages as easily as I found mine while writing them.
Author’s Note
My references to the atrocities committed against alleged witches in the Middle Ages are based on extensive—and very disturbing—research. There are records of many terrible crimes, based on ignorance and superstition—and not always toward women. Men were also accused of the Black Arts and suffered the same fate, although their role is a lesser one than that of their female counterparts who comprised about eighty percent of the accused victims.
Contrary to popular belief, prisoners found guilty of witchcraft were seldom burned at the stake. The usual punishment was hanging, followed by burning of the corpse. It was assumed this would ultimately destroy the evil that had allegedly possessed the “witch” before her death. According to the latest estimates, there were over a hundred thousand trials of “witches” and since many ended in executions, the numbers are staggering. Between 1450 and 1750 somewhere around sixty thousand witches were put to death in Europe. The last recorded witchcraft trial in England was in 1712—less than three hundred years ago.
Although we may consider ourselves civilized today, the business of witch-hunting still continues. Several African countries actively pursue “witches”, and executions are still resulting from such charges. As recently as 1999 a wave of hysteria swept Tanzania, causing the deaths of hundreds accused of witchcraft.
Whatever the social, economic or religious causes for these superstitions, it appears that man will always find a good reason to explore his savage nature and wreak havoc on others. Until something drastic occurs to alter our perceptions, such violence sadly remains part of humankind.
Prologue
Present-day England
Somewhere on the coast of Hampshire…
“You know, Gran, that’s one butt-ugly thing for an old lady to have hanging in her living room.”
“Who are you calling old, girl?”
Casey grinned. “Sorry. Slip of the tongue.” She stared at the massive sword mounted on a simple wood frame. “But still…”
Her grandmother pulled a blanket around her knees and tugged a little more yarn out of the bag beside her. “Show some respect. That sword goes back in our family for uncounted generations.”
Casey snorted. “Right. Some ancestor probably dug it up from a pile of muck in his back garden. Doesn’t look as if they cleaned it too well afterward, either.”
There was a murky patch of something embedded in the metal of the sword, dark and rusty, covering about nine or ten inches of the thing, staining the point and a portion of the blade. Casey shrugged, sending her red hair flying around her shoulders. “Different decorating tastes, I suppose.”
Her grandmother looked up from her knitting. “Doesn’t it make you think of knights or jousts? Handsome men on big horses claiming their brides from ancient castles?”
“Nope.” She turned away. “Makes me think of scouring pads and a good cleaner.”
“You’ve got no romance in your soul.”
“Hah.” Casey chuckled as she settled down next to her grandmother and poured another cup of tea for herself. “I have romance. Plenty of it.”
“I’m not talking about that kind of romance.” The needles clicked against each other. “I’m talking about the kind that chills your soul and then stops your heart for a minute or two before it starts up again—differently.” She stopped knitting for a moment. “The kind where people would die for each other, or kill for each other, to be together. The kind…” She wrinkled her nose. “Oh hell, if I have to explain it…”
“You mean you and Grandpa…” Casey paused.
“Damn no, not us. We just had your plain old ordinary romance. A good one, mind you, no question. But not that type of passion.”
Casey snuggled in to the corner of the couch. “So tell me.”
“You won’t believe a word of it. And I’m not sure it’s right for your young ears.”
Casey rolled her eyes. “Good lord, Gran. I’m almost twenty-three. I’m not, no matter what Mum says, a virgin. It’s hard to shock me. Remember I’m going to med school next year. When you’re pre-med or taking any courses along those lines it’s hard after a while to be shocked by anything, come to think of it.”
The old woman gazed at Casey over the rim of her glasses, a speculative look that surprised Casey a little. She wasn’t used to such a sharply acute stare from her grandmother. There must be something more to this tale than a simple family history.
“Go on, Gran. Tell me? I’m here for a few days to relax and spend time with my dearest grandma. It’s the perfect time for you to share the benefit of your years. Pass along those tales that have been handed down from generation to generation. Give me the chance to tell my grandkids someday.”
Gran lifted an eyebrow. “You’re going to be a doctor. You’ll have forgotten all about it by the time you have your own kids.”
“Gonna make me drag it out of you, aren’t you?”
“Yep.”
“You’re a silver-haired demon.” Casey laughed. “Sent to torment me. Good thing I love you to bits.”
The needles resumed their clacking over the sound of an airplane as it took off from a distant airport and Casey smiled a little at the familiar sound. England was lovely at this time of year, green and soft, welcoming—just like her grandmother’s house. She was glad she’d come down here for a portion of her vacation. She felt at home in a comfortable sort of way and never more so when sitting like this—beside her grandmother—tucked into the ritual of afternoon tea, yummy cookies or biscuits as her Gran persisted in calling them—and listening to tales of the past.
They talked on the phone every week or so, but being here in person? This was very special.
“So this sword. It’s a broadsword, isn’t it? I saw something like it in the movies.” She encouraged the old woman to begin the story.
“At least you got that part right.” Gran sighed and folded her needles at last, wrapping the yarn around their tips and sticking them into a ball of wool. At some point a colorful scarf would emerge, probably then to be sent posthaste to Casey’s dorm and make her roommates green with envy.
Gran did fabulous knitting, no doubt about it.
“Soooo…” Casey urged her on. “It was carried by a forefather of ours. Into battle, maybe, where he did wonderful brave deeds and rescued the fair maiden from an evil baron who was holding her hostage, trying to have his wicked way with her. Oh, in a massive castle on a hilltop. Probably surrounded by…um…Orcs?”
“This isn’t The Lord of the Rings, darling.” Gran sniffed contemptuously. “This is much, much more.”
“Oh.” Casey put on a dramatic expression of disappointment. “No handsome elves or kings?”
“’Fraid not. Of course there were handsome men, quite a few of them, as I recall the tales. Our family is proud of its good-looking ancestors.”
“You’ve mentioned that a time or two.” Casey snickered.
“If you go into the second drawer down—there in the table next to you—you’ll find something. Go look.”
Casey delved into the small end table, opening the drawer and blinking at the small, framed painting she found within. Sensing it was an antique, she carefully withdrew it and rested it on her knee, turning on the lamp next to her so she could get a better look.
“They’re family.” Gran knitted on.
Two people stared somberly back at Casey, faces serene and expressionless in that typical way of portraits. A man, handsome and masculine, dark hair pulled correctly back but shining where the artist had caught tiny flickers of light amidst the waves.
It was the woman next to him who really jumped from the small canvas. Her rich red hair fell free, unusual for a portrait of that time, cascading down past her shoulders. It glowed against the deep emerald green gown she wore which was caught high up under the breasts. Casey recognized the style. “God, this is brilliant, Gran. Too Jane Austen for words. What a handsome couple. Who were they?”
“I told you. Your ancestors, luv.”
“Really?” Casey continued to stare at the couple.
“It’s the only portrait we have of them. They lived hereabouts in the early 1800s—in what used to be a big place a bit farther down the coast. Sadly it took a direct hit in 1940 or so from a German bomber. Nothing left these days but a few ruins. Real shame that was.”
“I’ll bet.” She paused. “Anybody killed?”
“No, the place had been empty for years. After those two left—” Gran nodded at the painting, “it stayed empty for a while, then other folks moved in. Folks from another branch of the family. It sort of slid into disrepair by the turn of the century. There were all kinds of stories about it being haunted and the like, so people tended to stay away. You know how these legends get started.”
Casey looked up. “Haunted?”
“No truth in it. The hauntings were long over by then.”
“Ah. So there were hauntings, though?”
“At one point, so they say.” Gran looked speculative. “I’m not sure how true it all is. But you’ve got her hair, that’s for sure.”
Casey glanced at the woman again. “Yeah. I do, I guess. Who is she? Or who was she?”
“They, my dear, are your great-great and so on something-or-others. Adrian and Katherine Chesswell.”
Casey blinked. “Really? Chesswells? Wow.”
“And if what they say is correct, Adrian’s father would be very proud to think you’re going into the medical profession.” Gran smiled.
“He was a doctor too?”
“Not exactly. He was a scientist. Some of his papers are still on file at the Royal Academy, I think. In London someplace. They never throw stuff out. You can probably find them on that fancy laptop computer of yours. Not much left private these days.”
Casey chuckled. It was true. There were still records from the twelfth century or thereabouts, stacked in precious piles of dust somewhere deep in the recesses of ancient London buildings.
“But it didn’t begin with them.” Gran looked across the room to the wall that held the broadsword. “It began with another red-haired woman.”
Casey listened as the light faded outside, enclosing the two of them in a world of their own. Now perhaps she would hear the full story.
“It began with the woman whose blood still stains that sword.”
The words sent a chill up Casey’s spine and she followed her grandmother’s gaze to the darkness on the blade. “That’s blood?”
“Yes, my dear. Hers.” Grandmother Chesswell took a deep breath and began her tale.
“Her name was Thérèse…”
Chapter One
A gentlemen’s gaming club
London, 1817
Marcus Camberley gazed across the green baize of the card table at his opponent. This faro game had been going on for hours, fortunes moving backward and forward across the cards spread out before the players.
Now there were just two left—himself and Rowan Selkirk.
“Your bet, I believe?” Marcus drawled the words into the quiet, never looking away from the beautiful young man on the other side of the deck. Marcus held the “bank” and waited patiently for the other to decide which of the cards he’d select to play.
Selkirk’s pile of banknotes was substantial and Marcus suddenly knew he was going to play it all on this turn.
Unusually dark eyes lifted to his as his pale hand pushed the entire pile onto the ace of spades. It was a major gamble, a challenge to the Fates and to Marcus’ own fortune. The latter was not a problem. Marcus had enough wealth accumulated to cover all his expenses, no matter whether he won or lost.
He believed that Selkirk was good for it too. The family had some minor reputation as being solidly funded, could be seen at the right functions and had recently married off a daughter to an earl or some such. It was the way of their world.
So Rowan wasn’t risking the family fortune on this turn of the cards.
No, it was something else he was risking. Or offering.
Marcus knew these things with a certainty that surprised him. Something in Rowan’s eyes, a touch of his tongue to his lips, a mere shift of the broad shoulders beneath the clean and simple cut of his evening jacket—oh yes, it was there.
And Marcus found his body responding. Beauty of all kinds appealed to him, the curve of a woman’s breast had an allure every bit as strong as that of a firm male arse. He’d enjoyed them both and would continue to do so for whatever time the Fates permitted him.
His hand strayed absently to his neck and the tip of a puckered scar that was mostly concealed by his cravat. He’d seen eyes like those before. Seen that darkness, those tiny flickers of fire lurking behind them.
That time it had been a woman. Now it was a man looking at him with the same mysterious gaze.
His cock stirred, swelling beneath his breeches. He leaned back, giving himself room to enjoy the first flickers of desire. It would be a fleeting experience, most probably, just like all the others. But for tonight…he would take the pleasure offered.
His suppositions were reinforced as Selkirk slowly lifted his hand to the table and showed Marcus a fine emerald ring.
“Shall we make things interesting?” His voice was strong, not a tremor in his tone. He tugged at the ring that glittered on his forefinger. It was a tight fit, so Rowan lifted it to his mouth, letting his tongue moisten the flesh.
Marcus smiled and nodded. “By all means.” He watched Rowan’s tongue caress the knuckle, sliding around it lasciviously. The message was unmistakable.
Win or lose, they were destined to spend what was left of the night together.
There were no other players in their corner of the club, the money on the table having surpassed what few could afford to lose and there were even fewer willing to risk so much on the possibility of a win. It was just the two of them in their own sensual world.
Marcus was hard, fully aroused, the length of his cock burning against his thigh and mounding the fabric covering it. Was Rowan hard too? Would he be red and swollen, the head of his cock blooming into ridged arousal? Was he cut? Circumcised to a naked glory? Or was he even now sliding from the concealing folds of his foreskin?
All these things Marcus would learn—soon.
Rowan tossed the ring onto the pile of banknotes. “I’m ready.”
Oh yes. So am I.
He turned to the cards and drew the first, a queen, which was discarded. Next to come would be his card, the one that would win him any bets placed upon it. If it were an ace, he would claim the notes Rowan had piled so neatly and topped with his signet ring.
It was a four. No win for either man. Marcus again discarded it. Should the next card be an ace, Rowan would retrieve his bet and an equal amount from Marcus. He let his hand linger over the deck, building the tension, watching the gleam in Rowan’s eyes.
Both men watched each other, not the cards. This wasn’t about the game of faro. This was about another game, a game that each desired and a game that both would win.
Marcus drew—another four. The turn was ended. “Shall we continue?”
“One more.” Rowan nodded. “’Twould be a shame to finish too soon…” He lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “Prolonging the excitement is part of the fun, is it not?”
This time Marcus licked his lips provocatively. “I couldn’t agree more.” The air was thick between them now, taut with unspoken questions to which the answers were already evident. Marcus desired this man. Wanted him naked and ready, firm flesh to firm flesh, body to body, chasing the shadows from his life for a little while.
Once again he drew the discard, then reached for the second turn. It was a king. He glanced at Rowan. “No luck for me this turn.”
“Well, you know what they say.” Rowan’s lips curved slightly.
“I do indeed.” Marcus revealed the last card of the turn. It was the ace of hearts.
Rowan tilted his head. “Unlucky at cards…”
They stood, as if by mutual decision. Marcus settled the bet by pushing a substantial pile of his own banknotes toward Rowan. “Will you do me the honor of joining me for a brandy to celebrate your good fortune?” He watched as Rowan replaced the emerald on his hand. “I have a fine cognac, a pleasant study at home and my carriage is outside. If you would be interested?”
Rowan stared at him. “Of course. It would be an excellent conclusion to this evening, I think.”
Marcus followed him from the room, glimpsing the firm buttocks flexing beneath the evening trousers. He smiled. “I think so too.”
The Camberley carriage was indeed waiting and Rowan climbed in, tickles of awareness flooding his spine. It had been some time since his desire had been this aroused by anyone other than…
Well, best not to think of her at the moment. She dominated the private part of his nightmarish existence. This was real and would be a diverting—if transitory—delight, assuming all went well. Sir Marcus Camberley was something of an enigma. So the evening’s entertainment would satisfy Rowan’s mild curiosity perhaps, as well as his lusts.
Mad Marcus, he’d been called. Also Sir Madness Camberley if Rowan remembered correctly, both sobriquets earned by the escapades of his youth. He was certainly appealing. Thick black hair fell in unruly waves around skin nearly as pale as Rowan’s. Then there were the brown eyes that glowed with amber lights when the candles reflected off them in such a way as to make them seem translucent.
His body was as well built as could be desired, thighs firm and well muscled, shoulders no less broad and strong for his age. Rowan guessed him to be in his mid-thirties perhaps. Or possibly younger. With Marcus, it was hard to tell.
Strangely, Rowan found him appealing on a much deeper level than he’d expected. Something was responding, some place Rowan usually kept concealed, hidden from the world he so seldom visited. It was not easy for one such as he to interact with the Ton, since being deathly reactive to sunlight made trips to St. James’s Park out of the question.
It had become a simple matter for Rowan Selkirk to embrace his “eccentricities” and live as a man of the night. An easy cloak for the reality of what he actually was—a creature of nightmares and darkness. A vampire.
As Marcus joined him in the carriage and the door closed behind him, Rowan’s fangs stirred, a tingle that was spurred on by his cock. Marcus’ scent was deep and rich, redolent of male sexuality. And yet—beneath—there was a dark taint, a quick undertone of something bitter.
Rowan hungered to delve deeper into that fragrance. Before this night was out he would be sated, sexually and physically. And Marcus would recall nothing of the feeding that would take place after the sex.
“Thank you.” Marcus’ voice was low, the timbre deep.
“For what?”
“For joining me this evening. For agreeing to—pass some time with me.” Marcus’ eyes were unflinching as they watched Rowan.
“You knew I wanted to.” Daringly, Rowan let his hand rest on the other man’s thigh, noting the hardness barely concealed by the fine wool.
“I did. And I think you knew the invitation would come. I’d enjoy talking to you. Perhaps…” His tapered fingers enfolded Rowan’s hand and moved it higher, cupping his cock through the barrier of his clothing. “Perhaps we might find pleasure in such a—conversation.”
Rowan felt the stirring of that delicious cock beneath his hand and he curved his fingers in response, caressing the outline of it, measuring it and finding it to his taste. Thick and hard, it would be an instrument of delight, he was sure.
He looked up once more to glimpse the amber fire burning in Marcus’ gaze. “I believe such pleasures would be mutual.”
Satisfied, Marcus leaned back against the squabs, apparently quite content to have Rowan’s hand right where it was. “Agreed.” His hand strayed to his cravat and he adjusted it. “I don’t believe our paths have crossed before.”
Rowan gave Marcus a farewell squeeze and leaned back himself, making quite sure his own erection was clearly visible to the other man. This was a game for two and he would not be found wanting. “I would have remembered, I’m sure.”
“You don’t come up to town much?”
“No. I prefer the dark hours of the night. There are far too many annoying daytime activities to interest me. I have a small place outside London where I prefer to—live.”
“No wife? No family breathing down your handsome neck to wed and provide heirs for the line?”
It was polite conversation, but clearly Marcus was double checking to make sure matters were as plain between them as their arousals.
Rowan grinned. “I doubt there’s a man out there who hasn’t been nagged about that at one time or another. But to answer for my part—no. There are heirs aplenty within my family. They have discovered their best course is to leave me to my own devices.”
“So you shun the daylight.” Marcus sounded thoughtful.
“It—I developed a reaction to it after a-an illness in Europe. I am very sensitive now, so I find it better to work at night.” Rowan shrugged. “’Tis said I’m eccentric. I don’t particularly care what people say, so I live the life that suits me.”
“And you enjoy a game of cards.”
“Oh yes. Cards, the occasional woman, whoever—whatever catches my fancy.”
Marcus leaned forward and casually brushed a stray piece of hair from Rowan’s face. “And so we have caught each other’s fancy, have we not?”
Rowan swallowed down his lust. “Yes. Yes we have.” He lifted his chin, liking the feel of Marcus’ hand on his face. “Have you no—obligations?”
“None whatsoever. I take my pleasures where I please, when I please and with whom I please.” The deep voice was a caress and a promise. “There is little I haven’t seen, few things I haven’t done. I am trying to live out my life to its fullest, but like you—I prefer the night. It’s less censorious. There are fewer eyes turned on me out of curiosity. More—like yours—turned on me with desire.”
Marcus let his hand fall from Rowan’s face to his groin. He gripped Rowan’s cock firmly, bunching the fabric around it, learning it with fingers that rippled along its length like a stream of heat. “Desire that I can assure you is fully reciprocated.”
The carriage rattled to a halt, separating the two men and breaking the spell that held Rowan in its thrall.
His arousal was mounting, rising steadily to a pitch that would take little to send him into an orgasm. Just thinking about how that might be achieved was a tiny release in itself and Rowan shivered as his body clenched and relaxed during his descent from the vehicle and into Marcus’ quiet, dark home.
“This way.” Marcus tossed his cloak aside and Rowan copied him, following his host into a snug library where the remains of a fire still shed light into the room. It smelled of leather and books seasoned with a faint whiff of recently smoked cheroot.
Marcus lit one branch of candles then walked to a table by the fireplace where crystal shone in a quiet display of rainbows. “Cognac?”
Rowan nodded. “Thank you.”
Marcus did things with decanters and snifters, finally returning to stand in front of Rowan with a glass in each hand. He passed one to Rowan then reached for him with his now-empty grasp, tugging at his cravat and sliding it slowly from his neck. “I would see you, my friend. All of you. Without the trappings of civilization.”
Rowan sipped, noting the tiny tang he sensed on the back of his tongue. There was no real need or delight from such an act, since he did not require mortal food or drink. It was more the sharing of it, the companionship it produced that made him smile. “It would be my pleasure.”
He set the glass down and shrugged out of his coat, stripping off his waistcoat and his shirt moments thereafter and shaking his hair free. His hands fell to the ties of his breeches and he loosened them but did not let them fall. It would be Marcus who would direct the speed of this encounter, he decided. Let his actions tell Rowan what he wanted—what he desired.
Marcus gazed at him, eyes wandering over the firm muscles of Rowan’s chest. A hand followed, stroking the planes and valleys. “You are cool. Would you like me to stoke up the fire?”
“No. I am always—cool. ‘Tis my nature, I suppose.”
A goblet neared his body and Marcus studied a nipple through the refracting planes of the crystal. Then—a slight movement—and Rowan felt the sharp clean edges teasing him, arousing the flat disk, bringing the nub in the center to a hard bead.
“Your body is appealing. Sensitive too.” Marcus continued his gentle abuse, his glass against one nipple, his palm grazing the other.
“Perhaps ‘tis your touch that arouses me.”
Amber brown eyes glanced into his. “Perhaps.” The other man turned away briefly and divested himself of his own cravat, quickly stripping to the waist. “Let’s see, shall we?”
He took both their glasses and put them aside. “Now, my beautiful Rowan. Let us test this theory of yours. Let us see how our bodies respond to each other when we touch.”
He reached for Rowan’s neck and brought their mouths together.
It was a cavern Marcus investigated eagerly, tongue swirling, lips blending in a tender kiss that brought them close. Cool flesh met his touch, but there was a matching eagerness there, reinforced by Rowan’s arms, which slid up his body and around his neck.
Marcus tightened the embrace, letting his palms slide down over Rowan’s back and beneath his breeches to cup the firm buttocks, squeezing them with delight. They were muscled and solid, evidence of a man who did not spend time idly strolling the pavements of his world. No, this was a man who rode, who strode through life with vigor and kept himself taut—ready to face whatever lay ahead.
Still keeping their mouths engaged in the sensual duel, Marcus let his fingers push the garment down, to puddle at Rowan’s feet and reveal all of him. His cock fell free, thudding solidly into Marcus’ body.
With a bold and deft touch, Marcus found it and stroked it, pulling it up between them, pushing his own hips forward so that his arousal would press against Rowan’s soft sac. He moved, grinding a little, bringing a grunt to the other’s throat as he stimulated them both.
Rowan’s hands tugged at him now, running through the hair that fell on Marcus’ shoulders, then loosening his own breeches. They must deal with boots, but that would come in time. For now, it was just a sexual pleasure to touch—and be touched—with such lustful enthusiasm.
Their erections met and clashed as their passions rose, twin sensations moving urgently between them, reinforced by their movements, their close embrace.
Finally Rowan tore his lips away. “You taste sweet—a tang of man and something else I can’t put a name to.” He stepped back and kicked his trousers free of his boots, bending to rapidly strip off the footwear as well.
Glancing up he stared. “I would taste that too.” He straightened and placed his hands on Marcus’ chest. “Sit. Let me help you out of those…” He nodded at Marcus’ trousers and shining boots.
Obediently, Marcus dropped into a large chair, the cool leather caressing his buttocks, hair a tangle around his neck and shoulders. He watched Rowan fall to his knees and set about easing the leather from his feet. One after another the boots were disposed of, leaving Rowan between his thighs, staring hungrily at Marcus’ cock.
It jutted fiercely from its nest of black curly hair, a drop of moisture beading the tip. Marcus’ heart thudded as cool hands found it, smearing the liquid and then sliding to the base in a long smooth stroke that exactly matched his needs at that moment.
Thighs parted wide, Marcus offered himself to Rowan. And Rowan accepted. Leaning forward, cool lips touched the tip of his cock, followed by the quick swirl of a tongue that knew the perfect places, the perfect pressure.
“You are cut. I like that.” Rowan paused, considering the length that glistened where his saliva had dampened it.
“I’m glad I meet with your approval.” Marcus’ voice was rough, his desire a lump in his guts that was growing each minute. Right now he could control it—but soon…
The black eyes glowed with pleasure as Rowan took him into his mouth. There was nothing tentative about his moves, only a bold claiming, a sure suckle from lips that obviously hungered for this experience.
With care and attention, Rowan worked him, letting his mouth take as much of Marcus’ not insubstantial length as possible and grasping the remainder in a firm and knowledgeable hold. It was a pleasure that Marcus relished, an arousing and sensual delight, making him sigh out a breath and lean back, splayed wide against the leather.
There was silence in the room, as if the world stood still. Only the soft slicking noise of Rowan’s mouth broke the stillness, along with the occasional muted groan from Marcus as his cock was once again nearly swallowed by this fascinating lover.
As if by instinct, Rowan’s grip tightened, pressing beneath the swollen cock, holding Marcus’ orgasm at bay, yet sending him higher along the road to his release. The cool tongue continued to tease and caress and suckle, only to drift sometimes to Marcus’ balls where the attention continued. Always sure, always finding the perfect place to tantalize.
Marcus realized his hands were gripping the leather of the chair in a spasm of pleasure, his body knotting now, approaching the point of no return.
He reached down and grabbed a handful of the sandy blond hair that drifted across his thighs. “Rowan—let me breathe. Or ‘twill be done too soon.”
Rowan’s head rose, lips wet and shining. “As you will. But ‘tis a pleasure for me. Your cock feels good in my mouth.” He grinned. “I’m thinking it will feel good in somewhere else too.”
“I hope so.” Marcus shifted. “Let me see you. Really see you. ‘Tis my turn to play.”
He moved to the edge of the chair and encouraged Rowan to stand, thus putting Rowan’s cock exactly where he wanted it. Now it was his turn to demonstrate some of his own techniques.
Gently he tugged on the broad length, running the folds of skin up and down the solid muscle beneath. “Uncut. Hmm. Interesting.”
A shudder trembled through Rowan as Marcus continued his investigations. “I’m glad—” He broke off as Marcus took him into his mouth.
Rowan hungered. His fangs throbbed beneath his gums, his very soul yearned to feed from this man who was now sucking him deeply and strongly over his tongue. There was something about Marcus, some darkness within him that matched Rowan’s own shadows.
Some power, some indefinable mystery that Rowan sought to understand. A power that was evident in the grasp of firm hands, the confident suckle of a mouth that comprehended the nuances of such an act.
He could feed now, right at this instant—bury his fangs in the broad shoulders next to thighs that were knotting as Rowan fought to control his arousal. Let the blood flow hot and sweet into Rowan’s mouth as he exploded into Marcus’ throat. It would be the ultimate fuck, but something held him back.
Not yet—wait. There is more to come before I do.
So Rowan stood still, battling his deepest urges, relishing the bolts of desire Marcus drew from his cock with his lips and his hands. Truly they were well matched, each knowing instinctively what would give the other pleasure, each enjoying their ability to do so.
Perhaps that was what it was. The thought struck Rowan like a blow to his head. They were giving, one to one, offering, taking, sharing—neither claiming dominance nor the right to possess. He’d given before at such times and relished the experience. But seldom had he received such caresses in return. Seldom had he been touched in such a way as to arouse his spirit as well as his body.
Marcus gave his entire self to their sensual play, holding nothing back. Why? What made him so unique in this regard?
There were secrets locked behind his amber-flecked eyes, secrets that Rowan discovered he wanted to know. To share. Feeding from Marcus would give Rowan a measure of the man’s soul, perhaps. But would it destroy the emotions Rowan knew were building between them?
He could not begin to guess. So he simply let himself enjoy Marcus’ mouth, relaxing into the delights to be experienced by the feel of a skilled tongue on his cock.
Marcus shifted a little, falling gently from the seat of his chair to his knees, the better to play with Rowan. Strong fingers kneaded his buttocks and crept unerringly between his thighs to a place behind Rowan’s balls where the slightest touch brought a grunt of surprised delight.
He felt Marcus smile at the response and shared his pleasure in more ways than one. Simply taking joy from another’s reactions—well, it was unselfish and a moment to be cherished.
Rowan’s control began to fray and it was his turn to pull back. “I ache, Marcus. I need to come soon…”
“As do I.” Bold brown eyes stared at Rowan, fires of need smoldering hotly in their depths.
“Then let’s finish it. Please. I-I hunger…”
Marcus nodded and stood. “I share your hunger, my friend. ‘Tis strange. You light fires where there was only an empty hearth.” He moved to the chair, cock hard and thrusting urgently from his body. “I would have you come in me, Rowan. Deep in me. Touch my soul.”
“I will.” Rowan knew the words were a pledge. He would take Marcus into the void, the abyss of orgasm. And in return, Marcus would take him as well.
Rowan moved behind Marcus who leaned over the leather arm and braced himself, revealing buttocks that were hard, silken skin stretched tautly over muscles honed by a life of movement. His arse was ready for the taking, his stance an invitation Rowan would not refuse.
Could not refuse. This man was—special.
And as he began the erotic slide into Marcus’ body, Rowan wondered why.
But then he thrust—and forgot to wonder anything at all.
It was as if he was penetrating a place designed just for him, for Rowan Selkirk. Not for quite some time had he felt this—this elated during a sexual encounter. His hands drifted to Marcus’ hips then lower, finding the cock between his legs, letting their movements slide it through his fingers as their grip tightened and loosened.
Back and forth they rocked, each man breathing quickly, each meeting the other’s thrusts with a growing need for completion.
Tight and hot, Marcus encased Rowan, just as Rowan’s hand encased Marcus. They moved more rapidly, finding a matching tempo in their bodies and a matching throbbing in their cocks.
Rowan rode the pleasure, lips peeling back from gums that released the hidden fangs. He could not control this response, not when he was at a place he so seldom reached. Not when buried within a lover so well suited to his desires.
He would feed, he decided. Feed in those instants just beyond orgasm when the blood of his prey rushed thickly from loin to brain. Interrupt that flow and let it swirl over his tongue, sending a new flood of lust through him that he knew Marcus would accept willingly.
Hurriedly now, both men sped toward their goal, their ultimate release of passion.
“Marcus—I feel it—” Rowan choked out the words, so insufficient to describe the onrush of a climax that threatened to shatter him.
“Now, Rowan, for God’s sake—end it.” Marcus grunted hoarsely beneath him.
The cock he held leaped within his grasp and Rowan knew from the spasms he felt that Marcus had reached his pinnacle. In his turn, he let go, gasping as he flooded Marcus with his come, filling him, staying deep inside as he had promised.
This was indeed a touching of souls.
They shared the tremors, the shaking release of pent-up desires, Rowan leaning on Marcus’ broad back, holding him fast beneath him.
He felt Marcus suck air into starving lungs. He smiled as he understood the need himself. Gently Rowan lifted his head and sought the right spot for his fangs.
Marcus’ next words, however, took all his breath away—and then some.
“If you’re planning on biting me, would you do it now? Beneath my hairline, please. Otherwise the scars are the very devil to hide.”
Rowan froze.
Chapter Two
Marcus wasn’t surprised to feel Rowan’s immobility at the words that echoed through the silence of the room.
Then he felt the softened cock withdraw and they separated, Rowan to shrug into his breeches and Marcus to stoke the fire. Finally he turned, reached for a blanket and settled himself into a chair with the soft wool draped over his nakedness.
He motioned Rowan to the matching chair next to the hearth. “Sit. You look—stunned.”
“I am.” Rowan sat. No sign of fangs across his lips or any outward appearance of being what he was—a vampire. “You know.” Black eyes finally reached Marcus’ own gaze and held it. “You know what I am.”
Casually, Marcus brushed his hair away from the left side of his face and neck, turning so that the firelight illuminated his skin. He knew what Rowan would see—two parallel lines, puckered scars that had healed awkwardly, stretching from his collarbone to his throat. “Yes. I have had some dealings with your kind before.”
A frown crossed Rowan’s face. “I am at a loss. You should be dead. Or—”
“Like you? One of you?”
“Yes.” He passed a hand over his face in a gesture of confusion. “This is—most strange.”
Marcus chuckled. “Coming from one such as yourself, that’s quite a statement.”
Rowan leaned forward. “Tell me. Tell me how you have managed to avoid the bite and its effects? Tell me what happened to you? I need to know.”
“Are you sure?” Marcus watched the light play over the planes of Rowan’s beautiful countenance. “Can I trust you?”
“Trust me?” Rowan’s eyebrows lifted. “Trust me? With what, pray tell? You know what I am, man. You could easily have me destroyed. You could even do it yourself—drag me out into the sunlight and I shall die horribly. I find that you now hold all my secrets, besides the fact we just fucked most pleasurably. Is there anything I have not trusted you with?”
“Good point.” Marcus nodded. “Forgive me. I did not mean to sound impertinent. I’m just not quite used to sharing matters like this with another.”
Rowan relaxed. “Well, I don’t go around London making a point of telling people I’m a soulless creature who preys on blood and is destined to spend eternity in a hell I can’t even describe. When it comes to not sharing things, I believe I have the edge.”
A quick grin curved Marcus’ mouth. “Another point to you.” He tucked the blanket snugly around his waist. “Very well. We shall spend what’s left of this night sharing more than just sex.” He stared at Rowan. “But I will tell you here and now, that if you betray my secret, I shall not be best pleased.”
“Marcus.” Rowan returned his stare, the expression in his black eyes intense. “You have honored me with your invitation this evening, both into your house and into your body. You have done so, apparently, with full knowledge of what I am, what I am capable of doing. I would like to call you friend as well as lover. I do not betray my friends. Ever.”
Marcus watched Rowan, weighing, assessing, finally reaching his decision. “Very well.” He reached for his brandy. “It began in Europe. With a woman…”
“Named Thérèse…” Rowan finished his words for him.
“I see you have met her as well.”
“Yes.” The word was abrupt, bitten off as soon as it was spoken. “Sorry. Please go on.”
There was a momentary glimpse of some inner agony on Rowan’s face, but since he was determined to learn the facts, Marcus would give them to him. Some measure of the man would be revealed by his reactions to the sordid tale.
“Then I probably need not mention I was at an estate, Rogaška. Deep in the hills of Yugoslavia.”
Rowan merely nodded.
“I met her at the hot springs there. We fucked, rather enthusiastically. Then…” His hand drifted to the scars. “She savaged me with teeth that were not—natural.”
Rowan’s throat moved as he swallowed. “Yes.”
“Apparently…” Marcus paused. “Apparently I was not to her taste. She withdrew from me in what I can best describe as confusion, leaving me bleeding profusely into the water.” He sipped his brandy once more, hands steady, voice calm. “I can only hope that nature cleaned it all up. There was rather a mess.”
“And yet you were unharmed? Unchanged?”
“I healed. I spun a tale of some animal catching me unawares. Not uncommon in that area. My wounds were doctored with much sympathy and an underlying urgency to keep me quiet. Tales of fierce beasts preying on visitors would do little for the Rogaškan economy.” Marcus chuckled. “Few would have believed the truth anyway.”
“’Tis…incredible.” Rowan blinked.
“Yes. I rather agree with that assessment.” Marcus stared into the fire. “I did some research when I got home. Discovered tales of such creatures. And I never forgot her eyes. Black. Black and fiery in her passion.” He glanced up. “Like yours.”
Those black eyes he referred to remained on his face, an expression of puzzlement within those depths. “I have to say I’m confused.” Rowan spoke quietly. “I do not understand how you survived Thérèse’s bite. You must know that she will either kill or…”
“Or convert me into one like herself?” Marcus nodded. “I know that now. How it happens? Well, I shall rely on you to tell me that in your turn.”
“And I will. But first—finish your tale?”
“There’s little more to relate. I healed, returned to England bearing the scars of my encounter as you see. I began to delve into old manuscripts, to read and research anything I could lay my hands on—for the sake of my own curiosity—in order to find out what had happened to me. I even overcame my firm dislike of Byron and read The Giaour in an attempt to find out what kind of creature this flame-haired demon might be.”
“She’s no demon.” The words leaped from Rowan’s mouth defensively.
“No?” Marcus watched his companion. Agony once again flashed across the younger man’s face. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Depends on your perspective, I suppose.” He sighed. “Anyway, I learned of the myths and legends that surround such—beings. The roots go deep, back in time to before they could be written, just passed by word of mouth under cover of locked doors and shuttered windows. I dismissed most of them as absurd, including Byron’s assertion that vampire corpses are rent from their graves, or however he put it. Rather overblown hyperbole, if you ask me. But beneath the dramatics…” He paused, seeking the right words. “Beneath the tall tales and frightening nonsense, a thread emerged. A fundamental set of circumstances that remained common to several of these legends.”
“And that was…” Rowan eagerly encouraged Marcus to continue.
“A red-haired woman.” He sighed. “Twould seem that it all begins and ends with her.”
There was silence for a few moments as Marcus waited for Rowan to digest his words, body taut with some kind of emotion, some energy that almost shone from him. Had Marcus tapped into a strange and isolated place within this man? He considered it possible.
Rowan’s reactions had been predictable to a point, but Marcus could sense more beneath them, a turbulence of thought and passion that surpassed any he himself had expected. He waited patiently.
Finally Rowan spoke. “It might well begin for us with Thérèse. But for her—I believe there was a beginning for her too.” He lifted his chin. “I must know, however, why you are apparently immune to her bite. Why she did not—for the only time I am aware of—take her prey to one of the only two options she seems to consider. Death or eternal damnation.”
“Hell of a price to pay for a good fuck, isn’t it?” Marcus grinned.
Rowan’s laugh erupted, breaking the tension within the room. Then he looked surprised at himself. “Yes. Yes I suppose it is. Never really considered it that way before.”
“I can believe that.”
“Marcus—” Rowan leaned from his chair, extending his hand. “I seem to be finding new experiences here tonight. New possibilities, new ideas… I’m sharing a part of my existence in a way I’d never dreamed possible. For that, I thank you. And I have a request.”
Marcus watched the beautiful face across from him. “Name it.”
“Always stay my friend?”
It was a simple plea but one that Marcus knew Rowan would not make easily. And his answer was equally difficult. But it was one he knew he could now make.
“Yes.”
Two hands linked across the hearth in a pledge that encompassed so much more than a simple grasp of palm to palm. Two men were promising something to each other, something that went beyond the sexual heat flickering between them. They each offered what neither had expected to find.
Marcus sighed, a quiet sound that carried his emotions with it. “For whatever brief time I have left, I shall always be your friend.”
Rowan stilled, his hand still held fast by Marcus’ strong grip as the import of the words made itself clear within his mind. “I think you’d better explain that.”
Marcus released his hold and leaned back once more. “In the interests of sharing our secrets, I suppose I should.”
Rowan waited, knowing from the words and the tone that there was something dark and troubling to come.
“I am…ill. I have a sickness, Rowan.” He looked up quickly. “Nothing I can share with you, fortunately. This is not a disease that is carried from person to person, no matter how—intimate they may be.” A brief smile followed his words.
“A disease?” Rowan thought for a moment, rapidly adding up the parts to a whole. “A disease of the blood?”
“Yes. My physicians—and there have been many—are unanimous that I cannot be cured. They are not sure, even after all the cupping, the bloodletting, the leeches…good God, I could’ve fed an army of vampires on what’s been taken by doctors alone.” He chuckled, yet there was little humor in the sound. “They do not know what it is. Only that it slowly but surely killing me. How long have I left?” He spread his hands. “That’s for the Almighty to know, not me. Or them.”
Rowan swallowed. Words choked in his throat, an inexpressible sadness overwhelming him. “Marcus, I-I—” He stuttered, at a loss.
“It’s all right. I understand, believe me. Few know the truth and there are even fewer I would share the facts with. I have come to terms with my mortality just as you have come to terms with your immortality. Perhaps that’s where our initial attraction lay—a recognition of another with burdens almost too great to bear alone.”
Rowan nodded. “That may be.” He risked a quick smile. “Of course, you’re also damned attractive, whatever the state of your health.”
Marcus grinned back. “Thank you for that. I won’t tell you of your beauty. I’m sure you’ve been made aware of it often enough.”
They shared a laugh, a companionable moment that did much to cement the odd relationship between them. Rowan felt as if a weight was gone from his shoulders, one he’d not realized he carried or that bore down on him so heavily.
The simple fact of sitting with a mortal and talking of things he’d kept unsaid for so long—it was as intoxicating as a large glass of that fine cognac would have been a few years before.
“So, Rowan. I have given you my sordid tale. ‘Tis time for you to share yours.” Marcus finished off his drink and set the glass down beside his chair. “Now you know you can tell me all. Hold nothing back, my friend.”
Rowan rolled his eyes. Such a thing was easier said than done. Where to start?
As if reading his thoughts, Marcus gently encouraged him. “Start in Rogaška. With Thérèse. Our stories both seem to have a beginning there, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do.” Rowan steeled himself. “Very well. I met her much as you tell me you did—in that place where steam swirls into the dark night and tired guests occasionally seek to refresh themselves under the stars…”
- - -
It was warm, warm and welcoming as a mother’s embrace.
The water lapped around Rowan’s thighs, kissed his cock with wet ripples and finally cradled his body as he slid wearily into the small steaming pool. It had been a long day, riding hard through the rough terrain surrounding Rogaška, hunting the wild boar they knew lurked in the deep woods not far from the estate.
His companions were drinking, there was music and dancing in one of the several ballrooms, but for Rowan—there was only a need for quiet. For a time to let his muscles ache comfortably as they unwound.
This journey had been an excellent idea—a last-minute notion inspired by his family’s nagging at him. Get married, Rowan. Find a wife, Rowan. It’s time for you to wed, Rowan. His mother’s words rang in his ears until he was ready to scream from the constant clamor.
The casual invitation to join a party heading to Europe seemed like a lifeline thrown to him at his time of utmost need. He didn’t know his fellow travelers that well, but didn’t care. He just wanted out.
Rowan closed his eyes and let his tensions seep away into the warm water. He didn’t want to wed. Not yet. He hadn’t met the right woman and didn’t think he would find her amidst the simpering muddle of flounces and silks paraded before his eyes on a nightly basis in London’s salons.
It was not his responsibility to produce an heir—his older brother had taken care of that. Several times over. Rowan was the second son, free of the title and its associated duties. His sister was engaged to an Earl.
He considered himself at liberty to choose his own bride and couldn’t figure out why the rest of the family didn’t see matters the same way. So he’d begun the process of separating himself from them, little by little, first setting up a small house just outside London—a bachelor establishment where he could live as it suited him.
Still he could not escape, however. Thoughts of marriage plagued him and Rowan took the quiet relaxing moments away from it all to ask himself what he wanted in a woman. Whether he would know when he found the one with whom he could spend the rest of his life.
She would be beautiful, of course. That was a foregone conclusion. He had no illusions about his own appearance—he’d heard it whispered about often enough. Blessed with striking good looks, he’d found himself the target of more languishing glances than he cared to confess, in spite of his unruly light-colored hair and gray-green eyes. Decidedly non-Byronic, not dark in the current fashion, yet apparently appealing to an awful lot of silly misses.
No, he definitely wanted more than a sizeable estate, a virgin and a giggle or two.
He wanted—what?
“Good evening.”
The voice startled him and he opened his eyes to see a woman standing on the other side of the pool.
God. He wanted her.
Clad in a simple gown of white, her fiery red hair tumbled in loose shining waves down past her shoulders almost to her waist. Full breasts pressed against the silky fabric, nipples poking tight beads through her bodice. They lifted and fell with her breath as she spoke.
“May I take the liberty of joining you?”
There was a slight accent to her words, an entrancing lilt that tugged at his cock every bit as much as did the sensuality radiating from her body.
He gathered his thoughts and cleared his throat. “It would be my pleasure.”
“I do hope so.” She reached behind her and loosened her gown, smiling as she let it fall into a silken pool at her feet.
She was naked beneath, a sight that branded itself into Rowan’s brain. Legs that were long, firm and shapely led upward to a body that made his mouth water. Curly red shadows dappled her mound beneath a softly curved belly and the luscious breasts were tipped with dusky rose peaks, distended a little over her chest as if pulled down by their own weight.
Her smile grew as she casually walked into the pool, stepping easily into the water and stopping for a moment as it caressed her thighs and her pussy. “The water feels good, doesn’t it?”
Dragging his gaze from her mound to her face, Rowan blinked. She was lovely—incredibly lovely. The full awareness of her womanhood radiated from her like an aura, sexual, sensual and ripe with promise. This was a woman at the confident peak of her appeal, desire shining from her lips—her eyes—
Rowan blinked. With hair that color, he’d expected a green glitter to flash from beneath her dark red brows. But no, her eyes were dark, very dark. So dark he could not make out a pupil. They were strange eyes, but in keeping with the stunningly unusual beauty of the rest of her.
“What is your name?” She lowered herself beneath the ripples, still clearly visible and quite unconcerned by her nudity.
“Er…” Rowan struggled to find his tongue. His mouth had turned dry, his cock was suddenly harder than it had ever been and words were temporarily beyond him.
Her light laugh recalled him from his stupor. “Surely you know your name?”
He recalled himself. “Of course. Rowan Selkirk at your service.” He smiled at her, testing her. “I hope.”
She smiled back. “So do I, Rowan Selkirk.” The black eyes glanced down into the water, deliberately focusing between his thighs where his cock shifted with the light current. “You are—handsome, Rowan. Handsome and well-named.”
“Well-named?”
She licked her lips. “There would appear to be a supple tree growing from you.” A hand reached beneath the surface and stroked his cock. “Yes, indeed. This is no twig, but a full trunk. You are, as I said, well-named.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Rowan fought for control. He would not surrender lightly to this—this pleasure. Women did not behave like this, only whores.
And yet something about her made Rowan positive she was no whore. A courtesan, perhaps? A mistress?
Boldly he reached for her pussy, cupping her, fondling her carefully, watching for her reaction.
It was immediate. She sighed and parted her thighs, allowing him access to her cool folds. “And are you well-named, sweetheart?” Rowan slid his fingers around her pussy lips, watching as she smiled and sighed at his treatment.
Her black gaze drifted to his face. “I do not know. I am Thérèse…” The name drifted softly between them as he found her clit and gently coaxed it into hardness. “And I like what you are doing to me, Rowan.” Her breasts moved with the water, breaking the surface as she slithered closer. “Do more.”
Taut nipples begged for his mouth and he obliged, suckling one deeply, tonguing it to a ripe blush. She tasted—exotic, different and exciting. Rowan was fast losing himself in the entire experience.
He pulled back a little, aware of this woman and his need for her, but feeling the restraints of his conventional background. “I want you. I want to fuck you. To have you crying out my name, coming for me—around me. Tell me that you share this…this madness that has stolen my mind…”