She released his hand and sat down on the side of the bed, beckoning him forward. "Now let me work those laces of yours."
He moved in close. He was fully aroused, which pleased her to no end. But then he'd just tanked up on her nourishment so he should be.
As before, when she saw the head, she leaned down and licked him. He groaned, his hips rocking forward. "You did that the first night we made love."
"Yes, I did and I want to do it again about a thousand more times."
He smiled down at her and stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I'm counting on it."
He undressed her after that and when he had removed his clothes, he climbed into bed, stretching out on top of her. "Jenna, I have something I want to ask you, but it might be too soon. If it is, just tell me."
She put her hand on his chest between his massive pecs. "The answer is yes."
"Yes, what?" He frowned.
"Yes, I want to complete the Treathen bond with you."
"You do?"
She nodded. "Absolutely."
"I was afraid because of what Dagrith had done to you, that you wouldn't want to."
She drew a deep breath. "You once told me that the Treathen bond is different for every couple, that it depends solely on the vampire and the human involved."
"It does."
She smiled. "Then I'm in. I trust you, Treyne, with all my heart, and I also know, given that I intend to spend a lot of time in your commune, that it would be easier on your vampires if I was bound to you."
"You're right about that and it's important to me that you're with me in my commune. But without the bond, you'd probably be consigned to my quarters exclusively, and that would get old really fast."
Jenna's heart rate increased. She couldn't believe she was doing this, something she'd opposed vehemently just a few weeks ago. But as Treyne leaned down and kissed her, as his tongue drove into her mouth, she knew she wanted this more than anything else in the world.
She loved him and she had for months now. She just hadn't acknowledged her feelings because Treyne was a vampire.
He drew back. "I love you," he said, his cock poised at her entrance.
"I love you too." His blue-green eyes were warm with all he felt. "I never thought this would happen for me."
He smiled. "That you would love a vampire?"
"Nothing so simple. No, I mean that I would feel such love in my life. I'm amazed and so grateful."
Treyne dipped his chin. "I was resigned to being alone forever. Your coming along as you did was for me a miracle. I'm still in awe. I love you so much."
When he kissed her this time, Jenna slid her arms around him and held him close. Passion flowed and her breathing hitched. His lips grazed her cheek and words drifted over her in broken patches, delivered between more kisses, but the meaning was clear. "Love . . . so happy . . . by all the vampire gods . . . Jenna . . . love, love, love."
As his cock pushed inside her, Jenna felt the Treathen mist begin to swirl over her, emanating from Treyne and surrounding her. Desire cascaded in heavy waves as he began to thrust into her, pull back, and thrust some more.
She tilted her head and pulled her long hair away from her throat. "Please" came hoarsely out of her mouth.
He grunted and groaned as he stilled in his pushing, struck her neck with his fangs, then began to suck heavily. He drove his cock once more.
Jenna's hands flew over his muscled shoulders, back, and arms in a continuous loop. Her heart was so full as she felt her blood leaving her body to nourish Treyne. The swirls of mist caressed her skin, enhancing all that she felt.
As Treyne drove faster, every part of her being engaged in the act of love. Pleasure built low as the bond began to tighten.
"Jenna," Treyne murmured, drawing back from her neck.
She held him tight, savoring the heavy rhythm of his thrusts, even the blood on his lips. "Kiss me."
He crashed down on her, and as he did, the bond locked into place. Ecstasy shot through her, first low, then spreading like lightning through her entire body.
Treyne appeared caught as well as he arched his back, his thrusts deep and powerful. He shouted as he released.
Jenna had never known such an intense sensation, such a perfect joining.
As he eased down, he met her gaze and released a deep sigh. He smiled, then he kissed her, then he smiled some more.
"We're bound together," he said.
"I can feel it."
He nodded and kissed her again. "You belong to me now."
"Yes. As you belong to me."
"Always."
He lowered himself onto her fully and slid his arms beneath her back. He held her tight as she embraced him in return.
This was love, magical and pure.
How grateful Jenna was that she had taken so many difficult steps in the last few weeks that had led her to accepting Treyne into her life. Maybe loving a vampire had never been on her radar, but being with him now, loving him and being loved by him, was more than she had ever thought to have in her entire life.
About the Authors
The bestselling author of the Dark Days series and the upcoming Angel's Ink, and former financial analyst, JOCELYNN DRAKE lives in Wisconsin.
A Southern girl with an overactive imagination, RITA(r) and PRISM awards winner TERRI GAREY lives in Florida, where anything weird is considered normal. A former computer analyst, she left the dry world of logic behind in order to write novels filled with fantasy, romance, and happily-ever-afters. Terri loves to hear from readers. Visit her on the web at www.tgarey.com.
CARIS ROANE has had a long-time love affair with vampires, and now writes in the paranormal genre. Her Guardians of Ascension series is set in a unique vampire world based on ascending dimensional earths, and the sixth book, Gates of Rapture, will be releasing later in 2012. Caris lives in Phoenix, Arizona, with her two cats, Sebastien and Gizzy.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by the Authors
By Jocelynn Drake
Asylum Interviews: Trixie
Asylum Interviews: Bronx
Angel's Ink
By Terri Garey
A Devil Named Desire
Devil Without a Cause
By Caris Roane
Obsidian Flame
Born of Ashes
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at two brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
THE FORBIDDEN LADY
By Kerrelyn Sparks
TURN TO DARKNESS
By Jaime Rush
An Excerpt from
THE FORBIDDEN LADY
by Kerrelyn Sparks
(Originally published under the title For Love or Country)
Before New York Times bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks created a world of vampires, there was another world of spies and romance . . .
Keep reading for a look at her very first novel.
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday, August 29, 1769
"I say, dear gel, how much do you cost?"
Virginia's mouth dropped open. "I--I beg your pardon?"
The bewigged, bejeweled, and bedeviling man who faced her spoke again. "You're a fetching sight and quite sweet-smelling for a wench who has traveled for weeks, imprisoned on this godforsaken ship. I say, what is your price?"
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The rolling motion of the ship caught her off guard, and she stumbled, widening her stance to keep her balance. This man thought she was for sale? Even though they were on board The North Star, a brigantine newly arrived in Boston Harbor with a fresh supply of indentured servants, could he actually mistake her for one of the poor wretched criminals huddled near the front of the ship?
Her first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with anger. It swelled in her chest, heated to a qu
ick boil, and soared past her ruffled neckline to her face, scorching her cheeks 'til she fully expected steam, instead of words, to escape her mouth.
"How . . . how dare you!" With gloved hands, she twisted the silken cords of her drawstring purse. "Pray, be gone with you, sir."
"Ah, a saucy one." The gentleman plucked a silver snuffbox from his lavender silk coat. He kept his tall frame erect to avoid flipping his wig, which was powdered with a lavender tint to match his coat. "Tsk, tsk, dear gel, such impertinence is sure to lower your price."
Her mouth fell open again.
Seizing the opportunity, he raised his quizzing glass and examined the conveniently opened orifice. "Hmm, but you do have excellent teeth."
She huffed. "And a sharp tongue to match."
"Mon Dieu, a very saucy mouth, indeed." He smiled, displaying straight, white teeth.
A perfectly bright smile, Virginia thought. What a pity his mental faculties were so dim in comparison. But she refrained from responding with an insulting remark. No good could come from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again.
"I do so like your nose. Very becoming and--" He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed.
She waited for him to finish the sentence. He was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn't help but wonder--did he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end.
He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. "Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and . . . disdainfully haughty. Yes, that's it."
Heat pulsed to her face once more. "I daresay it is not surprising for you to admire something disdainfully haughty, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, sir, we have not been introduced."
He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. "Definitely disdainful. And haughty." His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks.
She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved.
A short man in a brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. "Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?"
Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. "Oh, dear, what a delightful little faux pas. I suppose you're not for sale after all?"
"No, of course not."
"I do beg your pardon." He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face.
A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed.
"Well, no harm done." He waved his handkerchief in the air. "C'est la vie and all that. Would you care for some snuff? 'Tis my own special blend from London, don't you know. We call it Grey Mouton."
"Gray sheep?"
"Why, yes. Sink me! You parlez francais? How utterly charming for one of your class."
Narrowing her eyes, she considered strangling him with the drawstrings of her purse.
He removed the silver engraved box from his pocket and flicked it open. "A pinch, in the interest of peace?" His mouth twitched with amusement.
"No, thank you."
He lifted a pinch to his nose and sniffed. "What did I tell you, Johnson?" he asked the short man in brown buckram at his side. "These Colonials are a stubborn lot, far too eager to take offense"--he sneezed delicately into his lacy handkerchief--"and far too unappreciative of the efforts the mother country makes on their behalf." He slid his closed snuffbox back into his pocket.
Virginia planted her hands on her hips. "You speak, perhaps, of Britain's kindness in providing us with a steady stream of slaves?"
"Slaves?"
She gestured toward the raised platform of the forecastle, where Britain's latest human offering stood in front, chained at the ankles and waiting to be sold.
"Oh." He waved his scented handkerchief in dismissal. "You mean the indentured servants. They're not slaves, my dear, only criminals paying their dues to society. 'Tis the mother country's fervent hope they will be reformed by their experience in America."
"I see. Perhaps we should send the mother country a boatload of American wolves to see if they can be reformed by their experience in Britain?"
His chuckle was surprisingly deep. "Touche."
The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her skin, striking a chord that hummed from her chest down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked at him more closely. When his eyes met hers, his smile faded away. Time seemed to hold still for a moment as he held her gaze, quietly studying her.
The man in brown cleared his throat.
Virginia blinked and looked away. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Once more, she became aware of the murmur of voices and the screech of sea gulls overhead. What had happened? It must have been the thrill of putting the man in his place that had affected her. Strange, though, that he had happily acknowledged her small victory.
Mr. Stanton gave the man in brown a mildly irritated look, then smiled at her once more. "American wolves, you say? Really, my dear, these people's crimes are too petty to compare them to murderous beasts. Why, Johnson, here, was an indentured servant before becoming my secretary. Were you not, Johnson?"
"Aye, Mr. Stanton," the older man answered. "But I came voluntarily. Not all these people are prisoners. The group to the right doesn't wear chains. They're selling themselves out of desperation."
"There, you see." The dandy spread his gloved hands, palms up, in a gesture of conciliation. "No hard feelings. In fact, I quite trust Johnson here with all my affairs in spite of his criminal background. You know the Colonials are quite wrong in thinking we British are a cold, callous lot."
Virginia gave Mr. Johnson a small, sympathetic smile, letting him know she understood his indenture had not been due to a criminal past. Her own father, faced with starvation and British cruelty, had left his beloved Scottish Highlands as an indentured servant. Her sympathy seemed unnecessary, however, for Mr. Johnson appeared unperturbed by his employer's rudeness. No doubt the poor man had grown accustomed to it.
She gave Mr. Stanton her stoniest of looks. "Thank you for enlightening me."
"My pleasure, dear gel. Now I must take my leave." Without further ado, he ambled toward the group of gaunt, shackled humans, his high-heeled shoes clunking on the ship's wooden deck and his short secretary tagging along behind.
Virginia scowled at his back. The British needed to go home, and the sooner, the better.
"I say, old man." She heard his voice filter back as he addressed his servant. "I do wish the pretty wench were for sale. A bit too saucy, perhaps, but I do so like a challenge. Quel dommage, a real pity, don't you know."
A vision of herself tackling the dandy and stuffing his lavender-tinted wig down his throat brought a smile to her lips. She could do it. Sometimes she pinned down her brother when he tormented her. Of course, such behavior might be frowned upon in Boston. This was not the hilly region of North Carolina that the Munro family called home.
And the dandy might prove difficult to knock down. Watching him from the back, she realized how large he was. She grimaced at the lavender bows on his high-heeled pumps. Why would a man that tall need to wear heels? Another pair of lavender bows served as garters, tied over the tabs of his silk knee breeches. His silken hose were too sheer to hide padding, so those calves were truly that muscular. How odd.
He didn't mince his steps like one would expect from a fopdoodle, but covered the deck with long, powerful strides
, the walk of a man confident in his strength and masculinity.
She found herself examining every inch of him, calculating the amount of hard muscle hidden beneath the silken exterior. What color was his hair under that hideous tinted wig? Probably black, like his eyebrows. His eyes had gleamed like polished pewter, pale against his tanned face.
Her breath caught in her throat. A tanned face? A fop would not spend the necessary hours toiling in the sun that resulted in a bronzed complexion.
This Mr. Stanton was a puzzle.
She shook her head, determined to forget the perplexing man. Yet, if he dressed more like the men back home--tight buckskin breeches, boots, no wig, no lace . . .
The sun bore down with increasing heat, and she pulled her hand-painted fan from her purse and flicked it open. She breathed deeply as she fanned herself. Her face tingled with a mist of salty air and the lingering scent of Mr. Stanton's handkerchief.
She watched with growing suspicion as the man in question postured in front of the women prisoners with his quizzing glass, assessing them with a practiced eye. Oh, dear, what were the horrible man's intentions? She slipped her fan back into her purse and hastened to her father's side.
Jamie Munro was speaking quietly to a fettered youth who appeared a good five years younger than her one and twenty years. "All I ask, young man, is honesty and a good day's work. In exchange, ye'll have food, clean clothes, and a clean pallet."
The spindly boy's eyes lit up, and he licked his dry, chapped lips. "Food?"
Virginia's father nodded. "Aye. Mind you, ye willna be working for me, lad, but for my widowed sister, here, in Boston. Do ye have any experience as a servant?"
The boy lowered his head and shook it. He shuffled his feet, the scrape of his chains on the deck grating at Virginia's heart.
"Papa," she whispered.
Jamie held up a hand. "Doona fash yerself, lass. I'll be taking the boy."
As the boy looked up, his wide grin cracked the dried dirt on his cheeks. "Thank you, my lord."
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