Midnight Temptation

by Nancy Gideon

  “I’ve told you the truth of it already,” she snapped. Then she looked to Marchand, and a slow, puzzled look came over her. “What have you done to him, Gerardo? Surely you could not have been so big a fool as to—”

  “No,” Nicole put in coolly. “I did.”

  “You?” Bianca stared, for once plainly startled. Then she gave a little laugh. “I seem to be always underestimating you. So, you have made your own companion after all. How very sweet.”

  “How very necessary to keep you from having him,” Nicole corrected.

  She waved a dismissing hand. “I gave him to Gerard. If you have some grievance, take it up with him, not me.”

  “And such a generous gift,” Gerard purred lethally.

  At that point, Bianca honed in on the figure sprawled in the parlor, another surprise she found most unpleasant. “And what have we here?”

  “Sorry about the mess,” Marchand said with a grim smile.

  Bianca went still, reassessing the situation in her cunning mind. She could feel the power from Marchand LaValois. It was new and somewhat undirected, but strong, so strong. Nicole had made him well. Perhaps she’d been wrong to dismiss him from her attention so quickly. Her gaze heated with a sensual speculation. “Perhaps I should thank you. De Sivry was proving quite the nuisance. Good riddance, I say.”

  “Is that what you said when you killed my brother?”

  “Your brother? Oh, yes. The well-spoken one. Would you like to see him again?”

  Marchand’s smile tightened. “I’ve already seen him. Several hours ago. He and about a dozen of his friends.” He put his hand in his pants pocket and withdrew it, filled. “They send their regrets.” And he opened his hand, releasing a filtering of ash.

  Bianca stared at the ash. “You destroyed them?”

  “No. You destroyed them. I put them to rest. And soon I mean to pray over them. Will there be anyone to do the same for you, I wonder?”

  Bianca continued to regard the challenging couple. Her black eyes blazed. Her plans, ruined. Her minions, destroyed. She had lost her foothold in Paris because of this one impossibly headstrong girl and her noble-hearted lover. What idiots they were to think they could take a stand against her and then walk away with victory. The two of them with their weak fledgling powers against two who had seen centuries pass!

  Then she looked to Gerard and knew a moment of real fear. He was looking back at her, his smile remote, his expression far removed. His eyes glittered like hot silver. What was he thinking, her unpredictable companion?

  “Gerard, I have grown weary of our guests. I made you a promise once that the first taste of her would be yours and now you may claim it.”

  “Mí dispiáce, I am so sorry, but I fear my tastes have changed.”

  His bland mutiny made her tremble with rage. “Gerard, you fool, we are in danger here!”

  “We, my love?”

  “Imbecile!” she spat at him. “I could never depend on you. Never. You were weak and treacherous in life and so you are now.”

  He merely stared at her, unmoved and unmoving.

  She turned on Nicole, seething furiously. “So this is how I am repaid for bringing you into my home, nurturing you in the ways of our kind, treating you like family.”

  “What do you know of family, Madame Viper. You would kill your own to escape consequences. You know nothing of loyalty or love.”

  “Loyalty? Love! Bah! Only the frail-minded hold to such pale conceits. Power is the only thing that matters. And I am power. You may think you’ve won but I shall rise up again. I will always be triumphant. And I will always have my way.”

  Marchand circled slowly around her, his movements all strong, alien beauty, his smile familiar and at the same time, darkly fiendish. “Perhaps not,” he told her softly. He reached up to detach one of the ornate wall lamps then went to the edge of the pool to pour the scented oil into the water. It spread out across the surface in a thin glistening film. Then he took down one of the torches and touched the flame to it. There was an immediate sheet of fire.

  He watched it burn for a moment, then asked, “Have you ever heard them shriek as they bum, these unfortunates casually made by you? It’s an awful sound. The sound one imagines from hell.” His gaze came up an increment at a time, glimmering with the unholy light he’d seen in his own brother’s pyre. “Rise up from this, bitch.”

  And he grabbed her by her long blond hair, swinging her about, thrusting her toward the blazing pool. Bianca screamed in fright and rage, and before he could shove her over the edge, her feet found purchase on the tiles and her hands clenched in his shirtfront. If she went over, he was going with her.

  They grappled on the slick marble, both fueled by inhuman strength and unnatural hate.

  “Let me go, you idiot! You will burn with me!”

  “I’d rather burn in hell than see you go free!”

  “No!”

  That cry tore from Nicole. There was no way she was going to lose her love now! She sprang forward, whipping the chain of her mother’s necklace around the vicious Bianca’s neck, pulling back with all her might. There was the sound of hissing flesh as the delicate silver links tightened and bit deep. Bianca’s fingers loosened from Marchand. The instant they did, Nicole used the chain to sling the screeching female into the fire.

  She and Marchand stumbled back as a tremendous ball of scarlet flame rocketed to the ceiling, scorching plaster, setting draperies ablaze before falling to the marble floor. What had been Bianca du Maurier writhed and howled with an ear-splitting fury.

  “Gerardo! Gerardo, help me!”

  But Gerardo Pasquale looked on impassively, making no movement in her defense. For Gino, his hard eyes said. For Bella, echoed his softer heart.

  As the heat grew intense, Nicole gripped Marchand’s arm and pulled hard. “Come on! We must get out before the whole house goes up in flame. Marchand! Come on!” And finally he gave, following her through the increasingly thick smoke toward the front hall. She paused only once. It wasn’t until they reached the searing freshness of the night air that he saw she held Camille’s painting tightly in her arms.

  Spotting them, her father’s driver angled the coach up before the blazing house. It was then, that Nicole hung back with an anguished cry.

  “Gerard! We can’t leave him!”

  But Marchand had her by the waist and was lifting her into the dim interior. “He can take care of himself.”

  And inside the elegant inferno, Gerardo Pasquale stripped off his tailored jacket and bent down to wrap it about the charred figure on the floor. He tamped the fabric carefully so as not to ignite his own unnatural flesh and when the tiny popping flames were out, he gathered the crisped bundle in his arms and exclaimed, “Now who is the fool, cara?”

  THE FLEET COACH closed quickly upon the countryside chateau even as the distance grew ever wider between its two occupants. They sat on opposing seats, not looking at one another but awareness throbbing between them just the same. The tension was palpable, an invisible wall of uncertainty neither could scale until Marchand lost all patience with the awkward mood.

  “If you can no longer care for me, I wish you would have let me fall into the fire.”

  Nicole’s eyes went incredulously round. “What?”

  “I cannot bear this, Nicole. I’m lost and you refuse me all comfort.”

  “Marchand, that’s not true!”

  “Isn’t it? Then why are you way over there instead of over here where I need you so desperately?”

  Why, indeed? she asked herself, yet still could find no answer. He wasn’t Marchand, he wasn’t the man she loved. She had only to look at him to know that. Over just the past few hours, he’d taken on that haunting air of gauntness and that pale magnetic beauty that glimmered about her father and Gerard, that vampire lu
minescence that set them apart from humanity. His eyes were no longer expressive windows to his soul. In fact, his whole facade was one of minimal change, glossy, flawless, unnatural.

  Unfeeling.

  That was what she feared. What if all that made him who she loved was no longer in existence? What if she’d killed that wondrous spirit along with his mortal form?

  Because she needed to find out, Nicole slipped over onto the same seat. When she didn’t move to touch him, he leaned against her, curving his arms loosely about her waist and resting his head upon the soft swell of her bosom. And for the longest time, he didn’t move. Gradually, her arms came up to hold him and her hand brushed gently across his brow, soothing back the hair that strayed there in a boyish disarray.

  “Are you afraid you’ve made me into something that you cannot love?”

  Yes. That’s exactly what she was afraid of. But she couldn’t say that to him, not after he’d given up all upon her assurances.

  ARABELLA OPENED her arms wide to accept her daughter down into them. “Oh, Nicole, oh my dear, we’ve been so worried!”

  “And I’ve been worried about you. How are you feeling, Mother?”

  “Stronger. I’ll be fine.” Knowing these were the words her daughter needed to hear, she didn’t regret the small lie. She looked over Nicole’s shoulder to where Marchand hung back at the door, his eyes downcast, his posture uncertain. “Marchand, come in.”

  And the minute he lifted his gaze, she knew what had happened, what he had become. That didn’t stop her from extending a warm embrace for him as well.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she murmured against his smooth cheek.

  He caught her hand in his and pressed a grateful kiss to its back. “Your gift, it saved my . . . soul.”

  “Good. Then I’ve not become totally useless upon this bed.”

  Again, his gaze shied away. “I am so sorry—”

  She touched her fingertips to his mouth, halting the anguished words. “Enough said.”

  “You are very generous, madame.”

  “I am hoping to become a mother-in-law soon.” He leaned back, saying nothing, still avoiding her eyes. She looked between him and her daughter, sensing all was not well there. It wasn’t the absence of love, it was the presence of tension. The knowledge of their distress lessened her own pain. Her hand cupped under his chin, forcing his gaze up. “Marchand, are you in love with my daughter?”

  “Oui, madame,” came his gruff reply.

  “Then nothing else is important to me.”

  He canted a glance toward Nicole, who was still and distanced by the conversation. “There is nothing else for me either.”

  “You’re back.”

  Marchand rose to face Louis, uncomfortable with Nicole’s remoteness and uncertain of his place here in her home with her family. Then he saw her father take in the significance of the marks on his throat and his recognition of the cool vampiric fire in his eyes.

  “I see things have changed.”

  “Some, m’sieur. Others, thankfully, have stayed the same.” And he adored Nicole briefly with his gaze, disheartened when she failed to respond.

  “You’ve come back here. That is good. Tell me of Bianca. Is she responsible for your state?”

  Marchand purposefully didn’t look to Nicole as he answered, “No, it was your daughter who acted to save me from the hell of her possession. I am forever in her debt. And yours, m’sieur.”

  “And Bianca?”

  “Destroyed.”

  Louis held to his reservations, then asked more softly, “Gerardo?”

  “He survived, as far as I know.”

  Louis allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

  Marchand hesitated and then had to prod himself past his pride. “M’sieur, we’ve come so we might learn from you how to control what we are. Nicole and I both believe we can do good with the skills we possess just as others seek to do wrong. Teach us how to use them wisely.”

  He chanced a glimpse at Nicole and saw her regarding him with . . . admiration. It wasn’t that he wanted to earn from her. But he supposed it was a start.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Louis said, and he took Marchand’s hand for a firm press.

  “THEY WILL BE good for one another,” Arabella stated sagely.

  “I think so,” her husband agreed as he stretched out on the bed beside her. “He has the strength to care for her and the caring to make her happy. That’s all I ever wanted for her. A little of what we have.” He rearranged her pillows solicitously for the umpteenth time and she slapped at his hands.

  “Really, my love, you have a very patronizing bedside manner.”

  “When you are stronger, I will change that manner to one we’ll both enjoy more.”

  Though her answering smile was edged with doubt, she replied, “I love you, Louis.”

  “Bella, you will be better.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “You will walk again.”

  “I plan to.”

  “I love you so much. I just wish—” He broke off and looked away.

  “What do you wish, my lord?”

  He faced her directly, his expression moved by passionate feeling. “I wish you would give up this tortured mortal shell and be with me!” The minute he uttered the words, he looked ashamed of them, but Arabella caressed his lean face and kissed him tenderly.

  “Oh, Louis, we’ve been over this so many times. If I had not been so well-decided before, this would anchor my choice. Could you guarantee that I would not spend eternity trapped in this motionless prison? Could you assure me that I would rise up on legs that are strong and whole? Or would you be condemning me to being an endless burden upon you?”

  “Bella, how could you say that?”

  “Not to hurt you, my love. Can you promise me a perfect immortality?”

  “No. From what I know of it, bringing one over only changes the circumstance of death. The rest remains as it was.”

  “So if I am a cripple in life, I would be a cripple forever.”

  “Bella—”

  “Louis, don’t be so distressed. Don’t you dare pity me. I would gladly give my legs, my arms, my life for you without regret and you know it. I will not complain, not ever! If I had not done what I did, I would not have you now—for as long as you wish to stay.”

  His features tightened. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Only that I am far from the woman you married, while you remain unchanged. I will not hold you any longer than you wish to remain.”

  He seized her chin and kissed her hard enough to bruise her lips. Against that damp, well-molded mouth, he murmured fiercely, “I will never stray from your side. Never. You will always be the same woman I married, the same woman I love. Always, Bella. And I will love you madly until—”

  “Until death us do part.”

  He said nothing. He was kissing her again.

  After a time, when they were comfortably arranged in one another’s arms, she said, “I think I should like to see America next. When I’m strong enough to travel.”

  “America,” Louis mused. “I’ve always been curious about the new world.”

  What neither of them said was that they would never feel safe again within these warm sand-colored walls. Because neither of them believed the threat of Bianca du Maurier was gone.

  “WE MUST MAKE some preparations for you,” Nicole was saying as they moved along the dimness of the upper hall. “Your . . . needs . . . are different now. We must see that you’re protected.”

  Marchand said nothing.

  “You can rest below with my father. We have some time before dawn to obtain a coffin—”

  “No!”

  “Marchand—”

 
“I won’t sleep in a box.” The memory of being closed in with Gerard rose strong. He could feel that paralyzing terror, the sense of suffocation, of isolation.

  “Marchand,” Nicole explained brusquely, “you know what you are and what precautions you must take. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I won’t sleep in a box!”

  Nicole repressed her agitation. The situation was difficult for her as well. She didn’t want to imagine her love interred below. It was too grim a reminder of his physical death. The death she’d brought him. Her tone was rough when she concluded, “We’ll settle on something before sunrise. Perhaps Father can help you become accustomed to your . . . fate.” For she certainly was doing a poor job of it!

  Marchand paused outside one of the closed doors. She saw his head tip slightly as that alien look of concentration came over him. “Musette,” he murmured, and his voice was edged with confusion. Nicole knew he was struggling between the fondness his once-human heart held for her and his new awareness of her as a mortal. Nicole too could feel the temptation of live blood stirring on every pulse from within. And she put her hand upon Marchand’s arm.

  “Musette is sleeping. Come away, Marchand. We don’t want to disturb her.”

  He hesitated, and Nicole could well imagine his distraction. She tugged gently and he finally followed. He drew up again outside his door.

  “I’ll sleep here.”

  “I don’t think you can. The daylight will be too strong.”

  But he wasn’t listening. He entered the room and went to stretch out upon the bed, his iridescent gaze fixed upon the ceiling. Aside from those glowing eyes, he looked appealingly normal there upon his back. And her response to him was achingly normal. But neither of them were ordinary.

  How much had changed? She stood there at the door wondering that, second-guessing her actions that had brought him over into this twilight world. She’d done it because of her love for him, but what of that love remained? She thought of Gerard and his passionless kisses; something remembered but not really enjoyed. Had emotions been bred out of him in the transformation or over time? She didn’t want Marchand as her eternal companion. She wanted him as her love, as her lover. But what if what she’d done to him made that no longer possible? What if a lust for blood replaced a need for intimacy? Where would that leave her and her yearning for a future?