by Nancy Gideon
She approached him slowly, apprehensively, aware of the way his gaze followed. When she settled on the edge of the bed, he continued to study her in silence.
“How do you feel?” she asked at last.
“The same. Different. I don’t know. How am I supposed to feel?”
She touched the back of his hand where it lay on the counterpane beside her. He felt good, at least to her. Warm and strong. “Marchand, I had no choice. I need to hear that you forgive me.”
He looked perplexed. “For what?”
“For what I’ve made you. For the life I’ve made you abandon.”
His smile was small and wry. “It wasn’t much of a life. It wouldn’t be any kind of a life at all . . . without you.”
When she said nothing, he curled his fingers about hers tightly.
“Nicole, I have no regrets over what we did or concerning what was done. The only loss I’ll feel is if we can’t bridge the distance I feel between us now.”
She didn’t have to say anything. He could feel her pulling farther and farther away and he didn’t know what to do to hang onto her. He sat up, cupping her lovely face between his palms, delving into the lush anguish of her gaze, praying for a response when he told her, “I love you, Nicole. I came back from death to be with you.”
And there was so much passionate feeling in those words. All she could ever want or need to hear. But it was the sudden difference in his gaze that convinced her. Gone was that cold vampiric fire. In its place shone a deep light of love, strong enough to overcome the inhuman brilliance of what he was. That familiar warmth was enough to make her believe that all would be well for their future together, because the inner man she loved remained.
“Oh, Marchand!”
She was in his arms, hugging him fiercely, kissing his cheek, his temple and finally his mouth with a wild abandon. He was warm and solid and—the same.
“I was so afraid I’d lost you,” she was sobbing softly against the column of his throat where her marks had already faded to faint scarring.
“Nicole, I’m not that same man anymore. I never will be again. I don’t know what I am, but I know I will never leave you. I will never stop loving you.”
She leaned back just far enough to hold that dear, devoted gaze in hers. She was touching his face, admiring its sleek perfection with the spread of her fingertips. Love and desire flared hot and urgent. As she kissed him again, deeply, wetly, her hands stroked down his chest and came to rest at his trouser band.
“I love you, Marchand,” she whispered hungrily against his mouth. “I want you in every way possible.” Then she paused and asked more huskily, “What ways are possible?”
He caught her by the rib cage and lifted her up to straddle his lap. “The old way is always good.” And his hands burrowed up beneath her crumpled skirt, touching her, waking her to desires more completely until she was shifting impatiently against him.
“Marchand—” she panted hopefully.
And he continued to kiss her in a hard, plundering fashion while he fumbled with their clothing and finally, fantastically, filled her.
“Oh, Marchand!”
He moved her over him a rough, gratifying rhythm, his strength allowing him to lift her as if she weighed nothing, her strength letting her accept his savage thrusts with soft whimpers of delight. And as a mutual satisfaction sent them both soaring, Marchand was startled by the feeling of weightlessness. He looked down to see they were hovering some dozen or more inches off the bed. As their passions spiraled down, they settled easily upon the covers once more. He raked his fingers back through Nicole’s tumbled hair and vowed, “Give me that for an eternity!”
“That, my love, will be my pleasure.”
“As my wife.”
“That will be my privilege.”
They were kissing again and desire was quick to flame and follow.
As Nicole drowsed some time later in her lover’s embrace, she felt the need to make peace with the past before moving on to a promising, if unconventional, future. She reached out tentatively with her thoughts.
Gerard?
Ah, la mía ragázza! Cóme stá? The fluid warmth of his voice was like a caress within her mind. She smiled to herself.
I wanted to thank you for what you did for me and Marchand.
You are safe? That’s good to know. It was my pleasure, cara. Anything for you.
“Gerardo?”
Reluctant to be drawn from the telepathic communion, Gerardo Pasquale turned from his study out the coach window to the whining creature beside him all draped in the concealing folds of a cloak. “What is it?”
“I am weary and hungry. When can we stop?”
“Presently.”
“Gerardo—”
“I grow bored with your constant complaints,” he snapped tersely. “Have I not seen to your every wish and demand? Cease your harping or I shall lose all patience and put you out to fend for yourself.”
The petulant commands stopped and Gerard canted a glance toward his traveling companion. The burns were still quite horrible. Nothing natural could have survived them.
“We shall stop at the next inn. I find myself hungry for Spanish food.” His tone had gentled almost imperceptibly and the hood gave a haughty toss.
“You are too kind, caro.”
“I am too selfish to wish to be alone. Now, be quiet and let me have some time with my own thoughts.” He could feel her glower upon him, but the threat was an empty one. She was helpless without him and he found he quite liked lording his power over her.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the comfortable seat of their traveling coach.
Take care of your family, mía amóra.
And you see to yourself.
Give them my regards. And a big, big kiss to your mother. And he smiled, thinking of his old friend’s ire. Until we meet again.
The End
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