by Michele Hauf
She looked aside and tried to scent the acrid cleaning oils Portia used for the wood. Still, his blood invaded all. “Leave now. Before I send for my bravos.”
“You’ve no such thing. Though, I am surprised Lord de Salignac has not assigned a crew to you. If he cares so much for you, should he not protect what is his?”
“I am not his.” She lowered her head, twisting farther from the delicious smell of blood, and clinging to the papered wall. “I belong to no man.”
“Do you wish to belong to someone?”
“Never.” And she meant it. “Not now. Not ever.”
Maybe.
Fingertips stroking the English velvet wall covering, she studied the glint of crimson he offered with a splay of hand and a wiggle of his fingers. Why had it not healed?
“It will be better than a kiss,” he alleged. “It is my offering to you, LaMourette. My blood for your pleasure. To slake your hunger. Have you never tasted the provincial blend?”
“I have never…”
Tasted one so different remained in her throat. Making the judgment didn’t feel right. Not when his blood scent dizzied her, creeping along her flesh with a lover’s touch.
“You are hungry. You were readying to go on the hunt when I surprised you out back. Forgive me. I fear you had no choice but to react the way you did. I deserved this.”
Another droplet of blood purled from his palm and dropped through the air. He should have healed by now.
“Think of it not as a means to satisfy a hunger you claim not to have, but instead as a look inside me. You can trust a man after you’ve drunk from him.”
“Trust is possible through sharing blood, but not usual.”
“I stand corrected.” He reached for her but his fingers bent at the threshold barrier. “And yet I do believe you, LaMourette.”
“Believe me?”
“What you show me. One should always believe when a person shows them who they are. You are independent. Strong. Yet you fear.”
“Never.”
“Yes, you do,” he said quietly. Tilting his head aside, he closed his eyes, resigned. “I will not beg. I merely thought to show this side of me to you.”
Viviane sucked in her breath. “You confuse me, Monsieur Hawkes.”
“I do not mean to. And please, call me Rhys.”
“Rhys.” Short, simple, the name did not stay on her tongue long enough to make her feel as though she could even know him. “You put me off because there is something about you…”
“Not right?”
“Yes.” He nodded, knowing, and she felt as if she’d slashed him again, yet with her words. “And at the same time, I wish to pull you close, because you appeal to some part of me.”
“The part that wants to invite me in? To feel me against your body?”
Viviane moved forward, putting herself halfway between the inside of the house and outside. Rhys slid a hand around her waist, but stopped just above her hip. “You’re not out far enough.”
“This is all I’m willing to offer right now,” she said. Touching his chin, she tipped it up to study the thick, dark stubble on his jaw and above his lip. Surprising, since the other night he had been clean-shaven. “Your blood smells of mortal fare. Why are you not like other vampires?”
Smoothing his hand up her corset, his fingers tickled her breasts where they rose above the fabric. Viviane backed away, and his hand stopped at the threshold barrier. Now she knew how far he could move and exactly what his boundaries were.
“We are all different,” he said, clasping the front of her skirt and pulling her to him. Their chests hugged. Their mouths lingered but a breath away. The gold rimming his eyes enticed her as if stolen treasure. “Stop seeing all vampires as the same and focus on what stands before you now.”
He gripped the top of her stays, and licked the mound of her breast, drawing his tongue slowly to the crease between the two of them. The pointed tip of his tongue embroidered shivers into her resolve.
“So wicked you are, LaMourette. Mmm, you do stir me to such lusty thoughts.”
Viviane pulled away, but his fingers hooked in the crossed ribbons of her corset, held her over the threshold.
Sacre bleu, the heat of him at her breast. She raked her fingers through his hair and held him there, controlling him, commanding he please her. She would not cry out in pleasure, she must not give him that, not yet.
The fabric against her thigh began to slink up at his direction. His fingers stroked the satin ribbon that tied her stocking.
Viviane thrust back a shoulder, lifting her breasts high—and Rhys slapped the barrier, his mouth open and hungry for the flesh she had inadvertently moved from his touch.
“Invite me in,” he insisted. A tug on the ribbon pulled her stocking loose and the delicate silk slid to the top of her knee.
Viviane drew up her foot, toeing his hard leather jackboot. Hooking her foot behind his knee, she tugged. The man jerked forward, bending and going to his knees outside, one hand sliding down her skirt, the other hand pressed flat to nothing, unable to enter her sanctity.
“Is this what you want, LaMourette?” He peered up from his position before her, his face level with her waist, his hand moving under her skirts.
Yes, she wanted him on his knees. She wanted him….
Sinking against the door frame, one foot outside and straddling Rhys’s knee, the other inside and sliding along the parquet floor, Viviane landed on her derriere.
Never had she desired a man more than now. She knew nothing about him, and all she wanted was everything from him.
“Come inside,” she whispered.
And the spell was broken. His hand, released from the barrier, landed on her shoulder and the twosome fell back across the floor.
“Now,” he said as he kissed her mouth, her neck and her breasts. “To determine if that invitation was merely to step inside your home, or a more intimate summons.”
She pushed his hand down her skirts. “Both. Please.”
Fingers stroked her derriere, exploring. Her skirts swished delightfully with movement as he teased down and between her thighs, invading her with such ease it was as if he were entitled.
His breaths came as quickly as hers. A rough kiss landed on the underside of her jaw. His fingers delved into her soft wetness, summoning a heady thrill that she’d not managed for weeks, for her liaisons had been few.
He moaned into her mouth. Viviane clutched the front of his shirt, and drew up her leg to encourage his ministrations. Not once did his mouth leave hers. Nor did his fingers cease their steady rhythm against her most sensitive spot. The man knew exactly how to stroke her, slowly yet steadily, and not too hard nor too lightly. He could not be real, for no man came to a woman her new lover and knew just how to touch her without practice and much exploration.
Rhys’s tongue stroked her nipple. Viviane stopped struggling with the surprise of talents. Eyes closed, she surrendered to the insistent longings that had haunted her for weeks. She required this exquisite clutch of passion. And before she knew it, Viviane cried out in ecstasy.
“Animal!” Portia cried, entering the room. She scrambled to the door and grabbed the broom, heading for Rhys. “Get off her!”
Rhys dodged to avoid the swing of Portia’s broom. He wasn’t so lucky the second time. The broom handle rapped him soundly across the shoulder.
“Beast! Get out, get out!”
With a smart crack, he broke the rough pine handle in two.
Rhys mounted the threshold, and delivered a devil-may-care wink to Viviane. He blew her a kiss. “I’ve your scent, chérie.” He dragged his fingers down his tongue. “And now I’ve the taste of you in my mouth. As promised, I shall take my leave. Keep me in your thoughts this night, LaMourette.”
He ducked out as Portia threw the broom head after him.
Shoulders weak with delight, Viviane drew up her knees and sat against the cupboard in a pouf of skirts. Her corset loosened, her breasts jiggled
as laughter bubbled up and she released it freely.
“You’re laughing?” Portia kicked the door shut. “I thought… But wasn’t he—? He was hurting you!”
Tucking her head into her hands she thought her laughter might become tears. So easily he had seduced her to his bidding. How long had she waited for such mastery? When she was staunch and unwilling to allow Constantine such ease with her, she had surrendered to a stranger in a breath.
“Speak to me,” Portia said.
“He…he is a most masterful kisser and he certainly does have the skill to please a woman.” Breathless, she fluttered her fingers before her flushed face.
“Oh. Oh?” Portia’s shocked expression widened her mouth.
“I am thankful you ended the encounter as you did.”
Portia lifted her shoulders and dropped them with relief. “Just so. The man is too free with you. But, do you favor him?”
Propping her elbows on her knees Viviane cupped her fingers beneath her chin. “I believe I do.”
“But I beat him off with a broom.”
“That was most sporting to watch. The man needs impediments if he thinks to simply waltz me into his good graces, yes?”
“Oh indeed.” Portia nodded.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CONSTANTINE WATCHED WITHOUT emotion as the werewolf was goaded to shift into his man-beast form. Bound at wrists, ankles and neck by iron shackles, the strongest beast could not escape. Yet the silver edging on those shackles is what kept this particular beast contained. And here in the damp, deep cellar of his estate, the torture would go unnoticed.
Not torture. A death sentence. Perhaps a little torture. He did enjoy the sound of flesh being rent open. It reminded that no man, or immortal, could stand against him.
Tipping the felt tricorn down over his brows, Constantine leaned against the stone wall, and propped a boot heel to it for support. His men took relish in prodding the werewolf with silver spears taken from the arsenal.
Tracking Henri Chevalier’s murderer had been easy enough. He’d waited an appropriate amount of time following the vampires’ murders, and then had gone straight to the brothels where William Montfalcon had chosen to hide.
The agonizing howls grew weak and raspy as the candle on the wall guttered. One of Constantine’s men approached with bloody spear in hand. He flipped the long sweat-and-blood-riddled hair from his face. “More, my lord?”
Constantine studied the beast’s broken body, hanging now by its neck. The fur had scraped off against the iron neck manacle and blood oozed across its furred chest. The veins bulged and in places where the fur was thin the blood appeared thin runnels of purple.
“Stop for now and let him heal,” Constantine decided.
He didn’t want to rush things. With Hawkes in town, one never knew if they would require an assassin or a scapegoat.
“I WANT TO KNOW WHERE HE IS staying, where he goes, whom he speaks with,” Constantine said, giving instructions to Richard, who had gathered two bravos to track Rhys Hawkes. He tossed the bloodied linen he used to wipe off his hands and neck into the ewer. “The man mustn’t take a step without my knowing about it.”
“It will be done.”
“And send for Grim. He will know what impediments are required to keep Hawkes away.”
“I’ll have the witch summoned.” With a bow, Richard picked up the ewer and left the room.
Constantine stretched out along the new chaise, which had been delivered only this afternoon. He could not abide the blood smell left behind from Sabine on the old furniture. It reminded of his impotence. Not impotent. It is the females who simply cannot carry my strong and potent seed.
Indeed.
Viviane LaMourette could carry his child to term; he knew it. And what a powerful child it could become. Conceived from two bloodborn vampires. Finally, he could begin to strengthen tribal blood.
Constantine rubbed his pulsing temple. While Hawkes was snooping about he could concentrate on nothing but getting rid of him.
It was preferable not to draw attention to himself with yet another scandalous murder of a Dark One. It would not do for tribe Nava to begin a war against the werewolves. Now, more than ever, discretion must be employed.
Ian Grim, the one witch Constantine trusted not to attack him with his own blood, was just the man to assist. He owed Constantine for a bold rescue from the burning faggots a decade earlier. Grim had been dabbling in devil worship, and had unloosed a malice demon. Villagers never take well to such antics.
Which meant the night was young, and he’d yet to decide whom to bed this evening. His most senior kin was Clarice. She’d been blooded nearly three years now. He suspected she wasn’t quite there yet, unable to conceive a child from their union, but until Viviane kneeled before him with desire in her eyes, Constantine could only half-heartedly pursue her. He was no man to beg.
She must come to him. And she would—or he would see she suffered for her obstinacy.
RHYS STALKED THE THREADBARE Aubusson carpeting in William Montfalcon’s great room. For as much as he wished the forest floor beneath him and his paws tracking the loamy earth, he could not risk a jaunt at the edge of town tonight. He hadn’t yet established a safe storage place for extra clothing. Though every time he sauntered through the Bois de Boulogne his feral heart ached for freedom.
The moon would be full soon. The day preceding and following the full moon, Rhys’s dark half growled for release. He had control by a specific means. Only the full moon commanded him completely when he shifted to his man-beast form.
When in werewolf form his vampire mind took over. And the vampire, kept back during the month, was always hungry for blood—and not a mere bite. No, the vampire wanted to bathe in blood, to punish Rhys for enchanting it decades ago and depriving it on a daily basis.
Rhys had only wished to keep his werewolf from harming mortals as the vampire mind pushed the beast to violence, and even murder. The danse macabre was a wicked punishment for taking life. He owed a faery a boon for that enchantment.
Had he not sought to control his dark cravings he would have killed hundreds by now, and surely, he too would be dead at the hands of enraged villagers, or from the torturous nightmares of the danse macabre.
He must get to his country home before the full moon where he kept an iron cage that would contain his werewolf until morning. Ridiculous he should go to such measures, but necessary.
As for the nights preceding and following the full moon? The werewolf wanted release, but could be controlled. If he were sexually sated—as other werewolves—his werewolf could be satisfied and his vampire mind did not emerge to seek blood.
But who to assist him with that need?
He did not want to ask Orlando for recommendations as to a fitting female. Though he did intend to visit the brothel this day to speak with the woman who claimed to be William’s lover.
Only one woman captured his interest. The scent of Viviane’s desire, strong and insistent, had melted into him. Clinging to the door frame, she’d wanted his kiss more than she had been willing to admit to herself. And she’d invited him in to more than just her home. Wicked vixen.
Never before had he looked upon a female vampire with interest or desire. Rhys simply hadn’t thought it possible. They were too weak and subservient.
How wrong he had been to make assumptions.
The vampiress was divine. Personally strong, a challenge to any man. But her independence was not impudent. She breathed her freedom. It became her quite nicely.
Brewed by a heady sexual allure, she had merely to be in range of his senses to drive him mad with lust. With desire. With love.
Love?
Rhys had loved once. Emeline had been werewolf. She had loved him for his wolf and his vampire. But he’d broken her heart by refusing to get her with child. It was that damned bargain he’d made with the faery. He would not do that to any woman he loved.
Yet Constantine had seen to ending the flicker of h
ope for a lifelong relationship. Or rather, he had allowed the worst to happen—Emeline’s death.
Rhys clenched his fists. You are not a murderer.
He wanted to return to Viviane. To look into her azure eyes and read her truths. To continue to believe. Was she so secure? Why did not fear of lacking a patron push her into Constantine’s arms? Could Rhys forge an opening into her heart?
He did want her heart. Not some facsimile of a stolen liaison that resulted in sex and stolen trysts. He wanted the woman. All of her.
But must he tell her his truths?
You must if you want her to believe you.
“If she can accept me for what I am, if she can believe me, then I will know she is the one.”
“Deep thoughts?”
He startled to find Orlando standing directly before him, open book in hand. In but shirtsleeves and breeches, the pup looked weary, as if he’d been up all night.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been reading?”
“A bit here and there. This one has pictures. It is the Kama…”
“Kama Sutra? Hell, boy, maybe I should take care of that one. Unless you are studying? I thought you’d taken up debauchery?”
“It’s more difficult than I imagined. Annabelle expects me to, well…you know.”
“Please her? Do you not pay her to please you?”
“She doesn’t ask me for money now.”
Rhys turned his head so Orlando would not see his frown. Nothing good could come of a relationship with a woman who sold her body for sexual favors. And when she stopped charging? Didn’t mean she wasn’t making her way with others.
“Are we off, then?” he asked, now more eager to meet the woman who would enchant Orlando with her tattered charms.
“Annabelle expects us in an hour.”
“WILLIAM SAID HE’D RETURN with money. He said he loved me.” The strawberry-cheeked Annabelle, with tiny blue eyes and thick red lips, clasped the hem of Orlando’s frockcoat. A love bite, likely from Orlando—or so Rhys guessed—stained her neck violet just below her ear. “He was like an animal, but gentle.” She beamed at Orlando.
