by Jackie Ivie
“Good morning. You are the Lady Rachel Berne?”
“Uh...”
“Say yes!” Munson hissed it.
Rachel chuckled a bit. Why not?
“Yes,” she answered. And then wondered if she should get up and curtsey or something.
“I have a note for you. My lady.”
He lowered his tray so she could lift the envelope resting there. Wow. It was made from very heavy paper. Embossed. Sealed. And it had been resting on a bed of what looked like rose petals.
Rachel broke the seal, lifted the flap, pulled out a page, and unfolded it to reveal the most incredible script. Her eyes widened. She’d seen this kind of calligraphy in books, but she’d never really envisioned receiving anything written in it. Her hand trembled.
“Well? What does it say?” Eleanor asked.
“I’m being invited to the castle.”
“Oh, sweet! Holy sh—! I mean...crap. This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Is this classy, or what?”
“The invitation is extended to my friend, as well. You.”
“Well. Hell. What are we waiting for?” Eleanor stood up, wobbled, and immediately slapped both hands on the tabletop to keep from falling.
“You want to wait a bit?” Rachel asked.
“Oh, hell no. Give me your arm. I’ll be fine. Better than fine. I only wish I’d charged my phone so I could film some of this. Berne...we’re going to a castle!”
The butler guy didn’t change expression at Munson’s words. That was impressive. Rachel tucked the bundle of her headdress and veil under one arm and walked around the table to offer the other one to Munson.
They made a weird procession through the crowd and out onto the grounds. The castle seemed to be a long way away. Or something. It also got quieter, a lot colder, and a lot dimmer, the further they walked from the faire. Not that it was overly dark. There was a full moon in the sky, sending silver tones onto everything. It glinted off a layer of frosted mist attempting to obscure the cobblestone path they walked, sent illumination onto the three-story-high walls they walked beside. It framed the high, arched gateway they walked beneath.
The first view of the castle was electrifying. Moonlight enveloped it in silvery hues. Everything that had felt dull and lifeless in Rachel went instantly alert and aware. Or something. Castle Crecy was jaw dropping. Breathtaking. Stunning. An enormous edifice of impenetrable stone. Lights gleamed through some of the slits in the second story, as well as what looked like a round tower at one end. Rachel felt a chill cross her exposed chest and neck. It crept along her spine, worrying her. It was akin to the sixth sense that kept her out of all kinds of trouble.
Stifling it wasn’t easy.
A wooden double-door marked the entrance, set in a recessed arch. It was at the top of a wide staircase of ten stone steps. Rachel tightened her grip on the hennin bundle in order to lift her skirts. Then she started climbing, pausing for Eleanor at each step. The butler waited for them at the doorway, holding one side open. They were probably on the second floor. Maybe. Rachel wasn’t a castle junkie, nor was she a history buff, but this looked pretty damned impressive. And authentic.
The landing was even more impressive. Rachel stopped just inside the door, trying to take it all in, while Eleanor swayed at her side. She’d never seen such space, except maybe in a cathedral. The foyer area looked really high. There were window slits all about the upper roof edge, sending moonlight onto what looked like a series of banners hanging in rows, infusing the area with color.
“I am so hanging with you, Berne. From now on. You...and me. You need a companion on your next vacation...you call me. You hear?”
“What?” Rachel looked down at Munson.
“I mean...look at this. Just look.” Eleanor’s voice carried the awe Rachel was feeling. “We’re in a real castle! And holy shit. Have you ever seen anything like this? I mean...outside of history books?”
“If you ladies would follow me, please?”
The butler had traversed the area, and stood patiently waiting for them at the opposite end. The door he held open led to a lighted space. It sent an off-kilter, rectangular chunk of light onto the polished stone floor. That served to make the shadows of the foyer suddenly look dark and foreboding.
Ominous.
Almost...threatening.
Another chill ran up Rachel’s spine. She stood straighter and ignored it. And then she offered her arm to her companion again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Where was she?
Wystan contemplated a sword display arranged on the wall just to the right of a fireplace. Not for any particular reason. It was just another attempt to ignore an anxious, on-edge feeling that had started up in the crypt and increased while he’d dressed. It was a new sensation. Odd. He’d spent countless hours in a state of limbo, watching the days, and then the years, and then the centuries, pass. Time lost meaning ever since he’d taken a lance in his side and accepted vampirism over death. Time hadn’t any power. Or substance. Or weight. Yet, at the moment, he swore he could feel every second that passed as if there was a timing gear in him somewhere, and it just kept getting cranked tighter and tighter...
She wouldn’t turn down his invitation, would she? Maybe he should have taken it to her personally. Maybe he should—
Stop, Wystan. It’s been three minutes.
Maybe the mantel clock was broken. Why else would three minutes feel so long?
Wystan pulled in a deep breath. He didn’t need it. He was just testing. And it worked. He really could breathe. It was incredible. Still. The velvet doublet he’d fastened didn’t have much room for the move, however. It restricted his chest. It had a row of black satin ribbons securing both sides. Wystan grinned as one bow after the other pulled tight. Because he could feel that, too!
He probably should have worn material that had some give to it. He had plenty of options in his closets. But he’d selected this seventeenth century outfit, because it matched what she’d been wearing.
Sort of.
Actually, she’d been wearing attire that was a mish-mash from several eras. It hadn’t mattered. She’d looked perfect. Better than perfect. That dark fabric hadn’t disguised a feminine form, while the white linen ruffle of her bodice graced a womanliness he’d rarely beheld. She’d been the perfect height, her waist a hand-spanning size, while her bosom...
Oh...my!
Wystan stared down in absolute amazement as his loins stirred, straining against the tight knee breeches he’d donned. By all the saints! That was true, too! Such a thing was astounding. Unbelievable. And uncontrollable at present. Maybe if he’d had more time to adjust, he could keep this amount of lust tamped, or at least hidden. Somehow. He’d been right about wool, too. It itched. Maybe he should have donned under-drawers.
He glanced at the clock again.
Another minute gone.
Oh. This was bad form. Wystan put a hand to his crotch area and pulled, trying to rearrange and gain some room. Then he pulled the waist of his coat down a bit, stretching seams. Well. Apparently, they hadn’t tailored masculine attire in the 1600s to disguise a man if he enlarged for any reason. Bother. The last thing he wanted was to look like a stag in rutting season when she arrived. He’d be better off examining the swords. And if that didn’t work, he supposed he could pull down a shield from another display and hide behind it.
Look over the swords.
Yes. That was it. Examine the swords. And then he was facing another oddity. Checking weaponry used to be an engrossing, time-consuming activity. There was always something that needed to be seen to. Some flaw to be corrected. Oxidation to remove. Corrosion to eradicate. But at the moment, looking over swords was worse than troublesome. It was downright suggestive. They brought to mind what more than one literary source claimed a sword represented to society in general. They were representative of a phallus.
An erect phallus.
Merde! This wasn’t working.
Wystan narrowe
d his eyes and leaned closer to the sword display. These blades came mostly from the fourteenth century. They had thick, non-ornamented, grip-friendly hilts. They’d seen a lot of use...probably in some nameless battle. Back when they still used swords. He used to join in if the day was dark enough, and he was bored.
Oh. Look there.
Although expertly polished and maintained, more than one blade showed signs of deterioration. They might have been fashioned of inferior iron. He should probably move those blades to the armory, and work on them.
The door opened behind him.
Wystan spun.
“Sir Wystan? May I present the Lady Rachel Berne? And her companion.”
Wystan probably shouldn’t have been touching anything. One blade fell. He caught it. He snagged the two that followed, but that just seemed a signal for the entire display to collapse like water breaking through a dam. One after another they fell, in a litany of clanking. Before he knew it, there was a mound of weaponry at his feet and a lot of noise announcing that fact. And just when had he gotten so clumsy?
Somebody giggled. It sure as hell wasn’t him. He was discovering that embarrassment was a pretty good panacea for lust. Actually, it was an excellent one. Wystan considered the stack of blades at his feet for several seconds, before he stepped right over them.
“Um...hello?”
Wystan glanced up as his mate spoke. The next moment he was right in front of her, and if he hadn’t been holding three swords, he’d have probably gone to his knee again. As it was, he just stood there, swallowing hard, as if studying the braids coiled atop her head. He ignored the sword blades that dangled from his hands as well as the woman clinging to his mate’s arm.
Damn everything. He couldn’t control movement better than this?
“You have a very...um...yeah. Your castle. It’s...wow.”
Wystan moved his gaze down to hers. How had he failed to notice she had such unique eyes? They were so light blue, they looked like liquid silver, and surrounded by thick lashes of dark brown that matched her hair. He’d never seen such incredible eyes. Clear. Fathomless. Containing all the mysteries of the universe. He could lose himself in her gaze. And almost did. She blinked, and then blushed, putting a pink tinge to her cheeks that matched her lips. He’d been mistaken. She was worse than beautiful. She was amazingly beautiful.
“Sir...Crecy?”
The woman at his mate’s side spoke, snagging his attention. She was gripping his mate’s arm like she belonged there. Wystan’s eyes narrowed. He barely caught and stopped the tingle of his canines. He focused on stanching that, rather than ripping the Munson woman’s hands away from his mate. He didn’t know anything of this lesbian thing. He knew less of women. Akron had said this Eleanor person was wed. Right now, said husband was close to becoming a widower.
“Pleased...to meet you.”
The woman released his mate and curtsied awkwardly. She didn’t look very steady on her feet. Her words had been slurred, as well. Is that why she held onto his mate’s arm? She was inebriated? The woman lifted her hand toward him. Wystan automatically took it and brought it toward his lips. He didn’t kiss it. His kisses belonged to just one woman. He dropped her hand. The woman giggled again. And then she hiccupped, although she hid it behind her hand.
“Do you have some...place where I could...sit down?”
Wystan glanced at his mate. Her eyebrows rose up and down several times as if conveying him a message. He didn’t understand. She smiled next.
“Um...Eleanor did a bit too much celebrating. She needs to rest. And maybe sip on a glass of water, as well?”
“Ah. A place to rest. Most assuredly, ladies.”
Both women jumped at his words. Wystan had a tremendous voice. Deep. Soul-stirring. Most vampires did. And worse. His couldn’t quite conceal what had to be joy as he realized the obvious. His mate wasn’t exhibiting lesbian behavior. The women were simply friends, and she was giving an assist.
He’d selected this room for its beauty. It was small in comparison to the rest of the castle. It had an aura of coziness and tranquility. It also led directly to a series of chambers he called the Georgian Wing. He’d had it designed during the American Revolutionary War period, when he’d been portraying an invalided de Crecy. That particular suite of rooms contained not one, but two bedchambers, both with giant canopied beds – a fact he’d tried to pretend didn’t matter.
The one thing he hadn’t taken into consideration was the salon’s acoustical properties. Wystan cleared his throat and attempted a higher, softer range of voice. It sounded ridiculous even to his ears.
“Would a...sofa be acceptable?”
Wystan turned sideways to reveal the room. He’d ordered a fire set. It had finally caught, putting welcome warmth into the space. Directly in its glow was a seating arrangement of cream-shaded, brocade-covered pieces: a sofa, two loveseats, three chairs. There were several French-styled occasional tables as well. Barring the mound of weaponry he’d created, the space still looked inviting and personable.
“Perfect.” His mate replied. “And...perhaps she could get a comforter?”
Comforter. What the devil was that?
“A blanket?”
She answered his unspoken question.
“Oh. Yes. I’ll see one fetched.”
He needed to concentrate on his movements! He was at the door and signaling a servant before the ladies even took a step toward the furniture. He was in luck that his mate wasn’t looking.
Calm down, Wystan.
He needed to use slow, studied movements. Employ soft tones when speaking. Keep any lustful thoughts at bay. Act like a normal man. Mortal. His servant handed him a folded woven blanket. Wystan bent his arms to receive it. Then he turned, took a step, and was back with the ladies with the very next one. The women hadn’t even been seated yet. He’d never failed quite so ignobly before.
Actually...he’d never failed at all.
Wystan’s back straightened as he realized it. This mating thing was beyond control and comprehension. He watched as the Munson woman collapsed onto the sofa. Then she reclined, and before his mate even turned to take the blanket from him, the woman was snoring.
Snoring?
Wystan hadn’t been around women. This was the first time he’d heard one snore. His mate spent a bit of time arranging the blanket about her companion, giving him way too much view of her slender waist. Nice-sized backside. He could just imagine what her breasts might look like as that bodice took the brunt of the weight and volume with her movements.
Damn these wool breeches.
His mate turned back to him. She’d pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Deep rose shaded the tops of her cheeks. Wystan rocked in place, making the sword blades clank against each other. He was still holding three swords? And he hadn’t even noticed?
“Um. Thank you. For the blanket...and the help tonight...and...”
She tipped her gaze to his. A roar of noise whooshed through his ears, obliterating her words. He frowned to make them more audible, and her voice stopped. She looked away from him, giving him a perfect view of her lashes dusting her cheeks. While below that, her bountiful bosom moved with each breath. Framed by ruffles. Lifted. Displayed.
Tempting...
She flashed a glance to him and then away again. Toward the fire. A surge of something unbelievably vast hit him, knocking him a fell step backward. He’d never dealt with such a thing. Everywhere he looked and everything he tried, and every place he sent his mind to seemed to contain the same things: Pure, unadulterated need. Massive want. Uncontrollable craving.
Oh, no.
His canines were more than tingling. They were elongating, pressing against his inner lip. Nothing he tried stopped it. He wanted her now. Right now. He very nearly reached out and seized her. He wanted her locked in his arms, her curves pressed to him. Her mouth against his. So he could taste. Savor. Devour. He needed his arms and legs entwined with hers. Sans clothing. Naked flesh touch
ing...
He was beset with images. His body slamming into hers. Her loins accepting every thrust. Experiencing her cavern. Claiming. Owning.
His breathing grew strident and harsh, while the wool knee breeches took the brunt of this arousal. Someone should have warned him about the realities of finding one’s mate. The frightening scope of physical reaction it engendered. Wystan locked every muscle at his command for control. He was shaking. The only reason the swords didn’t rattle against each other was because he held the hilts so tightly they twisted in his hands. And then one blade came loose from its housing and fell, spearing the floor between them.
“Wystan?”
Her breath touched him like a physical force. He steeled himself to endure the next. And then the next. And then he had to answer.
“Yes?”
Oh. Hell. He wasn’t disguising anything. Saying that one word hurt his throat. It was bestial deep. Sinful black. Harsh. Guttural.
“Thank you...for inviting me. Um...into your home.”
He groaned. The sound resounded through the room. It barely covered over the sound of the last two swords as they fell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The room reverberated with the deep bass tones of his voice. They lingered for long moments before dying out. Rachel trembled in place and tried to absorb it. And him. She’d never come up against such a male specimen. Or such a situation. She doubted any woman had.
Wow.
Make that double wow. And then add a smack for good measure.
Sir Wystan de Crecy was a lot of man. He’d changed clothes. It didn’t help. He might as well be standing half-naked before her like before, his chest and belly heaving visually with every breath. He was doing unbelievable things to her hormones. Every cell seemed to be dancing in anticipation. Or something. And this linen bodice material was way too stimulating against her nipples! Rachel had handled all kinds of men. All kinds of sexual situations. This was the first time she’d felt anything approaching the electrical current that seemed to emanate from Wystan and strike right at the deepest part of her.
