Midnight Conquest (Book 1) (Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles)

by Arial Burnz

  Davina cleared her throat. “Both my father and brother died at the Battle of Flodden Field.”

  “I suppose that senseless war left a lot of orphans and widows in its wake. I remember Kehr,” Broderick whispered, staring into the past.

  “You what?” How could he know her brother?

  “From the first night you came into my tent. You and your brother used to steal honey from the pantry.”

  Soft laughter fluttered over Davina’s lips. “Aye. We kept our little secret for a while. I should have taken your advice and not stolen so much at once. You—” Davina stopped, her mouth hanging open for a moment. “You remember.”

  The corner of Broderick’s mouth turned up. “Aye. I remember.”

  Davina’s heart slammed against her chest. He remembered her! He knew her! Then her face grew flush. “Why the charade? Why did you pretend as if you didn’t know me?”

  He remained seated, leaning back in his chair, at ease. “I did not.”

  “You most certainly—!”

  “Nay, milady. I just never made you aware of my recollection.”

  “You conniving—!”

  “I am no such thing.” Broderick raised his eyebrows and studied her with amusement in his eyes. “Why, may I ask, does this vex you so, milady?” Broderick rose from his chair and swaggered toward her.

  Standing and backing away from him, she stammered, “I am not…you…I…” Davina cringed over her senseless response. Damn her and her ridiculous desire for this man!

  “I would say you have quite a bit of your heart invested in this. Why is it so important I remember you?”

  Davina stopped and stood her ground. “Nothing could be further from the truth, sir. Methinks you displayed devious behavior.”

  “Devious?”

  “Aye, devious! You had the upper hand and took advantage of me!”

  Broderick’s grin grew and he continued to advance, his voice as creamy as ever. “I wager you have been thinking about me for a very long time that I should have such an advantage over you, as you say.”

  “You conceited—!”

  “Aye, you have.”

  Davina gasped as she found herself in a corner. Before she could dodge his path, he trapped her, pressing his body against hers. “Admit it, Davina,” he breathed hot against her cheek. “Tell me you never stopped thinking about me.”

  “You are mad!” Her struggling profited nothing against him.

  His lips stroked her skin, his nose pushed back her hair, revealing her ear to his mouth. “Say it,” his voice caressed.

  “Nay.” She panted as his tongue dove inside her ear, then around it, lapping at her lobe and tapping a primitive part of her being. He nibbled his way across her jaw to her lips, where his mouth hovered for a moment, his heavy breath mingling with hers. Her own heated desire reflected in his eyes and burned her soul. Closing her eyes, she fought him no more. Broderick moaned and slanted his mouth across hers.

  Lost. And for the moment, Davina wanted to be that way. Lost in the long-awaited taste of Broderick’s kisses. Lost in the years she ached to have him hold her as he did now. Lost in the fantasy that his hunger proved he thought of her over the years as much as she did him. In the dream that he ached for her, trembled in her arms, swooned in her kiss just as she did his.

  Chapter Seven

  Broderick threaded his fingers into the thickness of Davina’s tawny tresses and he pulled her harder against him, groaning into her mouth. His lips devoured her, touching her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, claiming her lips once more and capturing the taste of her at last. Davina’s yearning merged with his growing hunger to absorb her, body and soul. His mouth traveled to her throat, his tongue dancing a hot, wet trail across her skin. They seemed to cling to each other in a desperate attempt to become one in their union, leaving Broderick breathless.

  Stopping for the moment, he broke from their kiss and struggled to maintain some control over his senses. The rose oil from her heated skin mixed with the scent of her blood, and his mind swirled. Opening his eyes, he searched to stave off the spell engulfing him, fighting off the dizzying effect.

  Broderick’s breathing, ragged and trembling, screamed a warning. He closed his eyes and fell into another ardent kiss, but more demanding, his body tense, a new and powerful yearning coursing through him. Davina’s excitement, mixed with her fear, titillated his senses, making it near impossible to pull away. Her fear ignited the Hunger hiding behind his passion, and the familiar and deadly pain shot across his gums, his mouth watering, his tongue aching to sample the sweetness her blood promised. A low, guttural growl rumbled from Broderick’s chest as he wrestled to keep himself from giving in, and with a sudden force, he shoved away from her.

  “Broderick?” Davina’s trembling voice beckoned to his instincts, a temptation too great for the immortal side of him to resist.

  “I apologize for my display, Mistress Davina,” he rasped, his words wooden and rough in texture. Broderick kept his back to her. Seeing her so vulnerable would be his undoing…and hers. He straightened his clothing to try and gain composure over his deadly instincts. “I enjoyed our games and hope to spend more time with you in the future. If you will excuse me.” Without a backward glance, he left her alone in the parlor and rushed to the nearest exit through the kitchen. The cold night air, a welcome reprieve. No one in sight, to his relief, Broderick proceeded quickly through the courtyard and headed toward the gate. Just as he rounded the corner of the castle, the light from the parlor’s oriel window caught his eye…as did the silhouette of Davina. He made an abrupt stop, seized by the vision of her staring at him. Even in the darkness, in her shaded features, he could see her lips swollen from his kisses and the sadness in her eyes. Better the sorrow in her eyes, than her blood on my hands.

  A trick of the torches, she told herself, as his silver glowing eyes stared at her through the darkness, and yet a strangely familiar dread came over her and settled into the pit of her stomach. Davina shuddered and her heart pounded. Broderick turned on his heel and stomped out of the courtyard through the gate.

  “You fancy him?” Lilias asked.

  Davina turned to her mother, standing beside her. “Nonsense. He’s a beast.” Davina realized her hands clutched the sill of the oriel window. To avoid her mother’s admonishment, Davina left and distracted herself by visiting the nursery to check on her daughter. Cailin lay sleeping like an angel nestled in the clouds. With a kiss to her plump cheek, Davina slipped out and went to her adjoining chamber.

  Here, she was alone. Rosselyn had not yet come back, still with Nicabar somewhere, she supposed. With methodical routine, Davina readied for bed and slid beneath the large comforter. She lay watching the flickering firelight. Her emotions danced about like the flames, and she struggled to rein them in.

  “Broderick MacDougal.” She tasted his name, at last putting a full identity to the man who had given her strength and haunted her. Broderick elicited such confusing weights upon her heart. She ached for him to continue his advances because he drew out of her the overwhelming desire to surrender; and yet those very same feelings scared her to death.

  Davina tossed in her bed, as if trying to make the uncomfortable feelings go away by making her body comfortable. It seemed obvious Broderick knew something about grief she did not. He seemed to have succeeded where she failed. Would time, eventually, cure the grief? Would he be open enough to share his experiences with her? And where would such confessions lead?

  She shifted with unease. Davina guessed Broderick’s interest in her held only primitive motivations, and she knew how those encounters ended. Were all encounters so shallow? Rosselyn often spoke of the pleasures of joining. What did Rosselyn find that Davina had not? Rosselyn talked often of tenderness and caresses. Her own mother uncharacteristically told Davina on her wedding night that lovemaking could be the most wonderful experience when one knew deep love. Yet Davina’s own experience with Ian was brutal, unfeeling and painful, and especially
humiliating. Her cousins even spoke of the act with disgust or as their duty. None of them mentioned love, passion or thrills.

  The only men who seemed capable of such caresses and thrills were the midnight lovers. These were not the things a husband seemed capable of. So, could Broderick be a midnight lover? Davina’s body tingled. He did seem capable of caresses and thrills. But, the memory of the triumphant smirk on his mouth reminded her the experience would be short-lived. She didn’t think she could live with the regret of being used when the encounter ended. Broderick sought to claim her as a midnight conquest—nothing else. As foolish as her fantasy seemed, she wanted more. Yet, she didn’t think she could be mistress material. She shook her head and buried deep within her covers. Nay, she couldn’t be like Rosselyn. She had a daughter to think of.

  Rosselyn pulled her cloak tighter against the chilling darkness as she strolled beside Nicabar through the forest. In the distance, the flickering light of the campfires and torches made the caravans and people appear as if they hovered in blackness. She smiled as Nicabar’s fingers slipped between her own in a possessive grasp, her heart dancing in her breast. Something about Nicabar, something alluring and so masculine, excited her senses. His bonnie eyes and long lashes drew her in, held her captive anytime he gazed at her. The rest of the world faded away. He stopped and faced her, the distant firelight illuminating his face with a soft, orange glow. She didn’t need to see his features with any clarity. His face already etched a clear vision in her mind—each thick lash, twinkling eye, roguish twist of his full mouth—all of it memorized.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” he whispered, as if careful not to disturb the silence of the forest. “I am flattered you dressed so deliciously for me.”

  To Rosselyn’s surprise, her face flushed with warmth. A rare activity for her, blushing normally came during limited times of embarrassment, but never when a man complimented her. She turned away from Nicabar. “And what makes you think I dressed for you this evening?” she said in a teasing tone.

  Nicabar snickered and turned her around. His arms slipped under her cloak and around her waist to her back, pulling her against him. Rosselyn stared into his striking eyes and he appeared as if he would kiss her. She hoped he would. His finger caressed her cheek. Did he pause to give her a chance to push away? Well, he wasted his time. Being bold, oftentimes she would initiate the next move, but she melted into the helplessness of Nicabar’s embrace. Then his mouth covered hers in a deep and searching kiss. She clung to him, her fingers sliding through his silky black hair, the hardness of his body against the full length of her. His teeth nibbled at her bottom lip, his delicious hands roaming over her body. Nicabar stopped and pushed her back a short distance. “I do not trust myself with you this evening,” he said with mischief, his voice dripping with his lovely Spanish accent. “I will take you home.”

  Rosselyn sighed inwardly. In spite of her longing, though, she nodded. He hadn’t disappointed her. Every man she had relations with pursued her with unrestrained desires. They went for what they wanted and didn’t think twice about her feelings. Nicabar’s self-control made her feel cherished, and she smiled as they loitered back toward the castle.

  Croft hugged the wool blanket closer, trying to stave off the visions running rampant through his head while cradling his broken fingers against his chest. “Go away,” he whispered, sweat dripping down his brow and into his eyes. The sting of sweat seemed a small comfort against the blaze of agony tormenting his mind. He shuddered and closed his eyes tight against the images, but that only seemed to make them clearer. Opening his eyes wide, his body begged for sleep, which he’d not seen in days…not since that Devil Gypsy attacked him…not since that Devil Gypsy fed from him with those vicious fangs.

  The feeding had been blissful for the time they were locked in the exchange. He gave his blood and the Devil Gypsy gave him nightmares. “I promise,” he prayed to God for the hundredth time. “I promise I will never touch another child. Just stop the agony, Lord. Stop the nightmares!”

  “Be afraid, poor lad. They will never stop.”

  Croft choked back a scream as the Devil Gypsy towered over him. “Nay! You stay away from me!”

  The Devil Gypsy grabbed Croft by the throat to silence him, but now that he stood nose-to-nose with him, it wasn’t the Devil Gypsy, though they shared a resemblance. “I’m not the one who caused you this torment. I’m the answer to your prayers.”

  “Who are you?” Croft managed to rasp through the chokehold.

  A slow smile spread across his lips, exposing his fangs, with the same silver glow in his eyes. “I am the Angel of Death.” Turning Croft’s head to the side, the Angel of Death bit into his neck, and the same euphoric sensation flowed through his body as when the Devil Gypsy fed from him. However, no demonic images invaded his mind, no scenes of hell or torment. His mind disappeared into the blissful blackness. He would finally find rest.

  Broderick rose from the creaking bed, careful not to disturb the barmaid sleeping beside him. He stared down at her motionless form, a lazy smile on her lips. She was the one he saw their first night in Stewart Glen, with the generous cleavage and dazzling smile. He came to the tavern after a hasty feeding in the forest. With the Hunger raging inside him after being with Davina, he attacked a roe deer unfortunate enough to cross his path. At least with his blood lust somewhat dampened, he could control the Hunger without taking a human life, but he still needed human blood.

  Soon after he arrived at the tavern, he watched the barmaid’s seductive glances and obvious invitations while he gulped at the bitter ale. Not wanting to taste the salted, sweaty, stinking skin of another thief or murderer, or deal with their horrid mental images, he decided to take her offer and follow her to the room upstairs. He had no need to bed the wench—it was her blood he was after. Instead, he swept through her mind to lull her to sleep, and with a swift bite to her throat, fed from her and wiped the encounter from her memories. Though her mental images appeared less horrific, he understood what led her to live a life where she sold her body for profit. He used his blood to wipe the wounds from her skin, wishing his immortal gifts gave him the ability to change the past for people.

  He sat on the windowsill, closed his eyes, and took in the last few hours of the night. His mind flooded with images of Davina’s silken lips. On his own skin, he still smelled the musky rose oil she wore, and the memory of her throat lingered upon his mouth. He sighed in defeat. His face burned with regret as he remembered how the Hunger surfaced when he touched her throat. Not having fed before visiting was a foolish thing to do.

  Broderick stared into the blackened sky, at the sleeping village, searching for some solace in the peace around him. But he found none. He feared losing control. A frigid breeze flurried past him and the wench stirred on the straw mattress. Broderick placed a small handful of silver half groats on the table beside the fireplace and left her moaning in her sleep.

  Broderick stepped out onto the street, and a familiar tingling rustled the hairs on the back of his neck. Angus! He probed his senses outward, picked up the direction and dashed between the buildings, picking his way through the darkness. The trail led to an open door at the far edge of the village, still swinging on its hinges. In the blackness of the room, a man sat crumpled in the corner, his breathing shallow, his heartbeat weak. Broderick picked him up and the scent of blood forced his fangs to extend in anticipation. This was the man Croft he fed from a few nights before, his broken fingers cradled against his chest, his neck torn open and still pulsing a rivulet of blood.

  “You said you would kill me,” he whispered.

  The man wouldn’t survive, so Broderick took the opportunity to feed upon him and gain what information he could. In the dying man’s memories and blood, Broderick saw Angus Campbell. He also saw the torment this man lived with since Broderick fed from him and poured horrific images into his mind. Aye, the man changed his ways. He had no desire to prey upon children, but he also didn’t hav
e the means to carry out his new-found transformation. The images Broderick put into his mind caused near madness for this poor creature. Dropping the man to the floor, Broderick struggled to keep the guilt from overcoming him. His intentions were to reform the man, not drive him insane. How many more had he driven to such madness?

  But they deserved it! Broderick swallowed the bile rising in his throat. The death rattle coming from Croft brought him back to the moment, and Broderick forced himself to keep his wits about him. He healed Croft’s wounds, not leaving any traces of the attack to avoid suspicions. The poor, mad soul would be found with no explanation for his death.

  Broderick fought the grief as he rushed through the door and extended his senses into the night. Nothing. No Vamsyrian presence that he could detect. Not willing to give up just yet, he headed out of town in the direction he last sensed Angus. Why Angus pulled back and taunted from such a distance, Broderick could only guess. Perhaps he wanted to find out what Broderick’s weaknesses and strengths were. Perhaps Angus just toyed with him.

  Broderick roamed the area for as long as he dared, battling his conscience and the frustration at failing to find Angus. When the horizon hinted with the coming sun, he headed for his own lair. Dashing through the forest, he approached his cave and stopped several feet before the entrance. He sighed. Veronique. Her sweet, young scent wafted on the bitter air. Shaking his head and steeling for the encounter, he stomped into the cave and found her standing in the darkness—topless. He grumbled. “‘Tis much too cold for you to be wandering about without covering.” Continuing deep into his cave, he prepared for rest. “And you’re ignoring my wishes again. Do not come here, Veronique.” He pointed a finger at her. “Ever.”

  She stepped in front of him in the darkness, very visible with his immortal vision. Her bare breasts, round and full, youthful and proud, jutted toward him. Her blouse and shawl hung off her shoulders and at her elbows, her hands rested on her hips, still dressed in her skirt. Broderick scanned her figure and shook his head.