Tainted Love

by Nancy Morse

  If that was Marie’s way of consoling her for losing Stede’s love, Pru was hardly comforted by it. She gave the girl an unconvinced smile and left. In time, she would no longer be prey to dreams of Stede Bonham. The dream would grow thinner and disappear altogether. Until then, her eyes were wide open, and love was nowhere in sight, and all the prayers in the world would not change that.

  Chapter 28

  The smell of coal burning in the grates mingled with the odor of swamp decay. The live oaks surrounding the cottage were still full and green, but the ragged fronds of the banana tree were frost-burned, the lush ferns leading to the porch steps struggled under a winter chill, and the honeysuckle shuddered against the weathered timbers. Even the music that streamed from the cottage infiltrated the swamp with icy undertones.

  She found him seated behind his violoncello. His eyes were closed, his dark head bent. The pads of his fingers pressed the strings as he drew the bow across them with his other perfectly formed hand. She told herself it was the music that caused her to linger silently in the doorway, watching him. But in truth it was the sight of him. The misty light from the window lovingly caressed his face, sharpening the strong line of his jaw, etching finely-shaped cheekbones, and lathering his thick, glossy hair. His striking combination of beauty and roughness trapped her. There was an insolence in that face, something cunning and dangerous and utterly beautiful.

  “It’s a new piece. Do you like it?” He spoke without lifting his head, the music flowing from his fingertips.

  At her unrelenting silence the music stopped. He looked up and frowned. Nodding to the basket swinging from her arm, he asked, “Going shopping?”

  “I had thought to do some shopping, yes.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  She walked into the room, the flounce of her dress brushing the hardwood planks of the floor. Unclasping her cloak, she laid it aside. “We have to talk.”

  He got up from behind his instrument. “I’m tired of talking to you,” he said sullenly. “Nothing I say makes any difference.” He forced his gaze away from the press of her breasts against the high-waisted bodice of her dress. Placing the instrument in its velvet lined case, he went to the fire and poked a stick in the coals until its tip was glowing, then carried it to a rosewood table where a candle sat askew in a brass holder.

  “Why can’t they make these things so that they don’t have to be trimmed countless times in one evening?” he griped as he nipped the wick on the tallow candle and it sputtered to life. “And the ones made of animal fat smell abominably. Maybe one day I’ll be able to sit comfortably in a lit room at night without gagging and choking.” A wretched weakness came over him whenever she was near, and despite the ire behind his complaint, the flickering candle revealed the pain in his eyes.

  Her heart, so accustomed to hardening against him, softened. She walked silently toward him. Taking his hands in hers, she held them together and stared into his eyes for a hint of common emotion. “We’re not so very different, you and I,” she said. “We both love strongly. Unfortunately, we love the wrong people.” She slid one hand upwards to clasp the back of his neck, and bringing his face to hers, she kissed him.

  He was the first to break away. “You mean the ones we love don’t love us,” he said, his voice savage and low.

  “That’s one way to put it.”

  “Is there any other way?”

  She shivered, partly from the coals that were growing cold, but mostly from the ice encrusting his words, and released him, suggesting, “Hadn’t you better throw more coal in the grate?”

  He had never run from anything before—not from the wolves he hunted in his homeland all those centuries ago when he’d been mortal and the future looked bright, and not from the hunters who lurked in dark corners intent on destroying him now that he was no longer a mortal man and eternity looked long and hopeless. Yet he wanted to run now, as far away as he could from this degrading emotion he felt for her.

  He looked away from that face that had captured his fancy since the first time he’d seen her. What was the year? he thought absently as he went to the grate and poured into the dying embers more coal from a bucket. Ah, yes, seventeen-thirty, that was it. As if he could ever forget.

  At the touch of her hand running seductively up and down his back he drew in his breath. Every instinct in him responded as he turned back to her. “I thought you wanted to talk,” he said roughly.

  “We can talk later.”

  He groaned. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Because I can. Because I want to.” She raised her eyes to his with a sweep of dark lashes, and although her voice was scarcely a whisper, it trembled with despair and desperation. “Help me forget.”

  It didn’t matter to him if she was using him to forget about the pirate. Nothing mattered if he could have her. Yes, he would help her forget…everything except him.

  A breeze stirred the dark leaves beyond the window as she moved into his arms. His breath sang against her lips, hot and uneven as he pressed his mouth to hers. His fingers spread across her cheek, holding her mouth prisoner to a kiss that was both tender and cruel. When he felt her straining for breath, he pulled his mouth from hers.

  They were both breathing deeply, staring into each other’s eyes. He drew a breath deep inside himself and let it go almost fatalistically. “I want you in my bed.”

  She smiled, a faint acquiescence.

  He snuffed the candle only recently lit. The odor of the extinguished wick filled the air as he took her by the hand and led her to his room.

  He sat her down on the massive four-poster draped with brocaded tapestries. The feather mattress sagged with his weight when he sat beside her and turned her toward him. He reached up and withdrew the pins from her hair, letting them scatter on the floor. Putting his hand under the heavy mantle that fell to her shoulders, he lifted the silken locks to his face and breathed in the essence of her. For several moments he toyed with her hair, spreading the strands with his fingers before brushing them behind her ears and gazing at her for long time. Her face was so angelic it was hard to imagine it belonged to a seasoned killer. Like himself, he thought with a mixture of pride and regret. So much like himself.

  He couldn’t remember when he had begun to fantasize about her—the timeless perfection of her face, the fragrant waves of burnished hair, flesh so creamy and warm when mortal, now as cold and smooth as alabaster, eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, her cool, silken presence. She had become so much a part of him that he no longer knew where he ended and she began. And yet, she claimed to hate him. But it was with a measure of satisfaction that he knew there was one thing about him she did not hate—his touch.

  Muted light peeked through the tangled branches of the cypress and oak trees and slanted into the room, illuminating his face and the hungry look in his eyes as he returned to her and drew her to her feet.

  His hands went around her to slowly and deliberately undo the fabric-covered buttons of her dress one by one. She made a little sound when he tugged at the bodice. It slipped off her shoulders and settled at her waist and then slid past her hips to pool around her ankles, followed by the plain white shift beneath. Dropping to his knees before her, he ran his hands over the knitted cotton of her stockings, following the curve of her calves to the bare white skin at the tops of her garters, fingers brushing the coarse dark curls to seek the hidden folds between her legs. Spreading the moist pink lips with his thumbs, he brought his face forward and began a torturous exploration with his mouth of her innermost places. His tongue swirled against the heat, then settled upon the swollen nub.

  She whimpered, arching against him, fingers splaying in his dark hair, clasping him to her. He made it last, teasing her and tasting her until she thought she would go mad. The stone-cold heart with which she defended herself against him was melting like an icicle in the heat.

  Sensing her moment of total surrender, he drew his face away and rose to stand before her. His
hands went to her breasts. Lifting their weight in his palms, he buried his face in the deep valley between them, then brought his mouth to each one in turn, suckling on the engorged nipples, using his teeth to draw ragged moans of pain and pleasure from her.

  Her hands were all over him now, tearing at his linen shirt, sending the bone buttons spinning off into the darkness and ripping the seams. Unable to wait, she tugged at the buttons at the top of his fall front and shoved her hand into his breeches and wrapped her fingers around that part of him that was all heat and hardness. She stroked him and pumped him, teasing, tickling, tenderly at first, then harsher. She knew the punishing pleasure was hurting him, but he didn’t try to stop her.

  Dropping to her knees before him, she crushed her face against him, feeling the scratch of woolen breeches on her cheek. Her eyes widened at the erect phallus that thrust its head out at her, its tip glistening with dew. She reached up with hasty hands to grasp the tight-fitting waist of his trousers and yanked them down to his boots. For several moments she gazed at the wonder of him—the slender hips that held an unearthly power to thrust violently into her, the corded thighs, the line of dark hair that ran from just below his navel to the thatch between his legs, the potent part of him that was both soft and hard, sweet and salty. Her hands went to his naked buttocks and pulled him hard up against her, locking him to her as she closed her mouth around him. His head fell back and his breath came in rapid bursts.

  From somewhere beyond the tumultuous beating of her heart she thought she heard a growl, long, low and dangerous, rumble from above. His whole body tensed, and just as he was on the verge of the powerful release she knew him capable of, he pushed her away and pulled her roughly to her feet.

  Green eyes burning strongly into hers, he said demandingly, “Tell me how you want it.”

  Her lips wet with his lust, she rasped, “The wolves.”

  He laughed, a low, licentious sound from deep in his throat. He kicked off his breeches and sent them flying across the room, followed by his boots. Spinning her around, he pushed her face down onto the mattress, winding his arms beneath her and pulling her hips and buttocks upwards. He ran his palms over her derriere and closed his teeth on the round flesh, nipping and biting the smooth white mounds.

  “Oh!” she cried, her body shivering when he shoved himself between her legs, spreading them wide with his knees, and took full possession of her. She groaned, pressing her face into the rumpled sheets, feeling shameless, guilty excitement.

  As he pumped into her, he reached around and beneath her to caress the nub that was throbbing and swollen from his intimate kisses. The rough massage that another woman would not have been able to sustain this one’s otherworldly appetite craved…demanded.

  Like two wild creatures of the night they twisted and writhed, pumping and thrashing together in a savage coupling.

  She cried out when an explosion of violent pleasure washed over her, but she was too shaken to realize that the sound was not that of her own voice.

  At the moment of his release a long, protracted howl pierce the night. His pumping gradually eased, and then he collapsed on top of her, falling to the side and pulling her along with him.

  She spiraled back to earth from the ground-shaking sensations, yet when she tried to extricate herself, she found that she could not.

  At her squirming, he opened his eyes. His voice was husky with sated lust. “You wanted to do it like the wolves.” His chest rose and fell with difficulty as he fought to regain composure. “Wolves are locked together after intercourse. I hope you’re not in a hurry. It will take a while for us to uncouple.”

  “Once before we did it like the wolves,” she said breathlessly, recalling a scandalous night of pleasure back in London all those decades ago. “And we had no trouble disengaging.”

  “Ah, but that was as two immortals simulating the wolves.”

  “You mean we were really…” She dared not speak the outrageous thought.

  “We were.”

  She shook her head incredulously. “I thought it was a dream.”

  “If it was a dream, then how do you explain this?” Grasped between his thumb and forefinger was a tuft of gray fur.

  When he was finally able to withdraw, he held her tight against his chest “Did you like it?” he asked.

  She squirmed in his embrace, ashamed to admit that she had never felt anything like it. “It was…different.”

  “You’re a very wicked little wolf,” he said in a low growl.

  Pru opened her eyes to find him staring hard at her, smiling that sinful smile of his. Breaking the glance, she sat up. “I thought you told me that we transform into wolves only when we are irrationally angry.”

  He ran a finger along her spine, raising goose bumps. “Or irrationally aroused.”

  “Do many people do it like that?”

  “I dare say they try. Although I sincerely doubt they are as literal about it as we are.” He pulled her back down beside him. “You were made for it, you know.”

  “For acting like a wolf?” she chided.

  “For fucking,” he flatly replied.

  “Now who is being wicked?”

  “Not wicked. Just truthful.”

  “When did it ever suit you to be truthful?”

  He withdrew his arm from around her, complaining, “I see you’re back to your usual disagreeable self,” and got up and walked naked to the window.

  For many long minutes he stared out at the bayou, composed and thoughtful. Hazy light shimmered through the tangled branches of the cypress trees. What appeared to others as a dark and lifeless place was to his finely tuned senses alive with colors and sounds of creatures scurrying, scratching, chirping, and struggling as one fed upon another. He felt the faint rumblings of thirst from within. He hadn’t fed since last night. Soon the urge would well up from the depth of his being and overwhelm him until he had no choice but to seek out a victim and drink the blood that sustained him. He expelled a fatalistic sigh and spoke against the window, his breath fanning the pane.

  “What did you want to talk about?” he asked flatly.

  She answered easily, “The other night.”

  He was not fooled by the insouciance of her tone. She could pretend that night was of little importance or concern, but they both knew better. “Oh, yes,” he said, turning back to the room. “Your wanton display. Would you care to elaborate on the purpose of that?”

  She rose from the bed and went in search of her dress. Lifting it from its heap on the floor, she expelled a disapproving sigh upon examining it. “A fine mess you’ve made of my dress,” she huffed.

  “You should talk,” he countered. “I should make you repair the seams of my shirt and sew the buttons back on. And don’t divert the subject. I asked you a question.”

  “What were you doing there?” she asked. “Have you been spying on me?”

  He rolled his eyes at her answer to a question with a question. “I can hear the drums from my windows at night. I go there sometimes for a ready meal. No one notices if I drag one of them into the darkness for a taste of slave’s blood. Your turn.”

  Adjusting the bodice over her full breasts, she replied, “How was I to know the rum was laced with jimson weed?”

  “That would explain the way you danced—quite provocatively, I might add—but not what you were doing there in the first place.”

  She came to him and turned her back, sweeping her hair up off her shoulders. “I was hoping to get Sabine to trust me.”

  “So, you dressed like a voodoo harlot?” he said as he slid each button back into its slot. “And danced with a snake around your neck? Good Lord, Prudence.” He made a face. “I hate snakes.”

  “I’d dance with Satan himself around my neck if it meant getting Sabine to chant the words.” She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirts with the palms of her hands. “Now I’ll have to find another way to get her to do it.”

  “Don’t count on it,” he said. “Your voodoo
queen is dead.”

  His cold, flat words confirmed what she already suspected. She tried to summon a measure of grief, but the person she had known wasn’t really Sabine Sejour. “And Lienore?”

  He lifted his hands and fluttered his fingers as if to suggest she had flown away. “Your guess is as good as mine. She’ll probably flit about until she finds another host.”

  “I’ll find her,” Pru tersely vowed, her features hardening. “If it takes me forever, I’ll find her and make her say the words.”

  He knew that look, stubborn and resolute and beyond any warning he might give her. With a shrug he said, “Do what you must. Although, without the book, it may prove difficult.”

  “The book!” In the turmoil of her harrowing episode in the swamp, she’d forgotten all about it. The memory of handing the book to Christophe flooded back to her now. “It must still be there.”

  “It’s not. I looked for it. It’s gone.”

  The air went out of her in a sharp whoosh. “Gone?” she repeated, struggling to make sense of the singular word. She felt the hope seeping out of her, the way the blood seeped from her victims’ veins when she fed from their throats. “It cannot be.”

  In a voice devoid of emotion he said simply, “Well, it is.”

  Clinging to the impossible belief that the thing she wanted above all else could still somehow be had, while in her heart she knew that all was lost, she said, “Christophe must have taken it with him.”

  “He didn’t. After I brought you home, I went back to the bayou. He was still there, weeping over the voodoo queen. I watched for a while as he composed himself and then carried her body away. He did not have the book.”

  “What happened to it?” she demanded, her voice rising to a shrill pitch.

  “Maybe Lienore found another body to jump into and carried it away. Maybe an alligator crawled out of the swamp and ate it. How the hell should I know?” He stomped across the room, snatched up his breeches and began putting them on. “You’d best get used to the fact that without the book there is no chant, and without the chant, there is no mortality.” As he buttoned the fall front of his breeches, he cast a look downward and frowned. His still potent erection pressed against the fabric. “Look at it this way. It could be worse.” Like still wanting to couple with a woman who, at the moment, clearly wanted nothing more to do with him.