She would have settled her hands on her hips if her arm wasn’t in a sling. The nerve of the man. “So that means you have the right to move in with me?”
“Well I love you too, you idiot, so yeah, it does. It means we get married and have kids,” he shouted at her.
Silence followed the storm, and she stared at him. He looked so unhappy, she almost laughed. “You love me?”
“Yes, although I have no idea why. Jesus, woman, I put up with a lot, but this has got to take the cake.”
She snorted.
“And don’t laugh.”
Something tickled her throat. Instead of a laugh, though, a sob rose to the surface, catching them both off guard.
“Oh, baby, don’t,” he said as he fell to his knees in front of her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He rested his head against her stomach. “I’m sorry. I’ve been an ass.”
Jillian tried to stop the tears, but she couldn’t. Her eyes were overflowing with them. She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. Conner lifted his face to look at her.
“I think I knew from the beginning I cared for you, but it wasn’t until you told me you loved me that I realized how much I wanted that. Wanted you…forever.”
She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Can you tell me why you haven’t touched me since I got out of the hospital?”
He rose then and pulled her into his embrace, being careful of her injured arm. “I was afraid if I touched you that I would expect too much. After almost losing you, the man in me wanted to claim you all over again. It’s stupid, but with your injury, we have to be careful.”
She looked up at him. “We can be careful.”
He opened his mouth, but she rose up and brushed her lips over his.
“I promise to be gentle.”
He laughed at that. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
She stepped away and tugged her shirt over her head slipping it easily over her arm. Then, she smiled at him. “Come on.”
He pushed his suitcase onto the floor and laid her down on the bed. He lay beside her, resting his head on his hand. “I really love you, Jillian.”
“I love you, too, Conner.”
He brushed her braids back from her face as he leaned down to kiss her. He worked his way down, licking and nipping at her flesh as he pulled her pants off her body. Settled between her legs, he looked up at her.
“There is one thing I can expect from my sub right now.”
“Really?” she asked, her voice husky even to her own ears.
“You don’t get to come unless I give you permission,” he said as he leaned his mouth closer to her pussy. He teased her then, his tongue driving her out of her mind until she was begging for relief. When he finally took her, they rode the crest together as they gave themselves over to the ecstasy.
Coming this July, Melissa Schroeder introduces you to a entirely new world of vampires in Victorian England. Amongst the glittering ton, evil lurks.
Enjoy the entire first chapter of By Blood: Desire.
A man with a secret.
Nicodemus Blackburn has seen the best and worst of mankind. Five hundred years of dealing with them teaches the vampire to be very wary of the creatures. Unfortunately, alarming events leave him no choice but to enter the world of the ton to hunt a rogue vampire—one who is making his own army of blood thirsty vampires. Searching for the villain is not the worst of his troubles. That can be laid at the feet of bluestocking Lady Cordelia Collingsworth.
A woman on a mission.
Cordelia has always been an outcast, even in her own family. She has forged her way in the world with her ability to write, and Nico Blackburn is the focus of her next article. Before she can obtain any information about the mysterious man, she is pulled headlong into a scandal that leaves her with no choice but to marry Nico—a man with dangerous secrets.
A passion that consumes them both.
Thrust into a world she knows nothing of, Cordelia finds herself falling in love with a man who claims to be a vampire. As their passion grows, so does the danger around them and Nico will have to call on all of his powers to protect the one thing he has realized he cannot live without: his opinionated, infuriating, and thoroughly delectable wife.
By Blood: Desire
Prologue
Late in Queen Victoria’s Reign
“He was Made?” Malik asked.
Nicodemus Blackburn did not look at his friend, but nodded and continued to clean the blood from beneath his fingernails. The only sound in the dank room was the splashing of water.
“How old?”
"I would say less than two months. Definitely not completely transitioned."
Silence. When Malik didn't respond, Nico glanced at him. His friend’s face passive, his eyes cold. They had learned long ago Malik would be the whipping boy for every damned Made vampire.
"He was completely out of control. The woman..." Nico closed his eyes and swallowed back the fresh wave of nausea that threatened to bubble up. In five hundred years, he had never seen anything so brutal, so bestial. He had killed Mades before, but never happened upon one of their kills. He opened his eyes to find his friend with a knowing look on his face. "She did not die easily."
If possible, Malik's expression grew colder. "Meaning he raped her to death."
There was nothing to be said, for nothing would stop what was going to happen, what was already happening. Nico grabbed a linen cloth and started to dry his hands.
"We need to find out what the bloody hell is happening. This one had no connection to family. There has to be a reason for the Made vampires to be popping up all over the countryside"
Malik nodded. "I've heard more rumbling amongst the Borns. Not to mention the Carrier woman they found dead in London two nights ago. There might be trouble for my kind again."
Nico shrugged and retrieved another shirt. "I don't think you need to worry."
"Don't lie."
"You are always exempt from these witch hunts. You trace your roots back further than mine. Anyone who has made it through transition has no problem. They never lose control."
A cynical smile curved Malik's lips. "True. And so I shouldn't have to worry at all. But the youngest generation doesn't remember the Inquisition...they don't remember how many of us fought on your side. They will be out for blood."
Nico faced him. Irritation and worry gripped his stomach in a cold, hard fist. What Malik said was true. Before the Inquisition, the Borns regularly hunted for Mades, killing them before they gained control of their new powers. He could not defend what had happened in the past, only work to fix the present.
But, that would come later. Nico could still smell the corpse’s blood on his body. If he closed his eyes he could remember everything. The mutilation of the Carrier woman, the sickening feel of shoving a piece of wood into the vampire’s flesh. The word Suprema still echoed in his ears.
It was worse than it had been almost four hundred years ago. God, he did not want to do that ever again. But he would...he knew that down to his core. There was no way to avoid it. If he allowed someone else to lead the hunt, it would become a massacre of every Made vampire in England.
He opened his eyes and looked at his best friend. They had seen the worst mankind could throw at them and the worst. Nico feared they were about to see things neither of them were prepared for.
“The trail leads to London,” Malik said.
“Yes. My father agrees.”
“Your father is the only family leader with any intelligence.”
True, for he was the oldest of the four family patriarchs that comprised the vampire clans of England and Scotland.
“In father’s mind, he is the only one who matters. But, in this case he is correct. London would be easier…the maker could resort to the lower classes and it would not attract any attention.”
“Do you have any idea who it might be?”
Nico shook his head. “Not a clue. All I know is the sightin
gs in the country have dwindled and those we have found all lead to London.”
“I hate London.”
Nico smiled at his friend’s irritation. Both of them hated London, the ton and all of their idiocy. But his father had asked him to go, and Nico could not refuse. "We go to London."
Malik studied him for a moment, and then nodded. "We go to London.”
Chapter One
He was avoiding her again.
Lady Cordelia Collingsworth searched through the milling crowd in the Smyth’s ballroom as irritation shot through her blood. This was the third night in a row he had lost her. The mysterious man was making it impossible to discover anything about him...or his shady businesses.
“Lady Cordelia.”
She grimaced before she could stop herself. Viscount Hurst. He had been dogging her steps at every event for the last fortnight. He always appeared at her side, a genial smile on his face, and pretty compliments. Drat the man. She smoothed her expression and turned to face the viscount.
Cordelia understood why he had been labeled “The Catch” by the ladies of the ton early this season. Just thirty years old, he sported a strong physique. Blonde hair and deep brown eyes had all the women sighing, or so she had been told. He was pleasant enough with that square jaw and all his proper manners, but there was something about him she did not like. Something that made her blood chill every time she came in contact with him. Even in the overwhelming heat of the ballroom, she could not seem to keep herself warm in Hurst’s presence.
He smiled down at her and she fought the shiver of dread that raced along her flesh.
“I hope you are enjoying yourself tonight.”
She forced her lips to curve into a welcoming smile as she offered her hand. He bent over it. Even with her skin protected by gloves, the top of her hand grew cold. Bile rose in her throat as she watched him. Most women—especially women decidedly on the shelf and with no dowry—would kill to be this close to him. The idea that she wanted to flee whenever she spotted him made no sense.
“I always enjoy the Smyth’s ball. It is very amusing.” She tugged on her hand, twisting it to free it from his grasp. “And you, my lord?”
“I thought to ask for your hand in the next dance.” The moment he said it, the first strains of a waltz filled the massive ballroom. A sick ball of dread filled her stomach. “I assume you are free?”
His smirk told Cordelia he knew she did not have one dance on her card. She rarely did. She was not on the marriage mart, far too old and poor to grab attention—except from the Viscount. Now she regretted not securing a dance partner for the first waltz.
“I--”
“Lady Cordelia.” A strong masculine voice filled the air around her and sent a rush of heat along her nerve endings. Even without turning she knew who stood behind her. The man she had been chasing for three days straight. The man she was positive ran illegal businesses in London. The subject of her now-due article.
Nicodemus Blackburn.
She turned to face him, her heart beating hard against her breast. As blood rushed out of her head, she felt a bit lightheaded. Where the viscount and his patrician features were attractive in a very English gentry way, Mr. Blackburn was dark and dangerous. If women sighed over the viscount, they fainted when Blackburn gave them his attention. Cordelia wanted to be the exception to that rule…but he was heady indeed.
“Yes, Mr. Blackburn?”
“I believe this is my dance.”
For a moment, she didn't respond. She couldn't. Her mind simply could not formulate a reply. Blackburn, who rarely danced and had been known for disdaining most of the ton, had just asked her to dance. No. He lied and said she had promised him the dance.
One black eyebrow rose as she said nothing. The curving of his lips was enough to pull her out of her trance.
She offered him her hand and said to Hurst, “If you will excuse me, my lord.”
Hurst tossed Blackburn a nasty look before offering her a pleasant smile. “Of course. Perhaps the next waltz?”
She merely smiled but said nothing. Cordelia would make sure not to be in sight of the viscount. Blackburn led her out to the floor and pulled her closer, swinging her into the rhythm of the dance. She drew in a deep breath. The scent of bayrum filled her scenes. That lightheaded feeling returned.
“A bit of advice, my lady.”
She looked up at Blackburn trying to keep her wits about her. Everyone sought information on this man, especially her editor who had told her to dig into his character and find out just where he got his money. And he was here, like a ripe peach for the picking. She had a list of questions memorized. Unfortunately, she found herself staring into his mesmerizing eyes and could not gather her wits long enough to ask him anything.
It was Blackburn’s fault. His attractiveness did not come from a trained valet who knew how to dress his employer. He possessed the most remarkable gray-blue eyes and blacker than midnight hair—worn unfashionably long. He was put together well, solid. She could feel his muscles flex as he guided her through the waltz, maneuvering around couples with ease.
His attractiveness turned heads, but there was more to it than that. It was the strength she sensed beneath the surface of the polished veneer. Something about him, dangerous and male, seethed just beneath his polite façade. It almost made her giddy to be this close to him.
“Lady Cordelia?”
She blinked. “Yes? Oh, you had advice.”
“You should stay away from the Viscount.”
She nodded at his comment. No, not truly a comment. A command. She didn’t know Blackburn, knew nothing of his family—and he only could know of the gossip surrounding hers. But, for some unknown reason he felt the need to tell her what to do. Of all the cheek!
“Whatever to do you mean?”
His eyes flashed with irritation as they narrowed. “I mean the man is trouble. I fear that he is after but one thing in his pursuit of you.”
Where was the tact Blackburn was famous for? Everyone in the ton knew her situation, or thought they knew. It was much worse than she let people know, otherwise she would never be invited to these functions. And while everyone attending knew that her brother was drinking away her inheritance, none of them knew she was so close to living on the street.
People may gossip about her, but they did not do it in front of her. Did Blackburn realize he insulted her? Looking at his serious expression, she thought not. The man actually thought he was helping.
She adopted her most innocent look. “What would that be Mr. Blackburn?”
His expression blanked as he studied her. “I beg your pardon. I was led to believe you were somewhat of a...”
“What, sir?”
Oh, he did not like being put in the corner, but she was happy to shove the man there. The gall of him to insult her so. Granted, she was positive Hurst was after her for the reason Blackburn implied. Though, even that was odd because the viscount could have his choice of most women of the ton—married and unmarried. Why he would want the Lady Fionna's bastard daughter who had no dowry and penchant for books? His pursuit made little sense. But, most men of the ton had little sense.
With an aggravated sigh, he maneuvered them through the French doors out onto the patio. Light from the ballroom spilled out over them as the cool night air hit her skin, cooling her anger and desire.
Blackburn hesitated, then released her. The dark night surrounded them, the tension in the air rising. She walked away from him, to the edge of the terrace. “Whyever are we out here?”
When he did not answer, she turned to face him. He placed a hand on each of his hips and frowned at her. Again. “Stop playing the simpleton.”
She blinked. “Playing?”
“Lord Hurst is not a well man.”
That was not what she expected to hear. She dropped all pretense. “Not well?”
He hesitated then said, “There have been rumors about him.”
“Indeed. There are rumors about alm
ost every eligible man here tonight, including yourself.”
He nodded in acknowledgement. “He has certain...tastes that would shock you.”
“Do you mean he frequents the House of Rod?”
That had his eyebrows rising. “You know of that?”
“Why do you think I accepted your dance? I didn't have to. After eight years in the ton, I am well aware of how men behave. I know there is something wrong with the viscount.”
His gaze sharpened. “You do?”
His intense study suddenly made her very wary. It was if she were a specimen he was trying to decipher. Blackburn’s attention filled her with an unusual flash of warmth.
“Y-yes. He...well, he acting just a bit strange.” She could not come up with another way to describe it.
“Strange?”
She nodded. “Quite.”
He sighed. “Well, thank goodness you have some sense. Most women swoon over him.”
“Yes, but as you said, he isn't after my hand in marriage. Many ladies have set their cap for him. I am not one of them.”
“Indeed. I do apologize for my insensitivity.”
She waved it away. “You are not the first, and you will not be the last.”
With a smile, he offered her his arm. “If you would allow me to walk you back into the ballroom?”
“Before you do, could you answer one question?”
He dropped his arm as his brow furrowed. “That depends.”
“I understand you are in the shipping business.”
“Yes.”
She bit back an irritated sigh. He was not going to make this an easy task. “There have been some questions about the nature of the shipments.”
His expression darkened, his eyes narrowing again as he studied her. As his gaze moved over her face, but she did not allow her own to waver. Breath clogged her throat; her pulse doubled.
“I import many things, Lady Cordelia.” She opened her mouth to ask another question, but Blackburn took another step closer. He towered over her, but she did not feel threatened as when other men did it. She felt…hot. Her whole body shimmered with heat.
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