Haydn returned, but this time he was not alone. Beside him stood a young girl. The lass looked no more than ten and was in a sorry state. Dressed in little more than tattered, filthy rags, she was pale and emaciated. Ugly bruises and lacerations marred her cheeks. Her right eyelid drooped half-closed, puffy and discolored, and her lower lip was split open in several places.
“Tell her,” Haydn commanded the girl. “Tell her about the man I slayed in the courtyard.”
The girl shivered, looked at him, helpless, afraid. “I…I…”
“You are safe now.” Haydn’s voice was soft, gentle. “Tell Lady Bethan what happened to you.”
The girl hesitated a moment more; then her voice came out in a rush of emotion. “He beat me, my lady, when I would not do as he asked. I should have let him, for he took what he wanted anyway.”
“He raped you?” Bethan asked softly.
“Aye.” Her head lowered and a tear slid down her face. “Several times. He was going to do it again, but this time I screamed and Lord Meifod heard and came to my aid.”
“Oh, you poor child.” Bethan reached out a comforting hand and laid it on the girl’s head. “You must go to the kitchen and ask for Anne. Tell her I sent you. She will have salve for your bruises and hot food for your belly.”
“Thank you, my lady.” The girl curtsied, then sniffed, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her dirty gown.
With one final glance of worshipful eyes at Haydn, she left. Once they were alone, Bethan had difficulty meeting her husband’s eyes.
“I owe you an apology, my lord,” she said primly. “It appears this knight was a man who deserved killing.”
“Indeed. ’Tis why I chose him.” The candlelight fell on his face, revealing a surprising mix of emotions—confusion, concern, guilt. “I want you to know that while I have been much in de Bellemare’s company these past few days, ’tis not something I have enjoyed. Far from it.”
She nodded. “I was praying that your behavior was only because you needed to prove yourself to him, to prove your skill, your worth. Yet I confess it has been most painful for me to watch, and equally hurtful to be treated so shabbily by you.”
“Forgive me.” He placed his large hand over her small one. “I did not realize you would be so upset. I should have told you, should have explained what I was doing with de Bellemare. I am sorry if I caused you worry and pain. ’Twas never my intention.”
She turned her hand over and gave his a squeeze. “Thank you for explaining. I feel honored to be in your trust.”
“I do not give it lightly.”
For the first time in four days, Bethan smiled. “Nor do I.”
He put his other hand on her shoulder, then gently turned her face to his. “I have missed you, wife.”
She studied his angular face and her heart thumped with emotion. “Will you come to our chamber tonight?”
His eyes widened, his lips curved. “Yes.”
Haydn leaned closer. Their mouths met with no hesitation, in a short, openmouthed tender kiss that held a sweetness tinged with a hint of longing.
Haydn spent the remainder of the day as he had these past three, at de Bellemare’s beck and call. By the evening meal he was ready to scream with frustration, having more than his fill of the older man’s plans and schemes.
Yet what bothered Haydn most was that a part of him was drawn to this savagery. He and de Bellemare were of the same kind. He possessed the same primitive instincts as his enemy, was capable of the same brutality.
Haydn shuddered as a wave of self-loathing engulfed him. He saw the possibility of his future. He saw that if he did not learn to harness his power, if he could not learn to control his lust, to suppress the savagery of his nature, he would become like his enemy. A creature with no conscience, a being who existed in a crimson haze of bloodlust.
Haydn’s thoughts were troubled as he climbed the stairs. He wanted to destroy his enemy and leave this castle as soon as possible, but it was proving far more difficult than he thought to challenge de Bellemare. The older man was clever; his guards were around him at all times. Haydn needed to find a vulnerability and exploit it or else he would never accomplish his task.
Bethan was awake when he entered their bedchamber. His eyes met hers and for a moment something passed between them. He was glad they had talked earlier in the chapel. It had cleared the air between them, but more importantly had united them in a shared purpose, a shared burden, a shared trust.
“I have something to show you,” she said. “’Tis a book Father William has given me.”
“It can wait.” Haydn closed the distance between them in three strides. He took her in his arms and clutched her tightly to his body, breathing in her warm, intoxicating scent. “I need you, Bethan of Lampeter. I need to bury myself deep inside you, where there is goodness and joy. Will you welcome me in your bed?”
Her eyes softened. “Always.”
Five
Haydn’s footsteps quickened with anticipation as he cut through the alley behind the village tavern. He had spent far more time in the armorer this evening than he had intended and was anxious to return to the castle, to his chambers where Bethan was waiting for him.
Their relationship had taken a significant turn after they had spoken in the chapel a few days ago. Though still cautious, they were more relaxed and open around each other.
Each agreed that the burdens and worries of the day had been far easier to bear now that their nights were spent in each other’s arms.
“Stop!” The bulky shape of a tall, brawny man suddenly stepped from a shadowed doorway, blocking the path.
“Who goes there?” Haydn peered at the figure through the darkness, trying to get a look at his face.
“Hand over your money,” the brute demanded. The blade of a broadsword flashed out of the man’s cloak, the tip pressing against Haydn’s chest.
The sudden, unprovoked attack triggered rage inside him. Quick as lightning he turned, knocking the sword away, then grabbed his assailant around the neck. The man screamed and thrashed, trying to free himself. Muscles straining, Haydn shoved him hard against the wall, hearing a distinct crack when his head connected with the stone. The man went limp.
Panting with breath, Haydn shifted the man’s bulk, rolling the body onto its back. He stared at him for a long time, a war of conscience raging in his head. It had been three days since he last fed, over a year since he had tasted human blood. Animal blood provided the sustenance he required, though vampire lore decreed human blood gave one true strength, enhanced power.
Walk away. The voice shouted in his head, but the rage of the attack still pounded through his veins. With a growl, Haydn sank to his knees and buried his teeth into the man’s throat, feeding in a frantic, possessed manner, gulping blood, savoring its warmth and sweetness.
Sated, he sat back on his haunches, staring down at his victim. The brute’s eyes were closed, his body spread at an awkward angle. Haydn reached beneath the man’s cloak and felt the beat of his heart. At least he had been able to stop before the man was completely drained. He would awaken with a clouded mind and a thick, pounding head, but no memory of the attack. With time, the bite marks on his neck would heal and fade, leaving no lasting effects.
Haydn shuddered with regret, angry that he had allowed himself to follow his most primitive instincts. He yanked the heavy leather purse hanging from the belt at the thief’s waist. With a final glance of regret, Haydn walked away. He would leave the purse on the church altar, but even knowing that Father William would use the coins to help those most in need gave Haydn little comfort.
“You really should read this, Haydn,” Bethan admonished. “This knowledge could mean the difference between defeat and victory over de Bellemare.”
Haydn paused, looking up. He had been carefully checking his chain mail for tears or bent links, a task normally done by a squire, but one he had always preferred to do himself.
“I assume you are referring to yo
ur magical book?”
“Yes. And stop teasing me about it.”
She lifted the tome in her hands and walked over to him. Clad only in a simple white shift, she looked ravishing. Though they had spent the past hour making passionate love, Haydn’s pulse quickly stirred at the sight of her.
Pressing the book practically beneath his nose, she waited with an expectant air. Knowing he would get no peace until he looked at the damn thing, Haydn reluctantly put down his chain mail. He carefully began turning the pages, marveling at the delicate parchment, fine scrollwork, and vivid illustrations.
“This must have cost you dearly,” he commented as he skimmed the contents.
“I appreciate the beauty, but it is the knowledge that it contains that marks its true value.” Her brow suddenly furrowed and she gave him a questioning look. “Can you read it?”
“Aye.” Haydn smiled. “Though I am not sure ’tis necessary. You pore over that tome constantly. I imagine you can recite most of the pages without looking at the words.”
She lowered her gaze and blushed. “There are certain sections I have studied harder than others. Here, let me show you.”
Having decided to indulge her, Haydn had no recourse but to read the pages she indicated, though secretly he knew that whatever half-truths and nonsense written there would be of little use to him. Haydn already understood far too well the type of creature de Bellemare was and was very aware of his superior powers and artful cunning.
He knew that Lord Lampeter had dark magical powers, that he could morph his human form into mist or become a wolf or a large bat. He knew that de Bellemare treated everything as a conquest, that he craved the hunt, delighted in plotting the strike, and reveled in the victory.
Nevertheless, he read the section that Bethan had indicated, surprised at the amount of accurate information, his thoughts distracted as he pondered who had acquired and then compiled this knowledge.
“You believe de Bellemare is a vampire?” Haydn asked, taking a perverse sense of pleasure in her intelligence for discovering the truth.
“I do.”
“But it says here that vampires fear all Christian relics and symbols. I have seen de Bellemare in the chapel.”
“I know.” He handed her the book and she set it carefully on the table. “There are a few other claims that seem a bit far-fetched, but too many of the characteristics hold true. My mother has been pale and weak ever since de Bellemare became her husband. I believe he feasts on her, draining her of blood, which he needs to survive. And look, here it says a creature of the night cannot get a child off a human female. That could explain why my mother was never able to birth an heir for him.”
“Yet he persisted in trying. Would he not have realized it was a fruitless possibility?”
Bethan pursed her lips. “De Bellemare believes he is invincible. I’d wager he thought he would be the one of his kind who would succeed. It cost him nothing to try. ’Twas my poor mother who suffered all those years.”
Haydn nodded, agreeing with her theory. It was actually more of a myth than a proven fact that the males of his kind could not impregnate a mortal female. De Bellemare certainly had the arrogance to test it.
“It says a vampire often keeps a hidden lair under ground to ensure a place of total darkness. Do you know of such a chamber?” he asked.
Bethan shook her head. “There are many passages and chambers in the depths of this structure, but I know of none that are exclusively my stepfather’s domain. Yet since the castle was built to his specifications, I think ’tis fair to assume one exists. Should we try to locate it?”
“Aye. It could prove useful.” Haydn picked up the book and turned the page. “There is not much here that speaks of how to destroy these demons.”
“I have found a few clues.” She took the book from him and searched through the pages, reading aloud when she found the proper passage.
“Vampires are cursed. They are not alive, but they are not dead. They are undead. They possess amazing strength and are extremely difficult to kill. Once defeated in combat, a stake of wood or metal must be driven through its heart, thereby pinning it to the ground. Then the head must be severed and either buried separately from the body or both parts can be burned to ash. Fire can also kill a vampire, but the creature must be burned to absolute dust.”
Haydn regarded her silently. It was chilling to hear the words of destruction fall from her sweet lips with absolute accuracy. Saints above, how would she react if she knew the truth about him?
Swept up in a sudden maelstrom of conflicting emotions, Haydn felt an almost compulsive need to blurt out the truth. To reveal that his kind were neither innately bad nor innately good. That they were like mortals, varying widely in character, possessing flaws and strengths in equal numbers.
He wanted her to understand this truth, yet he also wanted her to accept him. He wanted her to know that even though he was a vampire, he was not a monster like de Bellemare. He was capable of goodness, of kindness, of love.
Yet love could never flourish with such a secret between them. Was that what he really wanted? The chance to truly love this woman? A strong breeze wafted through the window, the sudden chill recalling his senses. What fanciful thoughts! He was thinking with his emotions, not his mind.
A lasting relationship between them was an impossibility. Haydn closed the book with a resounding thud. Bethan turned and smiled at him, her expression open and trusting.
Haydn returned the smile, yet his heart felt heavy. His secret would be kept, the barrier between them intact. It was the only prudent decision, as he grimly acknowledged that some things were best kept hidden. For everyone’s sake.
Bethan paced the confines of her chamber, her mind in turmoil as she waited for her husband. The evening meal had been a particularly trying one, with de Bellemare taunting her mercilessly and Haydn customarily ignoring it. She knew it was imperative that he keep his distance from her, especially in front of de Bellemare, but it was distressing nonetheless.
Their bedchamber door opened and Haydn entered. He was wearing leather breeches, boots, and a linen shirt. It was open at the neck, the laces loose and dangling, exposing his wide, muscular chest. As always, the power and confidence of his presence struck her anew.
“Why did you leave the hall so suddenly?” he asked. “Did you feel ill?”
“I could not tolerate another minute of my stepfather’s snipping at me.” She put her arms around her waist, trying to hold herself together.
“It seemed no different than his usual behavior.”
Disgusted, Bethan shook her head. “Was the light that bad in the hall this evening? Could you not see him glare at me with enraged and bloodshot eyes?”
“I did not notice,” Haydn replied. “Yet even if he did glower, you were in no real danger.”
She shuddered and turned her face away. “’Tis easy for you to talk, when you are not the one on the receiving end of those cold, menacing stares.”
“You must trust me, Bethan. I know how to handle de Bellemare and keep you safe.”
She put her hand to her chest and sighed. It was so difficult to trust, to hope, to believe she would finally be free from her stepfather. Yet if anyone was capable of accomplishing the task, it was her husband.
Haydn came up behind her. He began smoothing her hair, stroking her scalp and neck. The tension in her body fled. She turned, relaxed into his touch, tilting her head. Accepting the invitation, Haydn pressed his mouth against hers, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth.
Bethan surged toward him, softening her lips, then parting them, seeking his tongue. She cradled his face in her hands, rejoicing in the intimate contact. He was large and hot and the power seemed to glow out of him and into her.
She felt his hands on her breasts, his fingertips stroking her sensitive nipples through her gown. Then he moved his hand and began to tug at her gown. With a wicked smile he pulled it higher and higher until it slid over her hips.
&
nbsp; Bethan felt the chill air blow over her exposed bare skin, but she made no move to cover herself. His eyes raked possessively over her glowing flesh and she thrilled at the fierceness of his expression. She wanted to belong to him utterly, woman to man. She wanted to lose herself in his heat and strength, revel in his passion and desire.
She ran her hand over the hard tendons in his forearm, then boldly reached down and caught his stiff penis in both her hands. He was thick and hard and fiercely aroused.
Deep inside, her body pulsed insistently in response.
She put her mouth to the base of his throat and kissed it, then pulling away, blew heavily on his wet skin. She smiled at his shiver. Keeping her hands busy, Bethan rubbed his stiff penis furiously up and down, reveling in his moans as she ran her finger down to the heavy sacks below.
Glancing up, she saw his head was thrown back, his eyes shut, lost in the sensations she was creating. She lowered his breeches, and his erection sprang free. Bethan sighed with excitement, in awe of his strength and beauty. Pressing a kiss against his flat abdomen, she moved lower and touched her tongue to the tip of his rigid penis.
He jerked and teasingly she did it again. She looked up. His eyes were open, staring down at her, heavy lidded with desire and passion.
“Shall I finish what I have started?” she whispered.
She thought he laughed, though it might have been a groan. Bethan went down on her knees in front of him. He arched his hips forward and she opened her mouth, encircling the head of his penis with her lips. He ran his fingers through her hair, tightening the grip on her scalp. The moment was so decadent, so beautifully sensual, tears formed in her eyes.
Bethan explored him with restrained excitement, licking and teasing with her tongue and mouth. His erection was rock hard and it shivered and throbbed under her ministrations. She quickened her rhythm, eager for a taste of his seed, but just as she felt him begin to climax, he suddenly lifted her off her feet. With a grunt, he propelled her backward until the table set beneath the window struck the middle of her back.
Nature of the Beast Page 16
