Bitten by Desire

by Marguerite Kaye

  His fingers clenched in the heavy fall of her hair to tug her head back gently so that more and deeper kisses could be pressed upon her. Hands roaming down her neck, her throat, brushing her breasts, making her nipples ache, back to her neck. Stroking. Kisses on the pulse at her throat. Sucking kisses. Suckling kisses. Excruciating pleasure, as if all her blood was rushing to the one spot where he touched, as if her pulse beat only for his lips.

  Vaelen pushed her away so suddenly that she stumbled. “No.” No, no, no. He wiped his hand over his mouth, relieved to taste no trace of her essence. Other women served that purpose. Women of whom he could drink his fill without guilt, using them in the same way as they used him, to satisfy a hunger. Thin-blooded women, but sufficient. Imogen would never be sufficient. After one taste of her, he knew that. Why else had he resisted going back for more? Another taste and he would become addicted. “No!”

  Imogen was slumped in the chair into which he had pushed her. “What is going on between us? Have I done something wrong? What is happening to me?”

  Tears glinted in the depths of her eyes. He took a step towards her, forced himself to look at the tiny mark on her neck, to think what would have happened, and stopped. He could not. He would not! No matter how much his body urged him, no matter how strong was this beguiling notion clamouring to be heard that this time it would be different. It was his blood lust, a dangerous beast only just under control, offering false hope in order to be sated. Imogen could not save him, no-one could. It was a myth, as he had discovered to his cost. To poor dead Lucilla’s cost.

  “I must go. You must forget me.” The words should be easy, but it felt as if they were torn from him. He could leave, disappear from this society as he had from so many others, but not until she released the cord binding them, untied the knot he had unwittingly tightened when he tasted her. “Do not think of me, Imogen. Put me from your mind, or it will be the end of you.”

  The autocratic look was gone. For a second he looked vulnerable. Imogen pushed herself to her feet, reaching for him, but Vaelen drew back, his face a harsh mask she shrank from, his eyes the dark green of an angry sea, the hunger in them unmistakable.

  Vaelen’s smile was a snarl. “You see, forgetting me would be much the wiser course. Do not wish for me again.” Then he was gone.

  Imogen stood alone, staring at the space in which he had been. Something momentous had occurred, though she couldn’t understand what. Splinters of meaning shattered as she tried to grasp them. The room was empty, but she could not recall his leaving. Shaken to the core, she collapsed back onto the chair.

  Eventually, she composed herself enough to totter to the ladies retiring room and collect her cloak and gloves, sending a message to the dowager that she had the headache and had gone home early. Catching a glance of herself in the mirror, Imogen saw a spectre, all dark shadows and clouded blue eyes. She looked like a wraith. The pearls on her breast were dull, like a string of stones.

  Chapter 4

  She lay wide awake long into the night, reflecting on the evening’s events. So little they had said, but so much. So many things he had said which she could not understand.

  Who was he?

  Why had he come to her?

  What was the force which drew them to each other?

  What was it that made him so determined to ignore it?

  Vaelen was no figment of her imagination. Imogen knew she should be shocked by the liberties she had granted him, but she was not. She should be embarrassed, mortified at their meeting again, horrified by her wantonness, but all she desired was to be more wanton still. When he was a dream, Vaelen was her dark fantasy. Now he was no longer a fantasy, her secret self longed for him even more. She desired him, and she knew he desired her, though he would deny it.

  Vaelen. She said his name, and conjured his image, so clear it felt real.

  Vaelen. A twisting ache of need.

  Vaelen. Her missing self. She wanted him. She wanted the freedom he could give her to be herself. Without him she would be a prisoner, living half a life with half a soul. All her life had been a waiting room, though she had not known it. She could not bear to return to that grey gloom. Vaelen had liberated her and she could not go back, but without him she could not go forward.

  All this from two encounters? Far-fetched, outrageous, madness, foolishly romantic, but true all the same. As if by magic, she had conjured him but it was he who had put a spell on her.

  Vaelen. The man she loved.

  “I love you, Vaelen,” Imogen whispered into the dark, hugging the gift of her new-found knowledge close. Love. Not some pleasant, gentle emotion at all, but a ripping, tearing, inexorable force that arrived like a whirlwind. Love. “I love you, Vaelen,” she said, louder this time. “I love you, and we were meant to be.” She felt it in her bones, her heart, her blood. Enchanted. Entwined. Beguiled. Possessing and possessed.

  Love.

  Imogen slept. A sleep too deep for dreams. She awoke both drained and elated with an unusual sense of complete certainty. It would take all her courage, but she knew what she would do.

  It was a long week, waiting for the next full moon, her mood swinging between ecstatic certainty and panic. What if she was wrong? What if he did not come? What if…

  Now it was finally time. Imogen crept out of bed and huddled into her wrapper. Cautiously opening the door of her bedchamber, she listened for signs of life in the household, but all was still. The dim glow of an oil lamp burned at the head of the staircase. With Allegra following at her heels, she made her way downstairs, through the green baize door to the servants’ quarters and, after a struggle, released the bolts on the side door which led out to the small garden at the back of the town house.

  Careless of her bare feet, she followed the little path to the statue of Diana at the centre of the lawn. The ruffles on her wrapper trailed on the damp grass. The night air was sharp on her bare skin. Allegra wove around her ankles, her tail straight up in the air. Imogen stared up at the glowing moon and wished.

  A light breeze ruffled her hair. She sensed his presence before she saw him. The attenuated coolness of the air surrounding him, the way her skin tightened, her heart picking up and chiming with the beat of his. She looked over her shoulder and there he was. Allegra froze, the hairs on her back rising in a stripe, before she hissed viciously and shot off in the opposite direction from Vaelen.

  “I’ve never seen her react like that before.”

  He shrugged. He was standing directly in front of her. She sensed not only his power but his ire. “I told you to cease wishing for me.”

  “I can’t!”

  Though he was angry that she had not complied with his command, he was also exultant. She could not forget him. He did not want her to; he could not want her to, no matter how he tried. She was in his blood.

  “Vaelen.”

  The way she looked at him, he could not resist. Not yet. “Imogen.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately. His mouth was cold, his lips frozen, but almost immediately he drew heat from her, and when their tongues touched the spark was fiery. He kissed her deeply, drawing a response from her that would not be denied, drugging her with desire, inflaming her so that she moaned, wrapping her arms around his neck, standing tiptoe to tug him closer, trembling as he kissed and pressed closer and tighter.

  Reluctantly, Vaelen broke away, breathing hard.

  Imogen clutched at his waistcoat. “Please, don’t just disappear again. Please, I need to know the truth.”

  “Believe me, you don’t.”

  “But I do. I need you. I know you want me too, but you won’t admit it, and I need to know why. Please.” Imogen rubbed her hand over her eyes. The ribbons of her wrapper had come undone. She pulled the sash tighter, unwittingly drawing Vaelen’s attention to her state of undress. He saw her bare feet, white and slender, on the grass. So beautiful. So vulnerable. And so mortal.

  His heart lurched as he finally acknowledged the d
epths of his feelings. No wonder he had lost all taste for others. A coup de foudre. A blow to the heart which would fell them both if he did not stop it. He was caught, but that did not mean he would surrender. Taking Imogen’s hand, he pressed a kiss to her wrist, his lips lingering over the pulse that jumped there, testing his reserve, relieved to find only desire and not hunger.

  “What are you, Vaelen? Are you some kind of sorcerer?”

  “I am no magician.”

  In the moonlight she could see his shape, his eyes, the pallor of his skin, but not the detail of his expression. He was still holding her hand. Anguish and desire, she sensed from him, a blue haze and a red mist. “If not a sorcerer, then what are you?”

  “If we allow ourselves to succumb to this thing between us, I will be your murderer,” Vaelen replied bluntly. “I would not mean to kill you. It is the last thing—I swear on whatever god you choose that it is the last thing—but it would happen. Sooner or later, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself.”

  “I don’t believe you.” But she did, for the blue haze of anguish had given way to a black cloak of despair.

  “Imogen, if I show you, if I prove it to you, will you promise to do as I say?”

  She nodded. He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin, her face into his chest so that she could not see. A breeze ruffled the flounce of her wrapper, and she had the sensation of weightlessness, the floating feeling she sometimes had when dropping off to sleep. Then the sensation of falling which was often the prelude to her waking. He let her go, and she blinked in astonishment, for she was standing at the foot of the stairs in a completely strange house.

  “My house,” Vaelen said.

  “How on earth did we get here?”

  “Come.” Picking up a lamp from a small table, he led the way up the wide staircase which angled round on itself. The stairs were covered in a deep red carpet which muffled the sound of their steps. On the first floor a long hallway stretched out before them. All the doors were closed. The walls were panelled below the dado rail. Above it were hung a collection of paintings such as Imogen had not seen before, no matter how grand the house. Though she was no expert, she recognised several from the Dutch school, one she was sure was a Rembrandt.

  “You like my paintings?” Vaelen paused, holding the lamp higher so that she could inspect the picture of a man in a blue velvet suit. “Van Dyke,” he said. “Much favoured by the king, but I told Charles many times that he was rather too stylised.”

  “King Charles— You mean, the one who was executed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are teasing me. He died over a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “One hundred and sixty-six, to be precise.”

  “Vaelen, you can’t mean…”

  He opened the door and ushered her into the room. Kindling a taper from the fire, he lit the candles which sat in heavy silver branches on either side of the marble mantel. The room revealed was opulent, something between a study and a sitting room, with a large desk facing out from one corner, intricately carved, inlaid and lacquered in a style Imogen had never seen. The walls were tempered a soft gold, the carpet into which her bare feet sank was silk, the scattering of comfortable chairs, sofas and little tables were of varying styles, some she recognised, some not. The overall effect was both exotic and comfortable. A large Chinese vase, the figures finely painted, took pride of place on a side table. A chess set of ivory was laid out by the fireside on another table, the game obviously nearing its end for white, as far as she could tell. Imogen picked up a small gold object, attracted by the winking of the emeralds embedded in it.

  “A scarab beetle, the symbol of rebirth. This one was buried with the Egyptian Pharaoh Akhenaten.”

  The beetle seemed to glow hot in her hand. Vaelen took it from her and put it back on the table, turning her round to face him. The heat from the fire made her feet tingle, sending a warm glow over her skin which the night had cooled, but Vaelen’s hands were still cold to touch. Only his eyes gleamed warm, almost she would call it tender, as he looked at her. Were they not tinged with a heartbreaking and anguished sadness?

  “Are you absolutely sure you want to know the truth?” he asked her. “Can you not trust me when I tell you it would be better for you to remain in ignorance and to let me be?”

  She shook her head. “I am already in too deep,” she said, eerily echoing his own thoughts. “I feel as if I am swimming out of my depth, but I need to know, even if the knowledge drowns me.”

  Vaelen sighed deeply. “Very well.” Upon the table beside the Chinese vase was a decanter. He poured himself a measure of brandy, swallowing it back in one gulp. It was the first time she had seen him drink. “What do you think of this painting?” he asked, returning to join her by the fireside.

  The picture hung over the mantel. A full-length portrait of a man in the same style of cavalier dress as that worn in the Van Dyke which hung in the hallway. A black velvet suit, wide-skirted coat and breeches. Gold-buckled shoes, a heavy fall of lace at his throat and wrists. The subject’s hair was long, silken black. He wore no beard. His face was pale, autocratic and strikingly handsome. The eyes were stormy green. “If it is an ancestor,” Imogen said, “he’s uncannily like you.”

  “It is me.”

  “How can it be? I don’t believe you,” she said defiantly, her tone brittle.

  “But you do. It is why you are afraid. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “I fear the unknown, that is all. I wish you would be blunt with me.”

  “That is me in the portrait as I was almost two hundred years ago, just as I am now. I have others I could show you, going back many centuries.” Vaelen spoke calmly, though Imogen listened with increasing incredulity, scarcely daring to breathe. “I have existed since the time when the Romans ruled your land. I have walked on this earth for longer than the history books can teach you. I have walked with gods and kings and creatures you cannot imagine. I will walk for eternity. That is my reward and my punishment for being who I am.”

  Imogen’s legs were shaking. She backed away, onto the chair which sat by the side of the fire, sinking into its depths, never taking her eyes from Vaelen, whose face was pale and taut, the confession taking a physical toll on him.

  “Who are you?”

  “There are names, words used to scare children, the language of mythology, but none are accurate. I am one of the ancients. We inhabit the world between reality and illusion, a middle ground known only to ourselves. We have powers you cannot comprehend. We have no shadows and no reflection, we are enchanters and beguilers. Though I cannot see myself, I know that my form pleases. It is how we are made, for we must be irresistible to survive.”

  “No.” She could not bear to hear any more. Fantastical as it was, she instinctively knew he was telling the truth. But she did not want this truth. She did not want to hear what came next, for already she could guess—the dark lurking thing in the corner of her mind, the memory of that bruise, that feeling of extreme euphoria. “No.”

  “We are predators, Imogen. Though I fight it, have fought it, have managed to control it for years, centuries, it is what I am. And you, the likes of you, are my prey.”

  “Vaelen, no.”

  “You asked me into your house. You invited me into your arms. I gave you what you wanted. I took what I needed.”

  “No, no, no.”

  “I will take it again. And again. And again. I won’t be able to stop. Not with you. You are not like the others, you see. The others are mere sustenance. You are my lifeblood, Imogen, and that will be your downfall. I cannot resist you. Do you understand now?”

  Chapter 5

  “No!” Her voice was so high-pitched it would have been a scream, were she able to take a breath. She would not believe it. She could not believe it. She got to her feet and threw herself at him, her arms around his neck, her body pressed into his, sobbing and begging, feverishly pleading. “No, no, no. Not us. Not this. Not when i
t feels like this.”

  He fought to restrain her, but even as he tried to imprison her arms, he entwined his own around her delightfully soft body. The sash of her wrapper came undone. Through her nightgown her breasts rose and fell as she struggled, her skin warming his even through the barrier of his clothes. The longing for skin on skin, for flesh on flesh was extreme. He fought her, but he could not fight himself. His needs were too strong, her presence here, in his private sanctum too powerful. The scent of her was like the scent of no other. Not even Lucilla had been able to exert such power over him. No one in all the lives he had led had ever had the effect of Imogen.

  Irresistible. The word countless numbers of women had applied to him. Now he knew what it meant. His lips found hers. His arms drew her close. He heard her sigh in submission. He sensed her heated confusion but though he forced himself to look for it there was no resistance; nothing save a desire to submit and a need as strong as his. It was like looking in a mirror and for the first time seeing his reflection. Her mind pleaded with him. Fatally pleaded with him.

  His kisses were hungry, but so too were hers. Claiming kisses, and claiming hands, touching and tugging. His coat was discarded, then his waistcoat. His neckcloth, her wrapper. Imogen kissed and was kissed and thought of nothing save the next kiss and the next touch and this driving need, beyond her control, to be possessed by him, to know him and to prove him wrong. He was her other half. If he was her other half he could not harm her, for to do so was to harm himself. So she reasoned as she kissed, her hands seeking out his skin at the neck of his shirt, tugging his shirt free from his breeches to touch his back, revelling in the way her touch turned cool into heat, revelling in the extremity of feeling that her stretched-sensitive fingertips roused.

  Vaelen pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a smoothly muscled torso, hollowed stomach, tapering waist. Like a statue, only she could warm him. Pygmalion, only in reverse, Imogen thought hazily as she drank in her fill of him, rubbing her cheek on his chest, stroking her fingers down his sinewy arms, reaching round to trace his spine. “Love me, Vaelen,” she whispered, pressing little kisses onto the line of his ribcage. “Love me.”