Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2)

by Telep, Trisha

  “What man would doubt that, madam? You split its brain in two.”

  She looked down at him again. Her manner suggested she was the wife of some local chieftain. “There have been occasions.”

  There had. Most recently a few weeks back when a man was killed over a disputed hunt.

  “Not with us!” Marcus said, not concealing his annoyance.

  “No, gentlemen. Seems I have the advantage of encountering noble Romans.” She didn’t have to say it in quite that tone. “Could I be less gracious?”

  She leaped out of the chariot, giving them both a glimpse of a pair of very finely muscled legs, and stood over the boar.

  Using one hand, she pulled out Justin’s spear. Had his strike really been that light? After wiping the point on the grass, she handed it to him. “A good shot from that distance.”

  She’d been watching? Damn! These trees concealed too much at times, but now was not the time to consider the local arboretum. Not when Justin could watch her bend over the still warm animal. As she reached for the knife at her belt, he tensed, putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. Marcus did the same. Both relaxed as she slit the animal’s throat before deftly skinning the lower part of the creature, easing the hairy pelt off the hind leg before severing it.

  It wasn’t just her skill, or the body under her tunic, that fascinated Justin. By Zeus, she was strong – slicing the muscle in a few slashes, then cutting through the joint before she stood up and, reaching for a roll of coarse canvas from her chariot, cut off a length with her knife.

  She rolled up the severed limb and handed it to Justin. “Would be churlish to take all of the animal that you helped me kill but I can spare no more. I hunt for a village. You Romans seldom starve no matter how harsh the winter.”

  Really? Wouldn’t do to let her know that supplies were thin, transports being delayed by bad weather or, as the Legate suspected, ambushed en route from the south. Did she think they were hunting to fill idle hours? Fresh meat was a luxury everywhere this time of year.

  But she’d given them a generous haunch. Justin stared as she wrapped the entire carcass and lifted it into the chariot, brushing off his rather tardy, and apparently unnecessary, offer of help.

  “Enjoy your feast, centurions,” she said as she took back the reins and manoeuvred the chariot backwards a little way.

  “I’m not a centurion,” Justin replied, “and neither is Marcus.”

  “Indeed. And not a centurion?”

  She was arrogant, no doubt about it, but the temptation to snub her faded faster than it occurred. “I am Justinius Corvus, Regimental Surgeon.”

  “ Vale, Justinius Corvus,” she said, as she turned the chariot and headed back into the shelter of the trees.

  “That was some woman,” Marcus said. They turned back towards camp. “Did you see the body on her?”

  Justin had. Very clearly. But somehow the thought that his assistant had noticed her strong, slim body rankled him. Considerably. “I wouldn’t harbour designs on some chieftain’s wife,” Justin told him. “That way lies civil unrest and a swift transfer to some far flung outpost of the Empire.”

  “I thought we were already in one.”

  He had to laugh at the lad’s wit but it was too close to truth to be truly funny.

  On their return to camp, a message awaited Justin. As a ranking officer, he was summoned to dine with the Legate. With a warning to Marcus not to eat the entire leg of boar, Justin readied himself for a rather boring evening, enlivened only, he suspected, with stray thoughts of a dark-haired Brigante woman wielding a sharp knife with skill and confidence.

  2

  Once in the safety of the woods, Gwyltha took what blood she could from the carcass. Boar was not as sweet as human blood but would serve. In time of winter famine, she would never feed off any villager. Wiping her mouth, she returned to the village and handed over her kill to the baker. Once cooked, they’d portion it out among them. She’d paid for hospitality for another few days. She was welcome. No one in their right mind refused respect or hospitality to a Timeless One, but there was trouble brewing. She sensed it in the glances she wasn’t intended to catch, the whispers shared between the elders and in the very air around her.

  If there was trouble she would avoid it at all costs. She hoped everyone else would too. Any victory would be short lived once the Romans retaliated with more troops. She’d seen enough in the past couple of hundred years to learn there was no hope of defeating the Roman invaders. But could she rest neutral when the people she was supposed to protect went to war? She understood their frustration. Who rested content under an invader’s heel? Even though the fort at Eboracum was so obviously under strength, the legion was well armed and well fed. There was no hope of defeating them. Unless there was a pact between the tribes . . .

  What if?

  Her mind spun.

  This needed a mind older than hers. Once the village set to feasting on roasted boar, Gwyltha ran through woods and cross country to her mentor’s home high on the moors.

  Vorniax had transformed her, taught her the ways of the Timeless, and bade her never forget the old religion. “Even if the magic has left the land,” he used to say, “we stay.”

  He’d always nagged at her to create her own offspring. Something she’d never done. Yet. Maybe she should have. An army of vampires would have a chance against the Roman spears and swords. But that would disturb the balance and, Vorniax always admonished, was unpardonable.

  He reiterated this as they sat and talked. He answered her misgivings with more questions. As she ran back, her mind mulled over what she’d learned and not learned. She’d been right to suspect discontent. That he’d not denied, pointing out numerous incidents of insults and injustice and the many meetings between the leaders of the tribes. He’d also warned her of sickness in Eboracum and reminded her she was a healer.

  Just like the Roman she’d met that afternoon and had difficulty forgetting. A soldier by his dress and bearing but he’d claimed to be a surgeon. A mender of bones and wounded soldiers.

  She should stop thinking about him. She should not fixate on those dark eyes, the strong line of his jaw or the way the corners of his eyes crinkled as he squinted against the light. There was no point. He was the invader, to be watched with utmost wariness and caution.

  When she returned to the village, only the sentries were awake. Unnoticed she slipped over the outer fence and found her resting place in her hut. A few hours’ repose and she’d do as Vorniax suggested. She’d venture into the town and listen to gossip. Vampire hearing had its advantages.

  The Legate dined well, given it was deep winter, but Justin rather mourned the roasted boar. He hoped Marcus and his companions were doing it justice.

  He also hoped to keep his attention on the conversation. His mind kept wandering back to the Briton in the chariot and her impossible throwing skill and strength. A mere woman could never have slain that boar. Where had the spear come from? Someone concealed in the trees? If so, it was a damn good thing both he and Marcus were wearing breast and back plates. Proved what the Legate always said: it never paid to take risks in this barbaric country.

  “Well, Corvus?”

  Damn! “Sir?” Everyone was looking his way. What in Hades had he missed?

  “The sickness in the town,” Lucas Merinas said.

  Justin gave him a grateful nod.

  “It must be watched and contained if need be, sir. Have there been any deaths?” If there had, surely he’d have picked up talk.

  “Only a couple, but too many might cause unrest, what with the trouble up north and reinforcements not arriving, to say nothing of delayed supplies. Best go down and give me your report. Can’t have the natives getting restless. We need to maintain order.”

  Deaths meant nothing, order and discipline meant all. Of course. “I’ll go down into the town in the morning, sir, and see what I can discover.”

  The child was sweating. Badly. Looking at the limp b
ody and fever-clouded eyes, Justin shook his head. What could he do? He was a surgeon, not a Greek apothecary. Sword cuts and knife wounds he could stitch up, broken bones he knew how to set, but a disease that racked a little helpless body? He was lost. The child wasn’t as old as his step-brother was the last time he’d examined him. But he was headed for the grave.

  “Can you do anything, surgeon?” the frantic mother asked.

  Relieve symptoms perhaps. “Bring some clean water and a linen cloth.”

  He told her to bathe the child and keep damp cloths on his head. It was unlikely to work. The little body was wasted and racked with fever.

  Justin stood to leave and was about to suggest the family make an offering to their gods for the child’s sake, when a voice called from the street.

  He spun around in recognition then immediately gave his attention back to his patient.

  How was this possible? It was her.

  The mother admitted the female hunter from yesterday to the house. If it was any consolation, she appeared as stunned as he was.

  “Surgeon,” she said with a nod of acknowledgment, “I see you are before me.”

  Justin made himself not think of the breasts she revealed under her woollen tunic as she threw her cloak back.

  “Healer.” The mother was anxious. She was scared of offending one or both of them, no doubt. “The surgeon was asking who was sick in the town and I called him to see my son.”

  “As have I come,” the woman replied. “Maybe two heads are better than one.”

  That Justin seriously doubted, in this case at least, but he returned to the bedside. He stood back to let her get close.

  “You ordered the cool cloths?” she asked and he tried to suppress the satisfaction when she smiled at his assent. What did her approval or disapproval matter?

  “It will ease his symptoms,” Justin replied. “The fever is far advanced.”

  “Your son is very ill,” she told the mother, “but I might be able to help.”

  She reached into her pack for a small, stoppered jar. Raising the boy’s head, she forced him to swallow a small amount of its contents. Then she handed the jar to the mother. “Give him the contents of this throughout the day, a little at a time.” She handed over another package. “Infuse half of this in boiling water. When it cools, give it to him tomorrow. Prepare the last half and give it to him on the third day. If his rash doesn’t fade or his fever break, send word and I will return. Wash him daily and keep the cloths on his head as the surgeon ordered. They will help.”

  She barely gave Justin as much as a passing glance as the mother thanked her, and him. Justin followed her out into the street and the misting rain.

  3

  “You know how many cases there are, Surgeon Justin Corvus?” she asked as they stood in the street in the rain.

  “You have the advantage over me, madam,” he replied. “You never gave me your name.”

  “I am Gwyltha,” she replied.

  “Gwyltha,” he said, inclining his head, “we meet again.”

  “Without spears this time.” If she was surprised or impressed he pronounced her name correctly, she hid it. It hadn’t been hard. It was close to his dead mother’s name. Only she’d been from the civilized lands in the far south, a very different world from these barbaric northern wastes. Besides, no man would harbour for his mother the thoughts that sprung to mind standing close to Gwyltha. There was a strange and uncanny air about her. Arrogance, self-assurance, a burning sensuality. Whatever it was, he wanted her. Naked, preferably.

  Short rations and damp weather were affecting his reason.

  “You live in Eboracum?”

  She shook her head. “No. I come when asked to see the sick. Two died yesterday. I fear we will lose more. Of course the death of a Briton is hardly a matter of importance to a Roman.”

  He looked her in the eye. “My mother was a Briton, of the Dumnonii. Her death was of importance.”

  Gwyltha wanted to bite her careless tongue. Perhaps it was because of his British blood that he fascinated her. Hardly! No one else had ever held her attention in this way. “My apologies, surgeon. And my condolences for your mother’s death.”

  “It was years back. I was a child,” he replied. He seemed to hesitate, as if about to say more, but then asked, “The potion you gave that boy? What is it?”

  “A herbal concoction. Helps with fevers and cools the blood. I have more with me. You are here to attend the sick in the town? Don’t you have your own sick and wounded?”

  “My Legate told me to come and see how many are sick.”

  “Indeed? Maybe the town should send a deputation to thank him for his concern.”

  Justin Corvus smiled and she couldn’t help smiling back. Gods of her fathers protect her! This man had an aura about him enough to make her forget her vows and heritage. “I doubt he would appreciate the sentiment in which the deputation might be sent,” he replied.

  The solemn line of his wide mouth, combined with the wicked twinkle in his dark eyes, almost undid her. “That would be a tragic misunderstanding,” she replied. His deep peal of laughter almost completed her unravelling. Time to concentrate on the sick and dying. “I thank you at least for coming. There are several ailing. Not all will die but it seems to hit the young and the old hardest.”

  “Like so many diseases.”

  She nodded.

  “What precisely was in the potion you gave the boy?” he asked, sounding hesitant. Afraid it was some deep held secret perhaps?

  Why not tell him? “Fever bright and heartsease mixed with a soporific. It helps them rest and eases the fever. For the rash there’s not much I can do. If they live it fades.”

  “Would you share what you do?”

  She should refuse, tell him to go back to the camp and leave her in peace but his genuine interest swayed her. “Come with me. It’s no secret. Watch me at the next stop and then you’ll know what to do.”

  Watching her at each bedside was a pleasure, and gave him opportunities to touch her under the pretext of handing her a package or helping her on and off with her cloak. Was this insanity?

  Maybe. But on her part, she did not appear to be repulsed by his company. Maybe she would welcome more? They could hunt together perhaps. Now that was a thought . . .

  “If we split up,” Gwyltha said, as they stood in the narrow street outside the last house they’d visited, “we can work in half the time.”

  This was definitely not what he’d had in mind but she handed him four small vials and a bundle of herbs. Perhaps sensing his hesitation – very real it was too; who knew if her potions killed or cured? – she smiled at him. He was ready to do her bidding in an instant. She led him around a couple of corners and indicated, across the street, a reasonably prosperous Roman-style house. “The father there is stricken with the sickness,” she said. “They are Romanized enough to trust you more than they’d trust me perhaps. Tell them I sent you.”

  “And I have to trust that your potions are safe?”

  Giving him the oddest, searching look, without a trace of a smile, she replied, “In this, you can trust me, surgeon Corvus. I am not one who kills.”

  Meaning she thought he was? Well, of course, he had killed before. “I will attend him,” he said. “Meet me here?”

  She indicated the next corner. “Down there. I have a house to visit. Two children are ailing.”

  After the initial surprise at finding him on their doorstep, Justin was admitted, greeted by the wife as if he were their saviour. He was taken to see the patient. One glance at the wasted body in the bed convinced him the woman was fated to be a widow, but he kept that to himself. He dosed the patient with Gwyltha’s potion and instructed that he be bathed and given the infusion of the dried herbs. Would do no good, he was certain, but might ease the man’s last hours.

  Out on the street, Justin waited some minutes. He experienced an illogical pleasure as Gwyltha emerged from the low doorway and looked in his dire
ction.

  “How was Arius?” she asked, as they walked towards the next call.

  “I doubt he’ll last until morning. He could barely swallow the potion.”

  “But he swallowed it?” she asked. Justin nodded. “Then all we can do is hope. Secunda, his wife, will see that all care is taken. You told her that we would be back in three days?”

  “I did.”

  “Then we’d best on to the next patient.”

  It was as if he were in a waking trance. He had to follow her, and was content to. He longed to be close to her, contrived more than once to brush her clothes or let his hand touch hers, or his arm to brush her cloak.

  Whatever was happening to him was delightful – apart from the wild and insane need to take her into some narrow doorway and sate himself then and there.

  Except he wouldn’t. Demanding the conqueror’s prerogative had never been his way. When he wanted a woman, he found one who was willing. What was different with Gwyltha? It had to be more than her eyes, blue as the sky in Rome, her smile that curved up the corners of her mouth, or the promise of her warm breasts beneath her tunic. He’d never met a woman who healed, walked the streets to tend the sick, was willing to share her knowledge (for whatever it might be worth) and could hit a bolting boar between the eyes at fifty paces.

  Gwyltha smiled to herself as Justin fell in step beside her. She had him. Almost. He followed her as a newborn colt trailed its mother. With the very modicum of compulsion, he’d be hers. She had need of the blood in his veins. Two long runs last night used up the strength she’d taken from the boar.

  After the last patient, she led him into a narrow street behind a temple, where they would be undisturbed. This entrance was little used except before festivals. For a moment he looked around, a flash of concern in his eyes, but she reached out and put her hand on his arm. “Justin Corvus, you have nothing to fear. I am Gwyltha, that is all.” As she spoke, he looked into her eyes and she sent the full force of her vampire control into his mind.

  He was hers, docile, on the edge of quiescence as she drew him close. Brushing his cloak and tunic from his neck, she stretched up to his height, and cradled his head in one hand. She tilted it to expose his neck and bit.