Blood Fire (26 page)
Then the girls attended to her. Desiree undid Octavia’s dress with quick, efficient movements. “Let’s get her naked quickly,” the dark-haired courtesan giggled.
“Indeed,” agreed Flame, who set to work on undoing Octavia’s garters, then pulled off her shoes and tugged off her stockings. In minutes, the three girls had her completely nude.
She looked so lush and beautiful after having the baby. Her belly had a slight round, her hips were generous, and she was plumper, which gave her full breasts and sweet thighs.
For several moments, he got to enjoy the sight of three women caressing and kissing his wife. Their clever mouths sucked Octavia’s nipples to long, reddened points. She moaned in ecstasy even when they tugged hard. Matthew instinctively gripped his cock when Honey’s hand slid into Octavia’s nether curls. He could smell his wife’s desire.
She was wanton and lovely.
How could he have planned to trap her in his castle, to hide her like a prisoner in a gothic novel?
How could he not do it? Now she was in danger. He had to protect her, and no one knew how to free her from danger. As long as she was the sixth female demon who could take over the world, there would be no real safety for her.
The girls moved away from Octavia, giggling. The third handsome young lord approached. He dropped to one knee, and grasped Octavia’s bottom, and pulled her juicy cunny toward his mouth.
Suddenly, Matthew realized what he was watching—another man kissing her sweet cunny.
Hell, no.
He strode to the two of them and pulled Octavia back from the young man’s mouth. “I’m cutting in,” he growled.
He picked Octavia up, sliding his cock into her with one thrust. She let her head fall back, moaning loudly. “Oh yes, Sutcliffe—”
“Matthew.”
“Who?”
“Me. I am Matthew.” Damnation, he realized he’d never even told her his given name. “Call me that. I was a damned fool to try to close my heart to you, Octavia. I love you.”
Guilt speared him, even as he said the words. He was a vampire; he was cursed to die; he needed to make her fall in love with him. Every one of those things made it wrong for him to say those words.
They should mean something. They should be a promise of forever.
But she was wriggling on him, rubbing her cunny along his shaft, and he couldn’t think. “You don’t need to dream about sex anymore,” he said hoarsely. “You can have it whenever you want, with whatever fantasy you want . . . with me.”
One thing he’d learned from this dream: He couldn’t share her.
Holding her bottom, he thrust into her. Her arms wrapped around his neck, she buried her head against his chest, and they fucked together—
She was coming.
He lost control. Pleasure exploded in him like one of her out-of-control fires. It seared his heart. Holding her, he climaxed in her, and he was so weakened, he had to drop to his knees. At least he didn’t drop her.
She moaned and squealed and screamed, but between her lovely, erotic sounds, he caught three distinct words. I. Love. You.
The world was shaking around her. . . .
“Wake up, Octavia.”
No, the world wasn’t moving—someone was shaking her shoulder, trying to wake her. Her erotic dream was over. Octavia rubbed her eyes. Then she remembered where they were and what had happened before. “Are we in danger?”
She managed to focus on her husband’s face. On Matthew’s face. She hadn’t even known his Christian name, and he’d only been willing to reveal it in a dream.
He gave her a wry smile. “Time to wake up, love. You’ve slept for almost a whole day, and we’ve arrived at Castle Grim.”
16
In the Depths of the Castle
I
n the dream, he had said, “I love you.” She had said it, too, in the middle of her wild climax. She had opened her heart in those three simple words, and so had he, yet when they had arrived at the castle . . .
n the dream, he had said, “I love you.” She had said it, too, in the middle of her wild climax. She had opened her heart in those three simple words, and so had he, yet when they had arrived at the castle . . .
As soon as they had entered the soaring entrance hall, her husband had sent his skeleton staff of servants to prepare the nursery for Lottie and to open the master’s and mistress’s chambers. Then he had sent her to her room to bathe and requested that one of the maids loan her a dress. It was a simple gown, and the maid had been embarrassed to hand it to her, but Matthew had explained they’d lost all their belongings in a fire. Then he had locked himself in his darkened bedroom and had gone to sleep.
He had deserted her, and it was the middle of the afternoon. That left Octavia surprised, though they were safe and he must be exhausted. She didn’t think he had slept at all during the journey back.
She spent her day with Lottie, cuddling her daughter. She had enjoyed her bath, was grateful to wear something other than her scorched and torn nightdress, and had savored the delicious lunch prepared by the castle’s kitchen staff.
Charlotte seemed to be healthy, sound, and happy. She waved her fists happily and tried to bite Octavia on her jaw with her toothless mouth, as though hoping there might be milk there.
But as soon as the maids took Lottie to the nursery and she was away from her daughter, fear and doubt took root in her heart. Why had he left her and not let her come to him?
He had said he loved her in her
dream,
not in reality. She had dreamed what she wanted him to say. In reality, he had not opened his heart to her. He had not fallen in love with her. How could he love her when she was a witch? How could he love her when she’d put them in danger? He had risked death for her. Was it possible for a man to ever love a woman who had brought him nothing but trouble?
dream,
not in reality. She had dreamed what she wanted him to say. In reality, he had not opened his heart to her. He had not fallen in love with her. How could he love her when she was a witch? How could he love her when she’d put them in danger? He had risked death for her. Was it possible for a man to ever love a woman who had brought him nothing but trouble?
She didn’t know.
Now, with nothing else to do, she set off to explore the castle. He had called it the “Castle Grim,” and this was supposed to have been her prison.
Their rooms were in the main part of the house. There were two round towers at each end, with battlements on top. Octavia walked down the immense and seemingly endless hallway. She was alone, but she felt afraid to make any sound.
With stone walls twenty feet thick comprising the outside wall, a drawbridge over a dry moat, then an impregnable house sitting within the courtyard, they should all be safe.
Why, then, was her heart pounding so hard?
She made her way down the grand staircase to the enormous entry. It seemed large enough that a three-mast ship could be dragged in. Plaster had been applied to the stone walls and larger windows had been added, filled with colored, leaded glass. But the floor was made of huge flagstones, and it sent up heavy, echoing thuds when she walked upon it.
A helpful young footman came to her, bowed with a stiff spine, and asked if she required anything.
Safety? Escape? Clothing? Her husband’s love?
She was accustomed to running a house, but she gave an awkward “no,” and hurried away.
For hours, she wandered through the house. There were hundreds of rooms; some were almost original, with stone walls and tapestries and furnishings that must have been five hundred years old. Others had been modernized and had flocked wallpaper, and dainty furniture, and enormous beds. Even though the castle was rarely used, everything was immaculate.
Then she found a small door, narrow with a pointed top. Pushing through that entry, she found she was in one of the towers.
Octavia made her way gingerly up the winding stair. There was no banister or railing. The steps hugged the wall, spiraling up. If she slipped, she would fall to her death.
When she reached the end of the stair, she faced a door. It proved to be locked. Rather than worry about finding keys, she simply commanded the lock to open, using her powers. Though it took a push of considerable strength to make the heavy, reluctant door open.
Octavia held the door, then peeped around it.
It was a gentleman’s room, but decorated in an Arabic style. The bed was a large oval, the cover trimmed with gold and glittering jewels. The sun was setting, and the red-gold light leapt off the facets of the gems.
Curtains that were cinched with ties surrounded the bed. There were no chairs, just voluptuous cushions, all covered in silk.
There was a dresser with a mirror that was encrusted with a decorative mosaic and depicted a sultan amidst his harem.
Whose room had this been?
Had it been her husband’s?
Octavia crept to the dresser as if she were committing a crime by walking into the room. Silly. She straightened her shoulders, strode to the beautiful piece, and opened drawers.
In the first she found a journal. Her husband’s name was scrawled on the first page, but there were no entries.
Then she found a bundle of letters tied with a scarlet ribbon.
They had to be love letters. Did she really want to see who had written love letters to her husband?
Damning herself, she untied the ribbon. The letters spilled onto the marble top of the dresser. She picked up one, and it unfolded as she lifted it.
Startlingly familiar handwriting stared her in the face.
Confused, icy-cold and sweating hot at the same time, she looked down at the signature. It was just one name.
Mellelle.
She recognized it—that had been a pet version of her mother’s middle name, Amelia, that she remembered her mother’s family using. No one else of the
ton
would know it, so using it would keep her mother’s identity a secret.
Mellelle.
She recognized it—that had been a pet version of her mother’s middle name, Amelia, that she remembered her mother’s family using. No one else of the
ton
would know it, so using it would keep her mother’s identity a secret.
Her mother had written letters to
Sutcliffe?
To . . . Matthew?
Sutcliffe?
To . . . Matthew?
She jerked her eyes to the top of the letter.
My dear Frederick,
it said. And the date . . . Sutcliffe was six years older than she was. He would have been a boy when this had been written.
it said. And the date . . . Sutcliffe was six years older than she was. He would have been a boy when this had been written.
A glance at the address revealed the truth. Her mother had written letters to Matthew’s father, the previous earl. Octavia quickly read the first one. In it, her mother had begged Matthew’s father to forget her, insisting that she would not have an affair with him.
Octavia swallowed hard. Her mother’s letters revealed how desperately in love Matthew’s father had been. His father had killed himself over a woman he had loved but could not have.
Heavens, had that woman been her mother?
“What are you doing in the dungeon, darling wife?”
Octavia spun around on her heel, aware she had been staring at one of the walls of this bizarre cell without seeing a thing.
Her husband—Matthew—leaned against the door frame. He wore a shirt, open at his throat, breeches, and polished black boots. The heavy door with iron hinges and grille stood open, throwing light from torches into the room. The torches—and fires—warmed this place, keeping out the wintery cold.
She pointed. “When I saw the lit torches I had to investigate. This place is . . . like the perfect setting for a gothic novel.”
“You aren’t going to be the imprisoned heroine.”
She remembered what he had told her about his father—how he had taken his own life over his unrequited love. Matthew did not know it was over her mother.
What was the point of telling him?
At least she had pushed her mother’s letters back into her pocket when she’d come down to the basement of the castle—to the stone corridors and dungeon-like cells. Once she had squinted in the shadows of this creepy place, she’d realized she wouldn’t be able to read a word.
She looked at him as placidly and innocently as she could. “Your ancestors kept prisoners here?”
“Perhaps not just my ancestors.” He moved to a set of iron shackles on the wall and closed one of the iron cuffs around his wrist. “Do you remember tying me to the bed?”
She goggled at him. “You would make love to women down here?”
He laughed. “Actually, I never have. Dank and cobwebs aren’t my particular fantasy.”
“Are they anyone’s fantasy?” she asked, mystified.
“I’m not a great connoisseur of people’s sexual predilections, but I’ve seen a few curious ones. Some people like to be abused.”
She shuddered.
“Mrs. Hastings, the housekeeper, said you had gone up into the tower. To my father’s rooms.”
“There is a housekeeper? I haven’t seen her yet.” She spoke to distract him, but then, she hadn’t asked, had she? She had wanted to hide away from everyone.
“That used to be my room. When my parents were battling, I wanted to be as far away as possible. So I decided to use the tower room, and decorated it in the most exotic way I could. I was a boy, dreaming of adventure.”
“It is a beautiful room. I thought it was yours. I found—”
“You found letters to my father, didn’t you? I do not know who the woman ‘Mellelle’ was. His love for her was the reason he killed himself.”
It was over her mother. Oh, she didn’t want to talk about this. “I should go upstairs—I should speak with the housekeeper, be introduced to the servants. I’ve been derelict in my duties as mistress of the house.”
She didn’t know why she had been skulking around the castle. They had been attacked, but it wasn’t as if she were leaping at her own shadow. . . .
She had wanted to be alone, just as she’d been when she ran away. She had been afraid his servants would guess her secret. That she would start a fire by accident, or break a mirror, or send dishes hurtling through the air.
She didn’t . . . fit in anymore.
How could she live in a castle amongst normal, human people, when werewolves and warlocks were trying to attack her? What if her powers did something unexpected? What if she did start another fire?
What if she hurt Lottie . . . by accident?
Maybe she shouldn’t be a prisoner in a castle—maybe what she should be was alone. Completely alone. Where she couldn’t bring danger to anyone, and where her powers couldn’t hurt anyone.
What would the servants do if they learned she was a witch? Would they turn on her and kill her to protect themselves?
“What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.” Matthew caught her just as her feet and legs suddenly felt weightless beneath her.
“I don’t know,” Octavia mumbled. “I’ve been wandering the castle, hiding from people. I’m afraid. I’m a witch—If people knew, they would lock me up in a place like this. They would burn me at the stake.”
“Shh.” Matthew cradled her to him and kissed the top of her head. “None of those things will happen to you. I will protect you with my life.”
As Matthew said the words, he realized he actually had done that. He had given up his life in his hunt for Octavia. He would willingly be clawed apart by werewolves, ripped to pieces by a vampire, blasted by a warlock’s spell, if he could guarantee her safety.
After losing Gregory, he’d vowed never to open his heart to pain again. As for love, he had seen how it destroyed a man—he’d had the evidence of his father’s suicide.
What he hadn’t expected was that love—and this had to be insane, mad love—made a man willing to face destruction. In their shared dream, he’d told her he loved her. It was the truth.
He needed her now. He yearned for her.
This wasn’t a hunger for blood—he had quenched that last night with the warlocks.
This was something deeper. The vampire queen had told him he had a soul, but right now, all he felt inside was empty.
He loved his wife; but he had no right to take her love. Not without giving her the truth. She feared that people would destroy her for what she was.
Once she learned he was a vampire, she would hate and fear him. He could not lie, cheat, win her heart under false pretenses. It would not win him his life, his soul, and his freedom because she would find out the truth and hate him.
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