Dawn Thompson (9 page)

This was no novice bending over her. This was definitely a lover of some skill, called late to his vocation. That did not shock her. The man was in his mid-thirties, after all. At twenty-two, and situated with such an auspicious family as the Reveres, she was no stranger to Town life. She had seen many such men during her employ with the aristocrats—second sons knocking about Town in a quandary over their future. More than one had tasted the pleasures of the flesh before he traded Beau Brummel black-and-white for vicar’s togs and settled down to preside over a living in some remote parish. The
ton
was rife with
on dits
about this gentleman or that. Jon’s name was not excluded from that company, though there were no serious scandals connected with it. There was something to be said for that, since the
ton
did love a juicy scandal.

She, on the other hand, could boast of no such experience. There had been gentlemen, of course. One could not travel in the Reveres’ circles and not attract members
of the opposite sex; but she was still innocent. She had never met the man she could visualize spending the rest of her life with until Jon.

Deep inside, her sex throbbed as his fingers tantalized her aching breasts, bringing her nipples erect. Her eyes were closed when he took one in his mouth, and she groaned at the touch of his silken tongue curling around first one hard bud and then the other. He had taken her by surprise. Writhing to his rhythm as he teased them, she couldn’t help but groan. Her senses were heightened, every nerve ending raw, sensitive to the slightest touch. Her sexual awareness was no exception. His fingers burned a fiery trail along the curves of her naked body. Where had her nightshift gone? When had he shed his inexpressibles—his boots? As if in a daze she rode the sweet torture of sensation those skilled hands set loose upon her body. Nothing existed then but the two of them. In that moment of sexual awakening, there was no Sebastian, no bloodlust, no feeding frenzy. These were two souls hopelessly in love, and this was their wedding night—until two passions clashed head-on and exploded at her very core.

He had fed, but she had not. Fresh blood was seeping through the linen bandage girding his biceps. It was driving her mad, and she fought with all her strength to steel herself against the lure. Had he noticed? How could he not? His mouth closed over hers, drawing her eyes away from the temptation, his hot tongue sliding silkily between her teeth, drawing hers after it.
Faith! Don’t let the fangs descend!
she prayed.

His skin was scalding. It was as if he had burst into flame and set her afire beneath him. His engorged sex, thick and hard, leaned heavily against her thigh. She
could feel its pulsing throb, quickening her heartbeat, heightening her hunger. When his fingers slipped between her legs, she arched herself against them, fisting her hands in his damp hair, her breath coming in shallow spurts as his fingers delved deeper and brought her to the brink of an ecstasy she never dreamed existed. The passions he had stirred, coupled with the fever of bloodlust he had aroused, was more than she could bear. Every pore—every cell in her body was on fire for him.

Shuddering, involuntary waves of silken fire coursed through her belly and thighs as his fingers, gliding on her wetness in slow, tantalizing strokes, rubbed gently at first, until a quick stab of pain made her breath catch as those skilled fingers stretched her virgin flesh.

He hesitated. “If it is too painful, I will stop.”

“Not painful, no,” she murmured, clasping him to her. “I . . . I never imagined it would be like
this
.”

Nonetheless, he slowed his rhythm. There was a strange, dark look about him, as if he were seeing right through her. Had she spoiled it? It didn’t seem so, the way his member was swelling against her thigh. Still, something was wrong.

“I shan’t break, Jon,” she murmured, leaning into his caress.

Suddenly, his eyes were wild, hungry things. Where had the silver gone? Dilated with desire, they stared down like two glowing onyx stones, hooded and shining with mist in the candle glow. Driving her hand to his groin, he wrapped her fingers around his sex and groaned as it responded to her touch. Riding the sound, it was as though she had left her body—as though she floated somewhere out of herself watching their naked embrace from above.

Like ripples in a stream when a skimming stone breaks
the surface, bursts of icy fire took her from head to toe. Shuddering with pleasure, she murmured his name again and again in involuntary spurts that matched the rhythm of the fingers that stroked her. Why did her voice sound so thick, echoing in her ears in the tiny room where there should be no echo? The pressure against her canine teeth replied to that. The fangs! Granted, they were not fully formed and could not extend far, though they felt as if they could. Had her climax brought them to the surface? It was happening again . . . oh, it
was
—wave upon wave of unstoppable sensation riddling her swollen sex, tingling through her belly and along her thighs as she clung to Jon in mindless oblivion of all but his dynamic body, hardened like steel against her.

All at once he swooped down and took her lips with a hungry mouth, but the kiss was short-lived. Fangs impacted fangs, and Jon pulled back, dazed. Cassandra gasped. How could this be? He had just fed. But it was. His fangs had descended, their needle sharpness gleaming in the candle shine.

He froze stock still; only his sex heaved against her. She held her breath as his hand slid the length of her arched throat, hovered over the distended veins pulsating beneath the skin. The blood echoed in her ears, pounded through her temples until she feared her brain would burst. He lowered his mouth. It was barely inches from her throat. His sex leapt in her hand, swelling—pumping as he moved against her fingers. The deadly fangs were hovering, a hair’s breadth from her skin, so close she dared not swallow for fear he would dive down and take her blood. Was he going to feed?

“No, Jon . . . don’t . . .” she begged feebly. Her hand froze on his member.

He stiffened as though she’d struck him. Crimping her
fingers tighter, he undulated against them. All at once his groan became a cry so terrifying it nearly stopped her heart, and he plunged into her grip, releasing the pulsing rush of his seed, meanwhile sinking his fangs deeply into the white-knuckled fist he’d clenched in the eiderdown pillow alongside her head. Soon the back of his hand was running with blood.

It was more than Cassandra could bear, and she seized his wrist and drank from the puncture wounds. Jon’s eyes were wild, crazed things snapping toward her. He jerked his bleeding hand away. A bloodcurdling snarl spilled from his throat as he rolled to the side, sprang from the bed, and streaked toward the door. But it wasn’t Jon Hyde-White who burst through it into the night. In a silvery blur of skin and fur, sinew and bone, he transformed into the dire wolf and hit the ground on all fours, streaking toward the wood.

Howling into the moonlit darkness, Jon stood on his hind legs and spun toward the cottage behind. Yes; she had closed the door he’d left flung wide. It wasn’t likely that Sebastian would be abroad again tonight, but there were no guarantees of anything in these circumstances. Hadn’t he just proved that? Hadn’t he just nearly fed again, and on Cassandra, with the deer’s blood still fresh on his palate?

He knew the deer would not be enough to satisfy the bloodlust. He should have waited until dawn, when he would have been himself again, when there would have been less danger of what had nearly happened just now occurring.

His forefeet came crashing to earth on another howl. He had nearly finished what Sebastian had started. There
in that dense pine forest, tears streaming down from his glazed wolf eyes, he made a vow that if it took his dying breath, he would send back to hell every vampire he could lay his hands upon—even if he must number himself among them—but beginning with Sebastian.

He sped through the trees, zigzagging back and forth with no purpose but to run off the feeding frenzy before he returned to his bride. If it took the whole night, he would not return to her until there was no danger. She had tasted his blood, just as he had tasted hers. After this, neither would be satisfied until they were satiated with each other. They lived inside each other now. It was bad enough that he had succumbed to temptation and feasted upon her. That she had done the same to him was incomprehensible. How had he let her? It had happened at the height of his climax, or he never would have.

Her powers were escalating. He had to reach the priests of Moldovia in record speed—if they could even help. There were no guarantees. It was to be a long and arduous journey, according to Clive Snow—too long and too arduous, judging by what had just nearly occurred. But there was nothing for it. There was no other avenue open to them.

He ran until his heart felt ready to burst through his barrel-chested wolf’s body. Reaching the stream, he plunged into it—shallow though it was—drinking his fill and bathing his throbbing paw, still bleeding from the self-inflicted wound. The deer still lay where he’d brought it down, a grim reminder. He stiffened. How would he feed upon a long sea voyage? Once they reached the Polish border, there would be plenty of opportunities—human and animal—but aboard ship . . . This didn’t bode well.

All at once something rustled in the treetops, calling his attention. Scarcely breathing, he waited, leaking a low, guttural growl. Nothing untoward met his eyes. If it were Sebastian, he would hardly swoop down—a mere bat against the gigantic wolf he was—and chance an attack. Flaunting his posture, Jon pranced up and down the center of the stream, as if he dared the vampire to do just that.

It wasn’t until some time later, once he’d worked out the strategy for their journey, that he loped back to the cottage on his sore paw. His keen hearing still picked up the rustling sound even though he’d left the forest behind. Then, as he reached the cottage door, a flock of some winged species in flight ghosted across the moon, and he shrugged off his concern, surged back into human form, and entered the cottage.

He was hoping Cassandra would be asleep when he returned, but she wasn’t. She had put on her wrapper, and now sat curled in a wing chair beside the vacant hearth. Her head snapped toward him as he entered. He was warmed by the relief in her beautiful brown eyes, so like a doe’s sparkling toward him. She had set out his dressing gown on the bed, and he shrugged it on. No; he wouldn’t go too near. The sight of her sitting there with the candlelight picking out the gold in her hair, gilding her flushed face, and showing him the curves beneath her all but transparent gown and negligee, was enough to arouse him all over again. Keeping his distance from her had been difficult before. It was going to be impossible now that his life had been lived at the touch of her hand, though not in that exquisite body. Yet,
how
it had lived! What would it be like to bury himself in that willing flesh, to savor her innocent abandon, to make her truly his own? He dared not think about that now. He’d done
the right thing in holding back. He’d made up his mind not to consummate the marriage, at least until after they’d consulted with the priests of Moldovia and knew exactly what they were facing. Looking at her now, so luscious, so ripe for the taking, he feared that resolve was going to be easier said than done.

“Are you angry with me?” she murmured.

He strode to her side, took her tiny hands in his, and raised them to his lips. “Of course not,” he said on a sigh. “You cannot help what you did any more than I can. We will find a way out of this, Cassandra. If it is the last thing I do, we will find a way.”

“When you stormed out of here, I thought . . . I—”

“I dared not stay in your presence, Cass, with the feeding frenzy upon me, and you . . . like you were.”

She averted her eyes. “You’re right. I couldn’t help myself,” she said, low-voiced.

“No more than I could, my love,” he said. “I needed to get away and think—to form some semblance of a plan for our journey. I do not want to alarm you more than I must, but since you wish to be informed and I agree that you ought, suffice it to say that this was not a random thing. Sebastian will not stop until he has killed me and made you what he is.”

Cassandra gasped, and he went on quickly. “My vocation apparently makes me a vampire’s greatest conquest. Killing me will make him stronger. In your case, he means to make you his slave for all eternity. From what I’ve learned from my university studies—which, by the way, only credit vampirism as myth—he must not only drain you dry of blood, you must drink of his blood also, after which you will die and rise a full-fledged vampire, just as he is. Undead. If he ever confronts you, do not
look him in the eye; it will render you helpless. He has the power to mesmerize. That is how he corrupted me. I had no idea what I was facing, that my university myth had come to life. In my ignorance, I let him paralyze my mind.”

“You needn’t worry,” she said. “I certainly shan’t court his company.”

“Hah! Neither would I, and yet I found myself in his company earlier, didn’t I? Never mind, just remember what I’ve said. Here is what I’ve planned. We shan’t take the brougham to Blyth to book passage. I mean to send Jasper home with it. I shall place my bandage inside. With any luck, the scent of that blood will lure Sebastian in the opposite direction.”

“But . . . you’re bleeding still,” she said.

“Not by half of what I was. It is only a graze, Cassandra. Believe me, Jasper will get the lion’s share and he won’t even know I’ve placed it in the coach.”

“Won’t that put him in danger?”

Jon shook his head. “It’s my blood Sebastian wants, Cass—mine and yours. He’ll be furious when he doesn’t find us there, and will hie off after us. I shall also warn Jasper to be wary of strangers, and to keep to public places. As for us, it’s a long distance we must travel to reach the estuary at Blyth. With a fast coach and four, if we leave at dawn and make no stops, we should arrive by dusk. Morning comes quickly. Close your eyes and rest, my love. You need a good night’s sleep. God alone knows when you’ll get another.” He took her hands and drew her to her feet.