Darkness In The Flames

by Kelly, Sahara

  “At least you got that part right.” Gran sighed and folded her needles at last, wrapping the yarn around their tips and sticking them into a ball of wool. At some point a colorful scarf would emerge, probably then to be sent posthaste to Casey’s dorm and make her roommates green with envy.

  Gran did fabulous knitting, no doubt about it.

  “Soooo…” Casey urged her on. “It was carried by a forefather of ours. Into battle, maybe, where he did wonderful brave deeds and rescued the fair maiden from an evil baron who was holding her hostage, trying to have his wicked way with her. Oh, in a massive castle on a hilltop. Probably surrounded by…um…Orcs?”

  “This isn’t The Lord of the Rings, darling.” Gran sniffed contemptuously. “This is much, much more.”

  “Oh.” Casey put on a dramatic expression of disappointment. “No handsome elves or kings?”

  “’Fraid not. Of course there were handsome men, quite a few of them, as I recall the tales. Our family is proud of its good-looking ancestors.”

  “You’ve mentioned that a time or two.” Casey snickered.

  “If you go into the second drawer down—there in the table next to you—you’ll find something. Go look.”

  Casey delved into the small end table, opening the drawer and blinking at the small, framed painting she found within. Sensing it was an antique, she carefully withdrew it and rested it on her knee, turning on the lamp next to her so she could get a better look.

  “They’re family.” Gran knitted on.

  Two people stared somberly back at Casey, faces serene and expressionless in that typical way of portraits. A man, handsome and masculine, dark hair pulled correctly back but shining where the artist had caught tiny flickers of light amidst the waves.

  It was the woman next to him who really jumped from the small canvas. Her rich red hair fell free, unusual for a portrait of that time, cascading down past her shoulders. It glowed against the deep emerald green gown she wore which was caught high up under the breasts. Casey recognized the style. “God, this is brilliant, Gran. Too Jane Austen for words. What a handsome couple. Who were they?”

  “I told you. Your ancestors, luv.”

  “Really?” Casey continued to stare at the couple.

  “It’s the only portrait we have of them. They lived hereabouts in the early 1800s—in what used to be a big place a bit farther down the coast. Sadly it took a direct hit in 1940 or so from a German bomber. Nothing left these days but a few ruins. Real shame that was.”

  “I’ll bet.” She paused. “Anybody killed?”

  “No, the place had been empty for years. After those two left—” Gran nodded at the painting, “it stayed empty for a while, then other folks moved in. Folks from another branch of the family. It sort of slid into disrepair by the turn of the century. There were all kinds of stories about it being haunted and the like, so people tended to stay away. You know how these legends get started.”

  Casey looked up. “Haunted?”

  “No truth in it. The hauntings were long over by then.”

  “Ah. So there were hauntings, though?”

  “At one point, so they say.” Gran looked speculative. “I’m not sure how true it all is. But you’ve got her hair, that’s for sure.”

  Casey glanced at the woman again. “Yeah. I do, I guess. Who is she? Or who was she?”

  “They, my dear, are your great-great and so on something-or-others. Adrian and Katherine Chesswell.”

  Casey blinked. “Really? Chesswells? Wow.”

  “And if what they say is correct, Adrian’s father would be very proud to think you’re going into the medical profession.” Gran smiled.

  “He was a doctor too?”

  “Not exactly. He was a scientist. Some of his papers are still on file at the Royal Academy, I think. In London someplace. They never throw stuff out. You can probably find them on that fancy laptop computer of yours. Not much left private these days.”

  Casey chuckled. It was true. There were still records from the twelfth century or thereabouts, stacked in precious piles of dust somewhere deep in the recesses of ancient London buildings.

  “But it didn’t begin with them.” Gran looked across the room to the wall that held the broadsword. “It began with another red-haired woman.”

  Casey listened as the light faded outside, enclosing the two of them in a world of their own. Now perhaps she would hear the full story.

  “It began with the woman whose blood still stains that sword.”

  The words sent a chill up Casey’s spine and she followed her grandmother’s gaze to the darkness on the blade. “That’s blood?”

  “Yes, my dear. Hers.” Grandmother Chesswell took a deep breath and began her tale.

  “Her name was Thérèse…”

  Chapter One

  A gentlemen’s gaming club

  London, 1817

  Marcus Camberley gazed across the green baize of the card table at his opponent. This faro game had been going on for hours, fortunes moving backward and forward across the cards spread out before the players.

  Now there were just two left—himself and Rowan Selkirk.

  “Your bet, I believe?” Marcus drawled the words into the quiet, never looking away from the beautiful young man on the other side of the deck. Marcus held the “bank” and waited patiently for the other to decide which of the cards he’d select to play.

  Selkirk’s pile of banknotes was substantial and Marcus suddenly knew he was going to play it all on this turn.

  Unusually dark eyes lifted to his as his pale hand pushed the entire pile onto the ace of spades. It was a major gamble, a challenge to the Fates and to Marcus’ own fortune. The latter was not a problem. Marcus had enough wealth accumulated to cover all his expenses, no matter whether he won or lost.

  He believed that Selkirk was good for it too. The family had some minor reputation as being solidly funded, could be seen at the right functions and had recently married off a daughter to an earl or some such. It was the way of their world.

  So Rowan wasn’t risking the family fortune on this turn of the cards.

  No, it was something else he was risking. Or offering.

  Marcus knew these things with a certainty that surprised him. Something in Rowan’s eyes, a touch of his tongue to his lips, a mere shift of the broad shoulders beneath the clean and simple cut of his evening jacket—oh yes, it was there.

  And Marcus found his body responding. Beauty of all kinds appealed to him, the curve of a woman’s breast had an allure every bit as strong as that of a firm male arse. He’d enjoyed them both and would continue to do so for whatever time the Fates permitted him.

  His hand strayed absently to his neck and the tip of a puckered scar that was mostly concealed by his cravat. He’d seen eyes like those before. Seen that darkness, those tiny flickers of fire lurking behind them.

  That time it had been a woman. Now it was a man looking at him with the same mysterious gaze.

  His cock stirred, swelling beneath his breeches. He leaned back, giving himself room to enjoy the first flickers of desire. It would be a fleeting experience, most probably, just like all the others. But for tonight…he would take the pleasure offered.

  His suppositions were reinforced as Selkirk slowly lifted his hand to the table and showed Marcus a fine emerald ring.

  “Shall we make things interesting?” His voice was strong, not a tremor in his tone. He tugged at the ring that glittered on his forefinger. It was a tight fit, so Rowan lifted it to his mouth, letting his tongue moisten the flesh.

  Marcus smiled and nodded. “By all means.” He watched Rowan’s tongue caress the knuckle, sliding around it lasciviously. The message was unmistakable.

  Win or lose, they were destined to spend what was left of the night together.

  There were no other players in their corner of the club, the money on the table having surpassed what few could afford to lose and there were even fewer willing to risk so much on the possibility of a
win. It was just the two of them in their own sensual world.

  Marcus was hard, fully aroused, the length of his cock burning against his thigh and mounding the fabric covering it. Was Rowan hard too? Would he be red and swollen, the head of his cock blooming into ridged arousal? Was he cut? Circumcised to a naked glory? Or was he even now sliding from the concealing folds of his foreskin?

  All these things Marcus would learn—soon.

  Rowan tossed the ring onto the pile of banknotes. “I’m ready.”

  Oh yes. So am I.

  He turned to the cards and drew the first, a queen, which was discarded. Next to come would be his card, the one that would win him any bets placed upon it. If it were an ace, he would claim the notes Rowan had piled so neatly and topped with his signet ring.

  It was a four. No win for either man. Marcus again discarded it. Should the next card be an ace, Rowan would retrieve his bet and an equal amount from Marcus. He let his hand linger over the deck, building the tension, watching the gleam in Rowan’s eyes.

  Both men watched each other, not the cards. This wasn’t about the game of faro. This was about another game, a game that each desired and a game that both would win.

  Marcus drew—another four. The turn was ended. “Shall we continue?”

  “One more.” Rowan nodded. “’Twould be a shame to finish too soon…” He lifted an eyebrow in amusement. “Prolonging the excitement is part of the fun, is it not?”

  This time Marcus licked his lips provocatively. “I couldn’t agree more.” The air was thick between them now, taut with unspoken questions to which the answers were already evident. Marcus desired this man. Wanted him naked and ready, firm flesh to firm flesh, body to body, chasing the shadows from his life for a little while.

  Once again he drew the discard, then reached for the second turn. It was a king. He glanced at Rowan. “No luck for me this turn.”

  “Well, you know what they say.” Rowan’s lips curved slightly.

  “I do indeed.” Marcus revealed the last card of the turn. It was the ace of hearts.

  Rowan tilted his head. “Unlucky at cards…”

  They stood, as if by mutual decision. Marcus settled the bet by pushing a substantial pile of his own banknotes toward Rowan. “Will you do me the honor of joining me for a brandy to celebrate your good fortune?” He watched as Rowan replaced the emerald on his hand. “I have a fine cognac, a pleasant study at home and my carriage is outside. If you would be interested?”

  Rowan stared at him. “Of course. It would be an excellent conclusion to this evening, I think.”

  Marcus followed him from the room, glimpsing the firm buttocks flexing beneath the evening trousers. He smiled. “I think so too.”

  The Camberley carriage was indeed waiting and Rowan climbed in, tickles of awareness flooding his spine. It had been some time since his desire had been this aroused by anyone other than…

  Well, best not to think of her at the moment. She dominated the private part of his nightmarish existence. This was real and would be a diverting—if transitory—delight, assuming all went well. Sir Marcus Camberley was something of an enigma. So the evening’s entertainment would satisfy Rowan’s mild curiosity perhaps, as well as his lusts.

  Mad Marcus, he’d been called. Also Sir Madness Camberley if Rowan remembered correctly, both sobriquets earned by the escapades of his youth. He was certainly appealing. Thick black hair fell in unruly waves around skin nearly as pale as Rowan’s. Then there were the brown eyes that glowed with amber lights when the candles reflected off them in such a way as to make them seem translucent.

  His body was as well built as could be desired, thighs firm and well muscled, shoulders no less broad and strong for his age. Rowan guessed him to be in his mid-thirties perhaps. Or possibly younger. With Marcus, it was hard to tell.

  Strangely, Rowan found him appealing on a much deeper level than he’d expected. Something was responding, some place Rowan usually kept concealed, hidden from the world he so seldom visited. It was not easy for one such as he to interact with the Ton, since being deathly reactive to sunlight made trips to St. James’s Park out of the question.

  It had become a simple matter for Rowan Selkirk to embrace his “eccentricities” and live as a man of the night. An easy cloak for the reality of what he actually was—a creature of nightmares and darkness. A vampire.

  As Marcus joined him in the carriage and the door closed behind him, Rowan’s fangs stirred, a tingle that was spurred on by his cock. Marcus’ scent was deep and rich, redolent of male sexuality. And yet—beneath—there was a dark taint, a quick undertone of something bitter.

  Rowan hungered to delve deeper into that fragrance. Before this night was out he would be sated, sexually and physically. And Marcus would recall nothing of the feeding that would take place after the sex.

  “Thank you.” Marcus’ voice was low, the timbre deep.

  “For what?”

  “For joining me this evening. For agreeing to—pass some time with me.” Marcus’ eyes were unflinching as they watched Rowan.

  “You knew I wanted to.” Daringly, Rowan let his hand rest on the other man’s thigh, noting the hardness barely concealed by the fine wool.

  “I did. And I think you knew the invitation would come. I’d enjoy talking to you. Perhaps…” His tapered fingers enfolded Rowan’s hand and moved it higher, cupping his cock through the barrier of his clothing. “Perhaps we might find pleasure in such a—conversation.”

  Rowan felt the stirring of that delicious cock beneath his hand and he curved his fingers in response, caressing the outline of it, measuring it and finding it to his taste. Thick and hard, it would be an instrument of delight, he was sure.

  He looked up once more to glimpse the amber fire burning in Marcus’ gaze. “I believe such pleasures would be mutual.”

  Satisfied, Marcus leaned back against the squabs, apparently quite content to have Rowan’s hand right where it was. “Agreed.” His hand strayed to his cravat and he adjusted it. “I don’t believe our paths have crossed before.”

  Rowan gave Marcus a farewell squeeze and leaned back himself, making quite sure his own erection was clearly visible to the other man. This was a game for two and he would not be found wanting. “I would have remembered, I’m sure.”

  “You don’t come up to town much?”

  “No. I prefer the dark hours of the night. There are far too many annoying daytime activities to interest me. I have a small place outside London where I prefer to—live.”

  “No wife? No family breathing down your handsome neck to wed and provide heirs for the line?”

  It was polite conversation, but clearly Marcus was double checking to make sure matters were as plain between them as their arousals.

  Rowan grinned. “I doubt there’s a man out there who hasn’t been nagged about that at one time or another. But to answer for my part—no. There are heirs aplenty within my family. They have discovered their best course is to leave me to my own devices.”

  “So you shun the daylight.” Marcus sounded thoughtful.

  “It—I developed a reaction to it after a-an illness in Europe. I am very sensitive now, so I find it better to work at night.” Rowan shrugged. “’Tis said I’m eccentric. I don’t particularly care what people say, so I live the life that suits me.”

  “And you enjoy a game of cards.”

  “Oh yes. Cards, the occasional woman, whoever—whatever catches my fancy.”

  Marcus leaned forward and casually brushed a stray piece of hair from Rowan’s face. “And so we have caught each other’s fancy, have we not?”

  Rowan swallowed down his lust. “Yes. Yes we have.” He lifted his chin, liking the feel of Marcus’ hand on his face. “Have you no—obligations?”

  “None whatsoever. I take my pleasures where I please, when I please and with whom I please.” The deep voice was a caress and a promise. “There is little I haven’t seen, few things I haven’t done. I am trying to live o
ut my life to its fullest, but like you—I prefer the night. It’s less censorious. There are fewer eyes turned on me out of curiosity. More—like yours—turned on me with desire.”

  Marcus let his hand fall from Rowan’s face to his groin. He gripped Rowan’s cock firmly, bunching the fabric around it, learning it with fingers that rippled along its length like a stream of heat. “Desire that I can assure you is fully reciprocated.”

  The carriage rattled to a halt, separating the two men and breaking the spell that held Rowan in its thrall.

  His arousal was mounting, rising steadily to a pitch that would take little to send him into an orgasm. Just thinking about how that might be achieved was a tiny release in itself and Rowan shivered as his body clenched and relaxed during his descent from the vehicle and into Marcus’ quiet, dark home.

  “This way.” Marcus tossed his cloak aside and Rowan copied him, following his host into a snug library where the remains of a fire still shed light into the room. It smelled of leather and books seasoned with a faint whiff of recently smoked cheroot.

  Marcus lit one branch of candles then walked to a table by the fireplace where crystal shone in a quiet display of rainbows. “Cognac?”

  Rowan nodded. “Thank you.”

  Marcus did things with decanters and snifters, finally returning to stand in front of Rowan with a glass in each hand. He passed one to Rowan then reached for him with his now-empty grasp, tugging at his cravat and sliding it slowly from his neck. “I would see you, my friend. All of you. Without the trappings of civilization.”

  Rowan sipped, noting the tiny tang he sensed on the back of his tongue. There was no real need or delight from such an act, since he did not require mortal food or drink. It was more the sharing of it, the companionship it produced that made him smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

  He set the glass down and shrugged out of his coat, stripping off his waistcoat and his shirt moments thereafter and shaking his hair free. His hands fell to the ties of his breeches and he loosened them but did not let them fall. It would be Marcus who would direct the speed of this encounter, he decided. Let his actions tell Rowan what he wanted—what he desired.