“Stop!” Constantine ordered.
The man turned, surprise in his face as he stared at Constantine, who couldn’t remove his eyes from the unconscious woman cradled to the man’s chest. Her hair cascaded from the servant’s arms and reached his thighs, brushing his trousers.
A sentiment akin to possession squeezed his heart tight. The unsettling emotion—a first for him—combined with fear for the girl’s wellbeing made his wolf growl. He pointed at the sleeping beauty, then raised one eyebrow. “Release her.”
“I will do no such thing,” the man answered in a peasant version of the more refined Asturian language.
Used to being obeyed, Constantine’s temper flared. Next thing he knew, his fangs were grazing the servant’s throat.
“Please, don’t hurt Doña Camelia—” the werewolf whimpered, his scared scent telling more than his words.
Taken aback, Constantine stepped away, identifying at once the werewolf was harmless. “Who’s she and what were you planning to do with her?”
“She’s Doña Camelia Del Rei, and I was taking her back to her father—”
“Is she the hidalgo’s daughter?”
The man nodded.
“So, she’s the aura healer—” Like everyone else in Spain, he had heard of Doña Camelia Del Rei’s skills as one of the few healers in her field. She was a legend. People waited months to visit with her. Thanks to his wolf powers, he had never needed her help and therefore never approached her. Somehow, in his mind, Doña Camelia embodied the ideal of a nun who lived in the service of others. He had never thought of her as a beautiful woman.
Even if tainted by the servant’s proximity, Camelia’s scent reached Constantine’s nostrils. The thoughts her bouquet inspired in him were far away from proper, nothing like the fleeting consideration he would give a nun. Curious, Constantine reached down to gently tilt the girl’s chin, but she stirred in the servant’s arms first, saving him from touching her and disgracing her in the process. What was it about this woman that made him forget himself and society rules?
He gave her a good look. Strong, yet elegant features spoke of a pure lineage. Her closed eyes, framed by long pale lashes, and soft breathing made her appear frail, but her lips were curved up, painting a picture of inner stubbornness. Still unconscious, Camelia moaned in pain.
Constantine seized the man’s shoulder in a mortal grip. “What did you do to her?”
Tears sprung up from the man’s eyes, and he cried, “Nothing. I swear!”
“She’s suffering.” Constantine desired to hold Camelia, but knew better than dishonor her. He didn’t know how loyal the servant was to his doña, but one word out about a stranger who wasn’t one of her patients touching her, and she would be ruined. “Why did she faint?”
“She healed me—”
“And?” Constantine snarled. His wolf sought out Camelia’s white wolf, and he found her lying in a meadow, as unconscious as her human.
“It takes a great toll on my doña to use her powers. She needs to rest afterwards…” The servant lowered his eyes to her.
Constantine’s wolf senses caught shame coming off in waves from the man. “Why were you here?” His stomach constricted at the thought of Camelia and her servant out in the fields, alone, and several kilometers from the house proper. Although the help could touch her without social repercussion, because they were so far beneath their doña’s station, he still loathed the idea of this man being able to do what he couldn’t.
“The hidalgo has prohibited her from healing the servants—”
“And yet here you are.” Distant vibrations shook the ground under his feet, accompanied by the smell of werewolves in fast pursuit. Costantine’s alpha powers gave him an edge over the other shifters. “Who’s coming?”
His eyes scanning the horizon, the servant paled. He was unable to see or smell as far away as Constantine could, but trusted him. “The hidalgo must have found out—” He looked down at his precious cargo, then back at Constantine. “He’s sent his guards after me. If they find you, they’ll think you had an assignation with Doña and I helped—”
If the guards reported Camelia had a tryst, she would be dishonored, and the servant would be executed. With a nod, Constantine ran in the opposite direction before the guards would be close enough to sense him.
As soon as he reached his property, he started planning Camelia Del Rei’s courting.
****
Santa Marta de Tormes, Spain, Late Spring 1854
Escorted by both her lady’s maid and her lady’s companion, Camelia Del Rei, the oldest daughter of Alejandro Del Rei, the alpha and hidalgo of the Salamancan werewolf clan, was visiting Santa Marta de Tormes. She had accepted Constantine’s invite to his hacienda. After three long years of furtive glances across the plaza during Sunday services, which slowly progressed into an exchange of secretive messages delivered by doves, Constantine had finally asked her to meet him.
Given their respective roles in the shifter society, he knew theirs was a relationship doomed from the start. As the alpha son of the leader of the Sagrado Corazon sect, he could never mate outside of his clan. Ancient rules prohibited him from diluting his bloodline. Even the fact that Camelia was of pure lineage, and the most gifted aura healer Spain had ever seen, wouldn’t matter when it came to their bonding. But from the moment he had laid eyes on Camelia, he couldn’t think of anything else but her.
They were both courting scandal in the mortal world as well, but Constantine had arranged every detail of her visit on the day of the saint patron of Santa Marta de Tormes, the village at the outskirts of Salamanca where he owned his hacienda. Properly accompanied by the two matrons, Camelia had traveled by carriage and reached the village at noon, in time for the solemn mass.
Even among the oppressive crowd filling the cathedral to the brim, Constantine found her, sitting several rows in front of him, in the nobles’ section closer to the pulpit. Braziers dangled from the high ceilings, burning incents to cover the smell of hundreds of unwashed bodies, yet her scent drove him toward her like a beacon.
Her blond hair, an unusual shade for a Spanish woman, which hinted at Nordic blood in her family tree, had been combed into a tight bun and was covered by a white lace mantilla, her chapel veil. She kept a straight stance while reading from the leather-bound hymns book in her gloved hands, but he had sent his wolf ahead to nudge at hers, and the animals were shamelessly chasing each other in the astral plan.
After the interminable mass, the crowd transferred outside to the plaza, from where the statue of Saint Blas would be transported by postulants through narrow streets for the next two hours. Pushing his way through the horde of praying people, Constantine reached Camelia and brushed her arm. She didn’t turn, but he heard her heart slam against her ribcage.
With one single touch, he led her away from the procession, and in the claustrophobic swarm of people, her chaperons didn’t notice her departure right away. As soon as they were out of the throng, Camelia opened her lacy parasol to hide herself, and they maintained several steps between them. At a distracted glance, they weren’t walking together. After checking that nobody milled around, Constantine hurried to reach the courtyard where he had parked a carriage rented for the occasion. He wouldn’t use his brand new phaeton to meet her, because all of his carriages sported his family crest with the Corazon Sagrado’s insignia.
He leaped into the driver seat and took the reins of the four Andalusian horses, which might have been an overkill. He had left his manor wearing driver clothes, untied his ponytail, and smeared his face with grease. Nobody would bother looking his way twice or recognize him as Don De La Vega.
With a nod, Camelia climbed into the phaeton and disappeared below the canopy. His wolf urging him to hurry, Constantine drove the horses faster than he should have for Camelia’s safety, and reached one of the secondary entrances to his hacienda less than fifteen minutes later. That morning, he had sent all the workers to another portion of the mea
dows, then arranged for a picnic meal to be brought under the oak tree overlooking the grain fields.
He entered his hacienda like a thief, eager to alight and finally spend time with the woman of his dreams without fear of compromising her or angering his family. He had spent three years tossing and turning in bed every night for want of her, and he couldn’t wait any longer to declare his undying devotion.
With his heart galloping fast, he stopped the carriage in the meadow by the oak tree, then jumped down and stepped by her side. “Doña Camelia—” He had waited so long to call her such, and it filled his mouth like a prayer. His lady Camelia. In polite society, he would have never used her first name. It was an audacious gesture and it would have besmirched her honor. But out there, where they were all alone, it felt right.
“Don De La Vega.” Still wearing the mantilla over her head, she peeked from under the canopy and reached out her gloved hand that he took in his naked one with great care.
Don De La Vega would have never gone out in public without his kidskin gloves, but the lowly servant driving her around would. It was but a brush, yet it set Constantine on fire with a rush of desire so strong he feared she would notice the physical effects on him.
Her breath hitched and her hand slightly trembled in his. He helped her down, trying not to take her in his arms, but touching only her palm. It was torture. “There are a few refreshments, if you are thirsty or if you’d like to nibble on something.” He pointed at the large shaded area under the oak tree, and without releasing her hand, he pulled her forward.
She followed him, her face hidden by the church veil, her gait light and sure, but by her sharp intake of breath, he knew she was aware of his index finger sliding up her silk glove to brush her wrist. Growing bold, he slowly peeled the glove away, uncovering her fingers. Men fought duels over less. Yet, she didn’t slap him, and her chest rose and fell, trying to escape the constriction of the corset imprisoning her.
I wish I could tear that corset away, he thought.
She stopped and turned to face him.
Even from behind the lace, he could see that her light-blue eyes had widened in surprise.
“Don De La Vega—” she said.
“Did you hear me?” Constantine’s heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be.
“Of course I did.” She brought her free hand over her chest.
Trying to make sense of what her words could mean for them, he gave her a long stare. “I didn’t say it—”
“I heard what you said loud and clear.” She kept her chin high.
The moment called for a more serious attitude, but he couldn’t resist her dare. I’m dying to devour your lips.
“You are being rather forward, Don De La Vega.” Under the veil, her skin became pink, but her eyes expressed amusement now.
“You have no idea of the restraint I’ve just displayed.” Constantine knew the magnitude of his discovery, and how it would change their lives, but he would have screamed his happiness for the whole world to witness nonetheless. “Camelia,” he said and took a step closer to her, then placed his mouth over the crown of her head and whispered, “Do you know anything of the sect I belong to? The Sagrado Corazon?”
She shook her head.
“Very few know of us and of our powers.”
“Powers? What kind of powers?” Her warm breath tingled the skin on his throat.
“We can read minds and send our thoughts to others.” He brushed her earlobe through the flimsy fabric of the veil, and they both shivered. “But it only works with our kin and our soulmates.”
She remained silent, her stiff corset pushing against his coarse waistcoat with her every breath.
“Nobody outside of my family has ever been able to receive my thoughts.” You are my soulmate, Camelia. And I am yours.
Constantine? She regarded him with a frown, and he nodded.
Joy filled him at hearing his name in her mind.
What will happen to us? she asked.
We’ll love each other until the end of time. He picked one end of her mantilla between two fingers and raised it centimeter by centimeter, uncovering her chin, her pink mouth, her flawless skin, her nose that wasn’t completely straight, but sported the cutest bump on its ridge, her eyes the color of the delphinium flowers growing wild in his fields, her dark-blond eyebrows.
What happens now?
I claim what’s mine. He leaned down and took her mouth for a searing kiss.
Startled, she resisted at first, and he circled her waist with his hands, pulling her to him, wanting her to submit.
Camelia, he growled when he realized that his wolf was way ahead of him in seducing her wolf.
Don De La Vega, we might be soulmates but I won’t let you handle me thus. With both hands pressed against his chest, Camelia pushed herself away from him, then stomped her heeled boot on the grass.
While his wolf let out a sound eerily similar to a laugh, Constantine checked he hadn’t fallen, because her reaction had left him quite unsettled.
“No woman has ever refused me.” He looked at her, and she stared back at him with fiery eyes.
“No woman is your soulmate.” Folding her arms under her bosom, she raised an eyebrow.
Speechless, Constantine shook his head, then couldn’t help but laugh. Next, his eyes roamed over her from head to toe, for a once-over that made her squirm. When he was done, he licked his lower lip. “You better start running, my vixen, because when I catch you there won’t be any of this nonsense—” He smiled.
In response, Camelia laughed, raising the hem of her cerulean-blue billowing cotton dress and revealing the white petticoat gown beneath. He let her run for a good five minutes among the wheat stalks, then grabbed her by her elbow and spun her around.
Surprising him again, her hand wound around his neck and she pulled him down, claiming his lips for a kiss she initiated. You are mine to command, wolf.
I am indeed, he sighed in her mouth.
****
Constantine came back from his memories with a heavy heart.
The love of his life would kill him by tomorrow night, when the next full moon would occur. The first shifter moon of the century to happen on Christmas, and he had planned to celebrate the rare event with a Cuban and a glass of his Mandarine Napoléon Reposado. He would leave Seattle soon after, let his wolf enjoy a long run under the silvery light, then head for Alaska.
When he had first heard of a full moon happening on the twenty-fifth of December, after almost forty years since the last occurrence, he decided it would bring him glad tidings. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
Chapter Three
The wedding celebration went on for the rest of the night, and by the time the guests started leaving the greenhouse, it was already morning. After exchanging teary farewells with the newlyweds, Camelia declined Lupo and Jasmine’s offer to share a cab with them, opting for a walk instead. The Fairmont Olympic Hotel wasn’t distant, and she needed to clear her head from the multitude of confusing thoughts about Constantine.
He was always in her mind, but never a presence so vivid. If she closed her eyes, she could still summon the bouquet of mandarin orange, cognac, sandalwood, and the clean smell of his skin. Her fingers brushed her lips, tingling in anticipation. She hadn’t kissed him in so long, but her body remembered how soft his mouth was, and she shivered.
Instead of heading toward the hotel, Camelia turned toward Queen Anne. An invisible string pulled her away from the shadow of the Space Needle, urging her to march faster and faster in her heels. Her long cloak danced between her legs as she kept the hood in place with her hands. Misty drizzle swirled around her, drenching her outfit and her exposed face, and soon washed away her makeup. Streets passed by, changing names while she climbed a steep hill, but she didn’t mind the exercise. Finally, she reached W Highland Drive, where skyscrapers, luxurious condominiums, and towering sculptures were replaced by more modest high-risers, family-owned restaurants, and even the occasion
al two-story home and front-lawn patch decorated with Christmas trees.
Only when she reached Kerry Park did she slow her pace. Pale morning light painted the sky with pink ribbons, and she inhaled the fresh scent brought by the rain. Her internal compass told her she had cleared almost two miles uphill in less than twenty minutes, without breaking a sweat, wearing heels. Not even two years ago, she couldn’t have accomplished a fraction of what she had just done. Relegated on a wheelchair for the best part of one hundred and fifty years, Camelia had forgotten what it meant to command an able body. The sensation was exhilarating and charged her with pent-up energy and the desire to shift and let her wolf run.
An impulse impossible to ignore led her to the steel sculpture facing the lookout. When she touched the frame, all the breath in her lungs left in a single rush, and her heart burst inside her chest, leaving her weak.
“Constantine—” she whispered his name like a prayer, one hand pressed on her chest, trying to slow her erratic heartbeat. Dizzy, she leaned against the structure and rested her cheek on the metal, her eyes on the cityscape all decked out in Christmassy colors, but her mind was miles away.
The surface of the sculpture should have been cold, but was warm instead, as if someone had just touched it.
Constantine had been there.
The moment the thought formed, she knew it was true with a certainty that defied logic. Searching for him, she turned on her heels, but before she could take one step away from the lookout, memories assailed her.
****
Hacienda De La Vega, Santa Marta de Tormes, Spain, Winter 1855
The moon hovered high in the sky, and it shone bright in the cold December night.
As soon as Camelia entered the hacienda from the bridle path Constantine maintained for her, she removed the saddle and placed it inside the votive urn he had built for that purpose. She then bunched up both her long pelisse and her gown, uncovering her pants-clad legs. Riding bareback, she led Estrella, her white Arabian mare, to a gallop through the woods. She saw Durango, Constantine’s black stallion, cutting through the meadow at lightning speed, and spurred her horse ahead by patting the mare’s neck.
An Immortal Christmas Page 3