Seized by the Vampire Lord (Dark Lords)

by Jaide Fox

  When he had first tossed her into the saddle, Wolfe had hoisted himself up and sat in front of her, with the pommel at the apex of his thighs. As they had ripped through the woods with indecent haste, Isabeau had plotted and schemed as she attempted to find a way to escape the bastard, who was taking her to only the Goddess knew where!

  Unfortunately, her only thought had been for that—escape.

  Not the injuries that would occur when she followed through with her mad plan, nor how she would manage to do so without causing a ruckus and garnering all their attention. Nor did she contemplate how she would manage to run from them when she made her getaway.

  She had been willfully blind in not seeing the many problems with her plan, as a desperation to break free from this man’s imprisoning hold had taken her by the throat and caused her to act idiotically.

  In the end, she had been left with an even sorer bottom, an aching spine and a severely jerked neck and all for naught.

  Isabeau had simply noticed a sudden decrease in speed and had stupidly taken her chance. Releasing her arms from his waist, she had pressed her hands against the saddle and used that to give her momentum to jump off the back of it.

  She groaned to think of how painful a maneuver that had actually been and all of it pointless. As soon as her buttocks had connected with the hard, packed earth, Wolfe’s horse and the rest of his troop had come to a halt. They had instantly known she was attempting to escape and the worst part of the entire indignity, was the fact that had they not noticed, she would have had to rest upon the loamy floor for an unknown period of time, so painful had it been.

  The hellish man had laughed at her predicament from his seat in the saddle, then had dropped his heavy weight the six feet to the ground and tossed her back atop the horse.

  The moment her posterior had clashed with the hardened and worked leather was one she would never forget. If sitting perched on the bouncing cantle was distressing, it was nothing in comparison to the pain that bolted through her bones after her failed escape plan. Agony had rippled through her as almost every single part of her had jolted and shuddered with the strain.

  When he had hoisted himself back on to the horse, this time, he had settled behind her. And so they had been seated for the last few hours.

  She was not entirely sure which position was worse. The last had been difficult, simply because it had inspired sensations in her breast that she had no right or desire to feel. Those rebellious and treacherous emotions had pushed her into her foolhardy plot.

  And even worse was the fact that she could not deny that the clasp of her soft, inner thighs to the hardened and muscled flesh of his outer thighs and hips, had stirred something inside her. Something that she had never before experienced and it had only worsened, as she leaned forwards for more support and her breasts rubbed against the lean yet sinewy breadth of his back. The peaks of her nipples had hardened and even as she had schemed to escape him, her cheeks had been tinted with the heavy rouge of embarrassment at the inappropriate emotions that had coursed through her.

  The man could have been behind the murder of her parents, for Goddess’ sake.

  Although the thought had shocked her, rather than diminishing the insidious sensations, she had merely pushed herself to switch focus and her resolve to escape the man, who was intent on holding her captive, had trebled in intensity.

  Now, she found herself surrounded by him on three sides and Isabeau, despite repeated attempts to combat those perfidious and creeping emotions, found that her body was reacting to his proximity in ways that made her feel flushed and entirely outside of the parameters of her personal comfort.

  Throughout the long and tedious ride, she had had little choice but to take company with her own thoughts and the more she pondered Wolfe’s reaction to her accusation, the more she believed that he wasn’t behind her parents’ murder.

  But then, that could simply be her subconscious trying to smooth over the fact that she found something about the beast attractive.

  Or it could be the truth.

  He had shown bitterness at her words. No signs of deception or guilt. Just a bitterness that he had been accused of something that he had not done. Surely, that would not be the case, had he indeed killed her parents. She bit her lip and wished that she was certain of the truth behind her parents’ murder.

  When she realized that she was starting to revel in his fierce hold, her stomach began to churn anxiously. It was not normal to react this way, of that she was most definitely certain. A captor should be treated with disdain and distrust and hatred. Not a longing to taste his lips, or…She closed her eyes at the thought.

  Perhaps, she was far more disturbed than she had ever imagined. Mayhap, she belonged in Bedlam. Her reaction to this man surely proclaimed her as a bedlamite!

  To react to the arm that was clamped about her waist, the pressure of her spine against the uncompromising hardness of his torso, with anything but disgust was abnormal. Yet she did not feel disgusted. She felt surrounded by his scent and powerless to resist. As the horse jolted, the firmness of his manhood suddenly rubbed against her buttocks, yet she did not feel anxious or any repulsion. No, indeed. Her cheeks blossomed with color but for no negative reason. Exhaling roughly, she tried to fight the sway his body had over hers, but it seemed like an impossible battle.

  He was not aroused.

  No, that was her cross to bear.

  But he was not entirely unaffected, thank the Goddess. What was happening between them, the emotions developing between them, were shared, but rather frightening all the same. Isabeau realized that she was entirely unaware of how to cope with them. Of one thing she was certain, it would lead to bed and then to misery. More than likely on her part. Regardless of that, she found that she enjoyed hearing his reactions to her novice touch.

  Even in her innocent state, she recognized the changes in his body, when he inadvertently touched her or she him.

  His breathing became harsh and whistled past her ear, if she accidentally rubbed or clutched at his leg with her hand for support. It would become shallow if he brushed her breast with an arm, as he lifted it to point to one of his men. If her back and buttocks, aching from her fall, relaxed momentarily and she fell against him, he would tense and stiffen up.

  Even as unknowledgeable as she was, Isabeau recognized the signs and realized that perhaps, it was some atavistic instinct that all women possessed.

  It neither helped nor hindered her own dampened horror at reacting to her capturer in this primitive way.

  She jolted as his horse bucked slightly and her buttocks started to ache fiercely at this further bruising act. Relaxing as Wolfe calmed the horse and continued the indecent haste in which they cantered, Isabeau rubbed the onyx stone of her ring with her left index finger. As she did so, her mind focused on the pain in her hips and rear and slowly, a heat absorbed some of the ache.

  It was indeed a relief to be free from some of the pounding pain, but she wished for the morning to cure herself completely. Her powers had never been overly strong during the night hours. They were limited at best. As soon as the dawn broke, she would be able to entirely heal her ankle and the bruising to her behind. Had she taken her disguise of the old crone during the hours of light, then it would have been impenetrable. The clasp of another’s hand to her ring would merely have strengthened the illusion of her disguise, not destroyed it as had occurred when Wolfe had touched the onyx stone.

  That still troubled her.

  She could explain it away with the truthful fact that her powers were diminished in strength during the night, but there was something else, something that eluded her at this moment in time.

  “Is there a reason I can feel your buttocks heating up as though you have taken a seat in a pile of glowing embers?”

  His gravelly and textured voice sounded loud in her ear and she felt the small hairs there and at the back of her neck stand on edge. She had to fight the urge to shiver and only managed to do so, beca
use he would either believe it to be her body’s natural and unstudied reaction to him. Or, he would believe her to be cold and perhaps would wrap her even tighter in his arms and she would be surrounded all the more with his scent!

  And it was not something she needed at this exact moment in time.

  Isabeau firmed her jaw and tried to ignore him, but the arm about her waist merely tightened until he released her entirely in response to her continued silence. His free hand then came up to cup her throat and he forcibly tilted her face towards him. “Do not ignore me, fair maid,” he ordered, his tone mild belying the command of his words.

  “My name is Isabeau! Not fair maid. Not sweet Venus! Isabeau!” she retorted fiercely, her words almost spat at him.

  Even though it caused a slight strain in her neck, she pulled away from his hold, refusing to be cowed by his physical strength. She had dealt with men as big and as mean as he many times in the past, she was not afraid. Perhaps at this moment in time she was his hostage, but there would be countless opportunities in the future to rid herself of him.

  She was certain and nodded her head resolutely at her thoughts.

  “All right…Isabeau, it is,” he compromised quietly. “What is this heat? If you’re trying to kill me, then at least explain how…Are you perchance attempting to shrivel my manhood?”

  She heard the teasing behind his words and glared her anger into the darkness. “I am attempting to ease the aches in my body that are the result of your frenzied pursuit!”

  “Nay, ‘twas not I who insisted you run from us. Had you stayed, quietly, in that inn, we would merely have collected you.”

  She interrupted him furiously. “I am not a packet or a letter to be delivered and collected!”

  He ignored her and continued, “You would have been free from injury and strain. But, no, you had to be difficult. Why that surprises me, I do not know!” He sighed. “And you are, you know.”

  “What? What am I?” she retorted imperiously, shaking her head to abate some of the tension that was steadily increasing in her body.

  “A packet to be collected and delivered, however, you have disrupted the process and have done for the last four years!”

  “I beg your pardon! I am not a piece of post!” she asked, confused and slightly startled by his reply.

  “Hush!” he ordered abruptly and she jumped at the sudden and unanticipated harshness of his tone, when it had been distinctly lacking in acerbity for the entirety of the night. Regardless of her ill temper.

  She felt his head snap upwards and she followed the movement. It was still dark, the moon still shone radiantly in the night sky and the stars still twinkled, but a change seemed to come over him.

  Had he been determined before, now he was persistently and insistently so. Isabeau realized that the speed in which they had been traveling could be considered slow in comparison to the miles they were now eating.

  In a shocking amount of time, a looming shadow came out of nowhere, and Isabeau found herself peering into the darkness and finding a gatehouse. The gate was open and the horses were led through the entrance to some secured manor land.

  Within moments, they had traversed the lane that led to the property and she felt herself being moved away from Wolfe’s lap and being plopped hurriedly on to the graveled drive way.

  She did not even have time to huff her disapproval of being so mishandled, before she was being lifted from the ground and carried up a set of stairs and through an open doorway.

  Almost like the packet he had accused her of being, she thought with pursed lips.

  All of the men seemed to stampede in and in the faint light of a solitary candle, she saw that a butler stood before them. The delicate light eerily traced his features, giving him the appearance of an eccentric owl, with his somewhat inset and close eyes, a strange beak of a mouth and a portly figure merely adding to the image.

  “There are rooms ready for us, Saiville?” Wolfe asked gruffly.

  “Aye, sir. I’ll lead the way.”

  In slow and torturous movements, Saiville walked up another set of stairs. These were considerably grander than those of the outside entrance and she imagined, that in the light of day, the sheer height of the ceiling would be awe-inspiring. As it was, in the semi-gloom, she could only guess as to its proportions, but the constant and loud echo of their footsteps against the staircase told her that she was right to believe the hallway was impressive.

  Once they had reached a landing, Saiville led them down the length of the floor and one by one, the thirteen horsemen were shown to their chambers, until only she and Wolfe were remaining.

  Saiville headed towards the last of the rooms on this floor, passing the chamber she assumed Wolfe would take, and opened the door to the room she presumed would be her own and with a flourish.

  Isabeau took a hesitant step inwards and spun around at Wolfe’s voice.

  “There are no possible exits in this room, Isabeau. The windows are sealed and the door will be locked. Please, do not try and destroy any part of this room. I would find it most offensive to repay my friend’s generosity with a chamber ripped to shreds by an overset female.”

  She glared at him and had to fight the urge to stamp her foot in frustration. He merely bowed and the door was slowly returned to its jamb.

  The click of the lock was loud in the otherwise silent room. The clang of metal against metal had her nerves rising and the thought that there was no escape, made her even more anxious.

  Of course, she couldn’t trust his word and so, with squinted eyes, Isabeau headed around the perimeter of the room and encountered four. Each as locked as the next. When she reached the fourth one, she frowned out at the darkened view before her, realizing that it wasn’t as dark as it had been. There was a slightly back lit radiance to the sky that informed her, morning was here.

  Color had yet to shoot through the blacker than black scape above them, but she could already feel the slight sizzle of her powers recharging.

  Her mind crossed to the sudden increase of speed and the haste in which they had arrived here …there had been no other sounds, nothing that could have been of any danger to them. Had there been and had she been in any danger, then she would have noticed. Her ring would have reacted to it and warned her.

  Therefore, there was another reason behind their need to take shelter here.

  Perhaps, it was the dawn.

  The more she thought about it, the more she realized it to be highly probable.

  It would explain a few anomalies.

  Such as how he had seen through her disguise, when his fingers had brushed the ring.

  He was like her.

  Whatever she was.

  Only, where she was at her strength during the day, he was at his zenith, during the night.

  It was how he had known that she was in an inn, when there had been no troops of horsemen near the ale house. It was how he had known to follow her into the woods, when he had been far behind her and there were other options open to her and other routes that she could easily have taken.

  Suddenly, the term Night Rider took on a deeper meaning.

  Slowly, she walked towards the bed that was slightly visible in the darkened room and when there, perched on the edge and started to remove her boots.

  Leaving them to lie slovenly on the hardwood floor, she settled back against the mattress and sighed her comfort. A down mattress, like the one she had had at home. It was tenfold more comfortable than the bed she had slept in earlier and as exhaustion rode her hard, her comfort and feeling of security, which in the circumstances was laughable, had her lulled and soon, she dropped into a fatigued and heavy slumber.

  * * * *

  With a slight grimace, Isabeau rolled on to her side and realized that earlier that morning, before she had fallen asleep, she had failed to heal her injuries entirely. The pervasive ache of her buttocks against the mattress, the strain in her spine as she had turned over … they were unwelcome reminders of the ni
ght before and the adventures in which she had been involved.

  Keeping her eyes closed and her mind on the perch of sleep, she rubbed the onyx stone and allowed her body to heal itself. The heat that always came from the healing process had her toasty warm and nestling deeper into the cushioned comfort of her bed. She sighed with relief as the rough kink in her back and hips dissipated and she could move more freely and with less of the pain that only moments before had plagued her.

  A murmur escaped her lips as she heard the click of the door only moments later.

  Realizing that she was in the position of hostage, something her tired brain had yet to process, Isabeau slightly slitted her eyes and turned her gaze to focus on the opening door. She could not possibly allow someone to enter her chamber without monitoring their progress.

  A man walked through. Young, in his late twenties perhaps, tall and strong of chest. He appeared to be dressed in refined cloth and even from this distance, she admired the glinting fiery gem that sat snugly amongst the billowy folds of his cravat and at the matching set of cufflinks at his wrist.

  No butler or footman would have worn anything so grand and she could only assume that it was either the Lord of the manor or his son and heir.

  He was handsome of face and well-proportioned in the body, she would give him that.

  In fact, he was almost a perfect opposite to Wolfe. Where Wolfe was night, this man was day. Light blonde hair grew thickly on his head and was only tamed by the cut, which was in a Brutus style. From this distance, she could see the sparkling blue eyes and the lightly tanned and golden flesh of his face, throat and hands. Definite opposites.

  She did not need to see Wolfe in the light to know that he was dark of skin, almost bronze. Perhaps from exposure to the sun, or the olive color could be his natural skin tone. Either way, he was at the other end of the spectrum to the man before her.

  In his hands, there was a tray with food and almost as though it were on cue, her stomach began to grumble its hunger as the essence of whatever was upon the salver began to make its presence known.