At least the dressing gown and nightgown were a lovely deep gold, superbly made from the finest fabric, and long enough to fit her well. They couldn’t belong to Mademoiselle Perez, who barely reached Hélène’s shoulder, and Hélène refused to speculate about anyone else. Not tonight, not when she was warm and safe—and nervous about a multitude of other things.
Mulling over how best to apologize for her hasty judgment and quick temper at their last meeting, she stepped out of the bathroom without checking her surroundings.
A cough brought her up short.
Her heart stopped beating. Her eyes widened, striving to take in the astonishing sight.
She stood in a small bedroom, furnished with only a few, very finely made items—a carved bed whose four posts were as solid as her waist, a sea chest, a small table next to the bed, and a chair. Rich curtains offered glimpses of the typical Spanish ironbound shutters, capable of blocking all sunlight. A dozen flaming candles burned in a great candelabrum on the small bedside table, revealing the room’s true surprise—her host.
Jean-Marie watched her arrogantly, legs spread in the confident stance of a ruler. Candlelight caressed him, emphasizing his strong jaw and high cheekbones, the deep-set blue eyes with their intense emotions, the salt-and-pepper hair glinting in the light. Even worse for her skittering pulse, he wore only a simple linen shirt and wool trousers, the shirt unbuttoned to show his strong muscles, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the pulse beating in his neck.
Hélène’s throat dried, and her tongue cleaved to the top of her mouth. Mon Dieu, but he was beautiful beyond belief.
“Cognac or a kiss, Hélène?” Jean-Marie lifted a crystal decanter, flames dancing within its golden depths.
“Eh?” she stammered, trying to retrieve her brain from purely carnal spheres. From this angle, she could see the strong muscles in his thighs, the ones he’d use to ride his lover…
“What do you want first—cognac or a kiss?” His tempting mouth quirked briefly but grew stern again. “Answer me, Hélène.”
The growled order rippled through her like a wave of molten lava, leaving every inch hot and aching. She somehow dragged her gaze up to his eyes. “Do you mean talk or make love?”
He inclined his head, his expression mildly encouraging.
“But…” She blinked, fighting for logic in this unfamiliar landscape. So few steps separated them, yet he was unreachable until she understood him. Baffled and too famished to think of pretty words, she fell back on the truth. “I’m a vampira and a firestarter, Jean-Marie. You can’t want to kiss me.”
“Why not?”
“I could drain you dry. Or burn you to a crisp.” Those were the nightmares walking through all of her lovers’ eyes, even her creador’s.
“I am disappointed in you, Hélène.” He clucked his tongue. “Perhaps I enjoy playing with fire.”
She gaped at him.
“How shall I punish you for your lack of faith in yourself? Shall I tie you up and make you wait for fulfillment?”
An image of herself, bound in soft leather and completely helpless under his skillful mouth, flashed through her head. Hunger jolted through her, shaking her knees and sending cream floating onto her thighs. She bit back a startled moan. “No, please, Jean-Marie.”
“Perhaps I should heat your lovely derrière with my hand until your clit enjoys every touch?”
She pressed her legs together, fighting a desire to fondle herself. How had he known, when she had not, that those words would trigger such a hungry response in her?
“Hélène, your words say one thing, but your body declares quite another.” He pulled a few items from the bedside table and prowled toward her, graceful and deadly as a big cat. “Must I force the two halves of you to reach agreement?”
She fought for breath, but her feet wouldn’t run away, mesmerized by a man so confident in himself a dangerous lover was seen purely as a woman.
“Are such drastic measures the only way to ensure you believe at least one man doesn’t give a damn you’re a firestarter?” Jean-Marie whispered in her ear. He knotted a twist of leather around one of her wrists with the ease of long practice and quickly secured the other as well, leaving a few inches between them.
She stared at him, gasping for breath, wondering why her nightgown’s delicate silk suddenly felt so harsh against her aching nipples. Her breasts were taut and far too hot underneath her clothing.
“Excellent. You’re starting to look more pliable, Hélène.”
“This is insane,” she whispered.
“Not if it will teach you to trust, chérie.”
He unfastened her dressing gown but didn’t immediately remove it. Instead he kissed her throat and breasts, and fondled her hips and ass with those wicked hands. Ah, le bon Dieu, how fire leapt through her veins in response! She twisted closer, writhing against his leg, shamelessly throwing back her head so he could suckle her breasts through her nightgown’s fragile silk. With her hands bound, she could do little to tempt him, but she tried, stroking his arm and his shoulder, moaning with hunger, and sobbing with delight every time another strong tug on her nipple sent a spear of desire into her womb.
When she was about to go mad if he didn’t finish her, he abruptly sat down on the sea chest and pulled her down across his lap. Despite her keen awareness his cock was burningly hard against her hip through their clothes, he put his full attention to arranging her dressing gown and nightgown in order to give him full access to her derrière.
“Jean-Marie?” Her voice quavered but perhaps he wouldn’t notice her desperation.
“Hmm?” His big hand rested on her rump, easily spanning more than half of it. He rubbed her curves gently, clearly measuring his grip.
“Jean-Marie, would you please…” She wriggled, uneasy about his intentions and wishing he’d return to his previous activities.
“What, chérie?” He changed his grip, slipping his fingers between her legs to test—but not tease—her clit.
“Jean-Marie!” To her absolute shock, her core heated faster and hotter than it had from his attention to her breasts. Her folds swelled, achingly conscious of every detail of his hand—down to the placement of every joint in his finger.
His hand remained completely still for a moment before leaving.
“Jean-Marie, no! Don’t spank me!” Not when cream was rushing out to greet him.
“Yes.” He smacked her very lightly. “You must learn that a man can desire you for yourself. If that means punishing you for your lack of faith in me, then so be it.”
He swatted her again, catching her in a magical spot which sent sparks of bright-edged delight through her core and into her clit.
Hélène moaned helplessly.
He swatted her again on the same spot in exactly the same way. Pleasure blurred her senses, and she writhed on his lap, seeking more from his all-knowing touch.
He spanked her on the other side, the mirror image of the first swat. Heat swirled through her core, inviting stronger fires.
Hélène gasped, wondering if she could walk away after his idea of punishment.
Was he playing with her or punishing her? She couldn’t tell, nor did she much care. His touch was sometimes teasing, sometimes hard as iron—but always irresistible. Sometimes he swatted her, or stroked her derrière or thighs or hips. But at other times, his fingers delved deep between her legs—playing with her folds, teasing her clit. Or sliding into her channel, ruthlessly stretching her for the cock so close and yet so sternly locked away.
Her skin was tight, stretched tight over the bonfire blazing within her. Nothing mattered except being with him again.
“Jean-Marie, I’ll do anything if you’ll take me!”
He pulled back to look down at her, his eyes glittering in a harsh-edged mask. Hunger dwelt there, twice as strong for being bitterly leashed. A slow smile of pure masculine triumph turned his mouth into the carnal temptation she remembered.
“Please…” she wh
ispered.
He rose and tumbled her onto the bed, quickly covering her and rolling her. He freed himself from his breeches with a few harsh twists of his hands, just enough to unleash his cock. Barely a minute later, she lay on top of him, her bound wrists wrapped around his neck.
He claimed her mouth, hot and passionate. She kissed him back desperately, half-blind with frustrated lust and love.
He growled and roughly gripped her hips, shoving her legs apart and lifting her over him. His cock eagerly nudged at her pussy and entered, thanks to an expert twist of his hips. He began to rock, driving himself in and out of her. Stoking her fires higher and higher.
She moaned, still reluctant to feed. Not Jean-Marie, not the man she’d dreamed of for so long.
He rubbed her clit, perfectly matching the pulse of imminent orgasm, and pressed down.
She howled. Her fangs descended, and she bit into his neck, perfectly finding his jugular. Rich, spicy blood flowed—sweet as honey, with no taint of caution or mistrust, only passion and complete trust.
She drank, filling her empty soul.
“Ah, finally, Hélène, finally!” He pulled her hips down hard onto him, shouting his satisfaction when he climaxed, extravagantly jetting his seed into her.
She gripped his shoulders and clung closer. Stars swirled, blinding her in the most joyous meal she’d had as a vampira.
EIGHT
Jean-Marie caressed Hélène’s back, enjoying the aftershocks still shaking her body and delightfully making his cock twitch deep inside her. If he’d been stronger—or younger—he’d still be spilling his seed like a twenty-year-old. As it was, he savored the slow glide down from the best orgasm he’d enjoyed in years.
Thank God he had enough blood left from Rodrigo and Sara to keep propelling him forward; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to feed Hélène while she was here. Prosaico food might keep his body alive and create enough blood to feed a young vampira. But without Rodrigo or Sara’s blood, he was a dullard who could scarcely think or move past the demons drilling spikes into his skull. Even with their blood, the physical changes in him were coming more and more rapidly.
Although Rodrigo had said drinking a vampira’s blood would keep him going for a time…
Hélène happily muttered something and buried her face against his shoulder, her arms still around his neck.
He kissed the top of her head and disengaged himself, carefully settling her beside him on the bed. It was a moment’s work to take a dagger from the bedside table’s drawer and slice the leather off her wrists. His heart swelled with pride and something softer when she never flinched at the sharp blade, simply twisted her arms to allow him better access.
He disposed of the scraps and turned away.
“What? Where are you going?” She blinked at him, all tousled golden hair and flushed creamy skin.
“One moment, chérie.” He kissed his fingers and touched them to her lips. She grumbled but didn’t loudly complain.
He returned a minute later to find her trying to sit up in the bed.
“Let me wash you first, Hélène, and you’ll be more comfortable.” He set the basin and towel down on the chair. “As a vampira, you’ve already healed from the spanking, so you can choose whether to sit up or lie down.”
She blushed furiously—and enchantingly. “I’ll lie down,” she said gruffly and flopped onto her stomach, a position that hid her face from him. It also showed him a great deal of her most intimate delights while he cleaned her.
What he wouldn’t do to bring her up on her knees and ride her…
Relaxed and sated, all Hélène wanted to do was be his lover. Yet they desperately needed to talk after so long a separation—and with the shadow of war hanging over them. She steeled herself, glad she was lying on the coverlet rather than between the sheets. If she’d been half-asleep in his arms, she doubted she’d have had the strength to do anything more than memorize every blissful second.
First came the apology, of course. “I’m sorry I importuned you in Provence. I saw you as a toy who could be rearranged to suit my world, not as a man with plans of your own. It was none of my business how you spend your life, and I was very rude.”
He glanced at her, surprised. She forced herself to meet his eyes, even though she was lying on her stomach.
“Hélène, how could you have known what life among vampiros was like? You made a mistake born of ignorance, leaving nothing to forgive.” He shrugged off the old insult and moved the basin and towel onto the table.
“You speak like a diplomat.” She came up to face him, suddenly unwilling to let him escape this conversation with any of his well-polished word games.
“Vraiment?” He raised a haughty eyebrow and straightened up, totally ignoring his dishabille of sweaty shirt and trousers. Mon Dieu, Louis XVI had never looked as regal.
“Who are you?” she whispered, her eyes going very wide. “You sound and move like a prince, yet you live with Spanish adventurers.”
His face hardened into a mask, but unfathomable thoughts wheeled behind his eyes. He blew out a long breath before speaking, every syllable precisely placed.
“My mother was known as the Jeweled Butterfly.”
Her breath flew out of her lungs. In any place, at any other time, she might have collapsed into a faint. She came to her feet, facing him, too agitated to stay still.
“Marie-Louise de Montpazier?” The ancient name rang through the small room like an exotic cymbal. “But she was Louise de La Vallière’s great rival for the Sun King’s affections.”
Jean-Marie bowed in acknowledgment. “First rival,” he corrected her. “The great rival—and the victor—was Madame de Montespan.”
Her vision grayed slightly, her lungs still unable to find air. She fought to think logically. He lived among vampiros, although he was a prosaico. He could be old enough, if he was a compañero. But royalty?
He was intelligent, beautiful, and proud enough.
Her heart began to beat steadily again.
“The poets still sing of the Jeweled Butterfly’s beauty. You must resemble her a great deal.”
He shrugged off an obviously boring comment. “As my arrogance came directly from my father.”
Her eyes flashed. “And your grace.”
He flushed, startled by a compliment delivered so directly as to seem a statement of purest fact.
“But not the legendary de Montpazier greed, which forced the Jeweled Butterfly into banishment after a bribery scandal. Yes, yes, I’ve heard the old gossip.” Hélène impatiently waved her hand, still staring at him.
A wry smile twisted his mouth at the obituary for his mother.
She put the rest of the puzzle together, hunting for his true name.
“But—but that would make you the Duc de—”
“Enough, Hélène!” He gripped her hand, stopping her voice. “That man is dead—and even here, the walls may have ears.”
She cocked her head for a moment and studied him, finding the pain behind that all-too-fast denial. She wished she could help heal him. But it was easy enough to promise never to call him that.
“Still, you are a prince,” she whispered.
“But I cannot inherit the throne and am no threat to Louis XVIII, or the other Orleanist heirs.”
“What happened?”
“You should ask instead, what am I?” He laughed, unable to keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice even after all these years.
She blinked, caught completely off-balance by his tone.
“I am a concubino compañero.”
“A prosaico who drinks vampiro blood—but not enough to become a vampiro?” She frowned. “They’re very rare, aren’t they? I’d heard of them but hadn’t met one.”
“That’s a compañero. But a concubino compañero is also bound by carnal ties.”
“Do you mean blood and emotion, like a vampiro? Or more precisely, blood and sex like some vampiros?” He was looking more and more tense.
Poor darling, his hand was shaking. How hard on him would this be? “A concubino compañero is very dependent on their vampiro primero or vampira primera.”
Dependent? Her proud Jean-Marie dependent on anyone? How appalling! But if so, it would have to be on…
She gasped, her eyes rounding. “Mademoiselle Perez?”
“Correct.”
“That’s why you stay with her—you need her blood.” Her hand covered her mouth. Oh, how she had misjudged their relationship if he needed the woman only in order to survive.
He nodded, his body rigid and his face unreadable.
Or might there have once been an emotional tie between them?
“Did you—did you ask to become her concubino compañero?” Hélène’s voice was very soft.
“Merede, no!”
Thank God! Hélène beamed at him.
He gawked at her.
She swallowed and decided to take the chance of openly displaying her hopes. “Could you consider—coming to care for somebody else?”
“Mais oui, chérie. I have loved you since the day we met at Versailles.”
She flung herself into his arms, barely giving him time to put their wine aside before their lips met. He kissed her passionately, for the first time letting loose all of his joy, all of his need for her. She clung, kissing him just as desperately, their tongues dueling to tell the other who’d longed the most.
Was it forever or was it seconds before he lifted his head and caressed her cheek? She kissed his fingers and rubbed her cheek against him, pleased that they were now ensconced together once again on the bed.
“If you need Mademoiselle Perez,” she said slowly, choosing every word with great care, “shouldn’t she be close at hand?”
Jean-Marie flinched but drew himself up. “She’s in Galicia with Don Rodrigo. I’m supposed to join them as soon as I deliver the message to your team.”
“But that’s days away from here.” Hélène lifted her head to look down at him from her perch stretched atop him. “Can you travel that far? Shouldn’t compañeros receive blood more often than that?”
“I have blood mixed with wine,” he answered stiffly.
Bond of Fire Page 13