Bond of Fire

by Diane Whiteside

  She’d had more freedom of movement as a double agent, but at least he had interesting appetites in the bedroom.

  Horses’ hooves pounded over the gravel driveway just before sunset, matched by the dull roar of a heavy carriage’s wheels. Talleyrand? But in such a large equipage?

  Three people strode up to the house.

  Celeste drew herself up and posed coolly in the drawing room, one hand on a chair back. It displayed her bosom quite well, while not having the disadvantages of being stationary in a seated or reclining position.

  A man and two women entered the room, their severely tailored garb identifying them as British. Their scent proclaimed them to be vampiros mayores—and thus almost certainly impervious to her greatest weapon. Merde.

  “Monsieur, mesdames.” Celeste inclined her head, trying to think. Mon dieu, did they know she was a double agent? Were they here to take her back to Britain? Kill her on the spot? Who would help her? Prosaicos would be no use, of course. No wise vampiro would argue with anything a vampiro mayor wanted to do, let alone a trio of vampiros mayores.

  “Comtesse de Sainte-Pazanne.” The man nodded curtly, the women merely stared at her.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She focused her will. Desire me, she thought at the man.

  He stretched slightly.

  Desire me! She pushed harder.

  He raised a very lazy eyebrow.

  “Stop wasting time, Carleton,” one of the women snapped. “You know I abhor spending even a moment in this trollop’s presence.”

  “Sorry, m’dear. I believe she needed to learn her own powerlessness.”

  M’dear sniffed loudly.

  The three vampiros mayores circled Celeste, watching her pitilessly. If she’d thought Carleton a possible target of seduction before, his arctic gaze ripped the prospect away from her. “I have served Britain since the reign of the great Queen Elizabeth. Sir Andrew ffoulkes was my hijo.”

  Breath died in her throat. She couldn’t even find the wits to curse.

  “Every vampiro agent you killed was one of our hijos,” the other lady said quietly.

  Carleton inclined his head, gray eyes assessing her for killing blows. “I’m glad you understand the extent of the blood debt you owe us.”

  “But we are sworn to follow our superiors’ orders,” m’dear added, in a tone which left no doubt as to her low opinion of their intelligence.

  “Talleyrand has begged mercy for you. Since he’s the sole being with any sense in France’s government and Britain doesn’t wish to see France descend again into anarchy, she chooses to honor his wishes.” Carleton could have been reciting a newspaper except for the burning anger in his eyes.

  “You must be a far better slut than you look,” m’dear commented.

  Celeste flushed angrily but reached for the escape hatch. “Then I’ll leave now.”

  “Yes—for lifetime exile,” the second woman agreed.

  “Exile?” Celeste spun around, staring at her unwelcome guests. “Exile?”

  “You will spend the rest of your life in the New World with other followers of the Emperor Napoleon, in New Orleans.” Carleton’s deep voice rang through the house.

  “Why not Marseilles?” From there, she could find her way to England and locate Hélène.

  “Remember we can read your thoughts—child.” A cold smile curled m’dear’s mouth. “Because it’s far enough away to never disturb your sister’s peace. She’s much more important than you are.”

  “But for how long?”

  “Until you die. If you ever try to leave there, we will immediately take great delight in killing you.” The second woman was as quiet as ever and just as firm.

  Celeste shivered, believing her. To leave France for New Orleans…

  But maybe New Orleans would be the land of dreams that everyone promised. Raoul’s sister and her family had emigrated there in 1802, during the war’s brief lull, and were very happy.

  Celeste bit her lip, damning the tears welling up. She had to learn to live without Raoul, without visiting the places they’d walked together, without any hope of hearing his voice again even in a dream. Surely ghosts could not cross an ocean.

  But her heart ignored her head’s dictates, raising up image after image of the man she’d adored. His eager strides to greet her, his laughter when he swung her into his arms, his hot kisses…

  She buried her face in her hands, realizing yet again how much Raoul was a part of her, down to her very bones.

  MADRID, AUGUST 1815

  The handful of men stood in a jewel box of a drawing room, whose walls were covered in golden silk embroidered with dozens of golden and silver vines. Overhead, the vines burst into fantastical golden flowers arching over the vaulted ceiling. The tables were golden marble topped by gilded clocks and candelabra, whose rounded forms echoed the floor’s sinuous black and gold marble inlays. Great mirrors with gilded, curling frames magnified the room’s glory.

  It was a setting calculated to impress guests with the majesty and power of the Spanish Crown. After all, if a king could lavish this much money on a very small audience chamber, how much more could he spend on doing good for—or punishing—an individual?

  The display would have been more impressive except for its owner’s narrowed, suspicious stare and corpulent body. He looked every inch of what rumor painted him to be—the leading police agent and jailer of his country. Ferdinand VII, the reactionary king of Spain, was killing his subjects with a speed and ferocity which surprised even Rafael.

  The king was superbly dressed, his coat dripping with ribbons and orders from Europe’s great nations. His chamberlain wore livery, admittedly of a very grand style, while the guards at the door were in uniform, their suspicious eyes eternally sweeping the room. The three gentlemen were more simply attired, with black coats and immaculate white linen.

  But Rafael and Jean-Marie’s clothes came from London’s finest establishments, starting with coats from Beau Brummell’s tailor. They served as a quiet frame for the Order of the Bath Rafael wore, the greatest honor the British government could give to a foreign nobleman, which he’d earned for his aid to Wellington at the Battle of Vitoria. It was a deliberate reminder of his powerful British friends.

  Jean-Marie appeared to be a young man, modestly deferring to his seniors as befitted his age—except for his rapid glances, which missed nothing. He’d resumed the same appearance he’d held for so long as a concubino compañero. As ever, the vampiro elixir had returned him to the appearance he held in his heart, which was what he’d worn when he’d met his lost love.

  He was damn lucky to have lost his gray hair and other marks, although Rafael had heard of more miraculous changes. He’d personally give half his fortune to be free of the scars across his back, evidence of his creador’s torture—and eternal symbol of how deeply the agony had burned into his heart.

  “Your majesty,” Don Fernando Perez began again, modestly enough, “if I may suggest—”

  “Suggest? Suggest what? Perhaps an examination of the liberal ideas you expounded as a member of the Seville Junta, while I was imprisoned in France?”

  Imprisoned? You went to Napoleon and asked him to take you in! Rafael’s eyes narrowed, while Jean-Marie stiffened slightly. Hid under his apron strings while your countrymen fought and bled and died for liberty in the tens of thousands.

  “I think your successor as minister is the best man to do so,” the king continued.

  Successor? Rafael didn’t quite growl. If the king disposed of Don Fernando as he’d handled all his other ministers, Don Fernando would be lucky to live. The viciousness of his death would be limited only by his enemies’ imagination. Don Fernando’s brilliance, honesty, and virtue had unfortunately provided him with a multitude of foes.

  “Or should he start by asking why your kinsman leads such a large group of militia,” the royal brute purred. “Ah, sí, now that is definitely something for your su
ccessor to question you most thoroughly about. Your kinsman, too, of course.”

  His deep-set little eyes dwelt with evident satisfaction on Don Fernando’s sweating face.

  ¡Ay, mierda, but Don Fernando could have no answer for that question! Only Rafael or Jean-Marie would, because they’d been present throughout the War of Liberation, had led San Leandro’s men against the French soldiers. Don Fernando had been in Seville the entire time, working to form a unified, national—liberal—government. The torments those secrets could create for an honest man…

  The king lifted a languid finger and half-turned toward the door, with his chamberlain and the guards.

  If you harm in any way anything or anyone that belong to Don Fernando, now or at anytime, directly or indirectly—you will die immediately. Rafael slammed the thought into the Spanish monarch’s skull, branding it into every crevice necessary, refusing to flinch from the sewage he found.

  Jean-Marie shifted a hair closer until their sleeves brushed, lending him his energy—and the unspoken cunning of a man born and bred to the Sun King’s court, the greatest warren of lethal politics found in Europe for centuries.

  Rafael’s mouth thinned in rueful acknowledgment, and he finished closing every loophole in the royal rat’s putrid thought processes.

  Now he needed to take his men far from this brute’s reach.

  “Your majesty, Don Fernando has been worried about your provinces in Mexico and Texas,” Rafael crooned, as sympathetically as possible, when what he wanted to do was rearrange some royal features.

  “Particularly in Texas, where that madman preaches independence,” added Jean-Marie, who was very careful not to catch Rafael’s eyes.

  The king did have one consistent passion: retaining his possessions in the New World.

  Don Fernando was staring at them both. But he was no coward, and he was quick-witted. “Insanity, your majesty, insanity! Even a provincial must realize Spain is the sun where all light rises and sets.”

  The royal madman almost preened.

  “Don Fernando has greatly aided us in understanding this threat and others like him,” Rafael went on.

  “Especially with wild Indians so close on the frontier. Why, if settlements like The Alamo were lost…” Jean-Marie shuddered dramatically, a motion Don Fernando immediately copied.

  “He has so impressed the militia from his lands, which I have the honor to lead,” Rafael dared to give a small bow, judging the mood to be more friendly, “that we wish to emigrate to Texas. To fight on behalf of Spain, to keep the peace.”

  “I presume you’ll want a great fortune from me for this endeavor? To be sworn into the army?” The king drew himself up, bringing his guards snapping back into full alertness.

  Become one of your officers? And be indebted to you forever? Like hell!

  “Your majesty, all we ask is to be sent as private citizens to Texas, where we will form a militia.” And never serve under the command of your army, given any choice. “I will count it a privilege if I may use my own funds to pay transport for those willing to accompany us.”

  “You, pay?” A brow shot up.

  Rafael nodded, well aware of the likely interpretation. But he’d never keep slaves, let alone force any of his men or their families into indentured servitude to pay for passage. He’d also provide for livestock and household goods. Life would be difficult in Texas for several generations; they’d need to make the best possible start, and he had plenty of gold.

  The king clasped his hands behind his back and paced, casting occasional glances at Rafael. Don Fernando managed to remain still, while Jean-Marie was completely serene, if not privately enjoying himself. The chamberlain was barely breathing, and the guards were openly staring.

  Finally Ferdinand VII nodded. “You have our permission.” He waved his hand as if swatting flies. “We will grant you land to settle your people on.”

  The fool probably thought he was taking men away from Don Fernando. Didn’t he know his country well enough to realize that Galicia had so many people its farms had become too small to support them? Don Fernando might become the first local landowner whose people could feed themselves from their own farms, rather than seeking employment elsewhere.

  Rafael, Jean-Marie, and Don Fernando bowed deeply.

  “Your majesty is too generous,” Rafael said sincerely. Better that the king had offered the land grant, than Rafael had used compulsion to obtain it. His reconciliation with the church was too new for him to be comfortable with theft, even for the best of reasons.

  “He will arrange the land grant’s details.” A pudgy finger pointed at the chamberlain, who quickly nodded. “You will remain on your lands until we are satisfied this is accomplished, Don Fernando.”

  They bowed again, even more deeply.

  A smirk appeared and spread, distorting his coarse features. He left without another word, his jeweled clothing catching nauseating waves of light from chandeliers and sconces.

  We’ll have to define the land grant’s boundaries for them, Jean-Marie commented.

  Of course, Rafael agreed. If you would handle it—mi heraldo?

  There was a stunned pause before Jean-Marie inclined his head. By vampiro tradition, only the heraldo spoke with the patrón’s voice at all times. Given the amount of trust needed to be given, many patrones never had a heraldo.

  Use your memories from those rides with the Comanches. I want as much land as possible.

  It will be my pleasure.

  Then Don Fernando was on them, his tone biting back incredulous joy. Indefinite exile to his lands, as the Spanish king’s last words had commanded, meant safety for himself and his family. San Leandro’s remaining residents should be very well protected.

  Which left only one loss to tear at Rafael’s heart in the New World: Blanche’s tomb.

  He had to leave, even though it meant he could never pray beside her calm marble visage ever again.

  Ay de mi, this departure would feel a thousand times worse than when he’d ridden out of Toledo behind his prince, determined to rid Spain of a Moorish invasion. Then he’d expected to return, but this time, he’d know the separation was until the end of time.

  He’d still love her forever. Nothing and no one could come between them now, not when he still passionately adored her after five centuries.

  OXFORD, SEPTEMBER 1815

  Hélène counted up bedrooms one more time on her fingers and nodded, satisfied. There were enough to house a coterie of prosaicos to support her during peace time. This house’s numerous entrances, staircases, and bedrooms made it a perfect “boarding house” for her and a few gentlemen of intelligence. She’d select the first few from the young men flocking back to the university, all of them well seasoned by their wartime experiences. With luck, they’d discreetly refer friends to her after graduation, so she wouldn’t have to recruit later generations. She’d have the simplest possible life here, in between frenetic trips abroad to satisfy her Whitehall taskmasters.

  She’d use her vampiro mind-bending talents to ensure her coterie’s silence, of course. This lifestyle was the only way to find a regular supply of intellectually acceptable prey.

  Satisfied with the town house’s capabilities, she glanced out the dormer window one last time at the sea of church spires and peaked roofs. All in all, there were enough sharp edges here to protect any castle against a siege.

  An involuntary snort escaped her at the idle fancy. One would think she considered herself Sleeping Beauty, waiting for Prince Charming’s kiss to awaken her from a century-long sleep. Sentimental foolishness, since he was dead and she had to make a new life, no matter how deep the hole in her heart was.

  She’d never shared a conyugal bond with Jean-Marie, the incredible closeness of emotion and physical sensation which all vampiros longed to find. Yet her unhappy heart continued to ache for him as if he’d died only yesterday.

  No man, whether vampiro or prosaico, had distracted her either. Ever since Sir Andrew
had died, she’d always had to work with vampiros who never dared to relax with her. Lord knows they were no competition for her memories of Jean-Marie.

  But here in Oxford, she’d have books and a steady supply of young men for food. Surely one day, she’d learn not to dream of Jean-Marie.

  Surely…

  PART THREE

  THE NEW WORLD

  TWELVE

  COMPOSTELA RANCH, TEXAS HILL COUNTRY OUTSIDE AUSTIN, TEXAS, MAY, PRESENT DAY

  Celeste inhaled deeply, filling herself with Don Rafael’s scent. Soon she’d have the man himself inside her again, thank God, and her long crusade would be over.

  Leader of the oldest esfera in North America, he was probably the richest of all patrones. Even better, he was built like a god and could fuck better than a stable of boy toys. Every instant of the Mardi Gras they’d spent together was etched into her memory as sheer sexual perfection. Decades of loneliness finally ended when she’d met her match in sexuality and ruthlessness.

  He also trained his men to be both disciplined and sensual, like his beautiful alferez mayor—his military commander. Ah, those few hours when Templeton had left his duties and joined them during those marvelous weeks…

  She’d worked long and hard these past decades to regain Don Rafael’s attention. She’d become the New Orleans patrona and mastered every other esfera between Miami and Memphis, Washington and New Orleans. A mighty vampiro army trembled at her slightest whim, led by her enforcer, the former Bayou Butcher who’d escaped from Angola Prison’s legendary Death Row.

  It wasn’t until she ruled the entire Southeastern United States that she received an invitation to visit Don Rafael’s Texas home. Now that she stood within two steps of him, merde, but her pussy was weeping for him!

  They stood outside one of the many long, low buildings at his private mountaintop estate, an isolated place that reeked of animals despite a few gardens and fountains. An enormous group of armed men surrounded them, as was customary when two patrones visited each other. They were all his, of course, except for Georges Devol, her devoted alferez mayor.