by Колин Глисон
The gown clung to Narcise and revealed more than any whore’s undergarments ever had. It was clear to Giordan that she wore no corset, no chemise or undergarments of any fashion. The only nod to propriety—not that such a thing existed in the world of the Dracule—was a black silk triangle at the juncture of her legs, and the triangular panels of her skirt, where it flared below the knees, were alternating black silk and black lace. Even the bodice was lace. Her breasts were uncovered, her nipples hidden by accident or design by a heavy part of the lace…but even the undercurves of her breasts were evident.
He knew without a doubt that Moldavi had forced her to wear it, and Giordan burned to kill the man. But something else bothered him, and it was the only reason he didn’t pin Narcise’s brother to the wall with a stake: the look in her eyes.
His Narcise, the one he’d come to know and respect and love, might not choose on her own to wear such a gown. But, even if forced, she would never show shame or even submission while wearing it. She would walk boldly into a chamber and ignore the openmouthed gaping of every man in the room.
There was something else.
It took him some time, mingling with the other guests, directing his vintages about, but Giordan at last made it to Narcise’s side. She’d hardly moved from where she entered the room, and he could see the drawn expression in her face, the emptiness in her eyes even more clearly as he approached.
“Find some other skirt to chase,” he told Voss flatly. “She’s mine.”
Voss’s quickly checked surprise told Giordan that he, at least, hadn’t sensed the sizzling connection between Narcise and him. And Voss, no matter how much he enjoyed variety in the shape of women, was not at all a stupid man. He gave his host a brief salute with his glass and sauntered away, a bemused smile curving his lips. One thing about Voss: he never tired of the courting, the chase or the variety.
“What is it?” Giordan asked immediately. “By the soul of Luce, Narcise, what has he done?”
“Don’t you wish to compliment me on my gown, monsieur?” she asked in a detached voice. “It was specially chosen to help me in my task of seduction.” Her cool smile didn’t reach her eyes. They remained blank, blue circles. Her cheeks were pale; her lips were nearly colorless.
“And who are you supposed to seduce?” he replied with ice in his veins.
“Why, you, monsieur,” she said, leaning into him, placing a slender hand on the center of his chest. “I am to seduce you. Here. Tonight.”
Giordan stared down at her, his heart thumping madly, her scent and her very proximity luring him into distraction…yet he knew he couldn’t allow his brain to go to mush. It was the first time she’d touched him since the night he spent hanging from a pair of manacles. The sight of her in a gown that amounted to nothing more than a lacy glove, along with her pronouncement, set his thoughts to reeling. But…
“I cannot help but wonder,” he said carefully, resisting the need to touch her, to close his large hand over the one that rested on his shirtwaist, “why you seem to be less than eager. Is seducing me still that revolting to you, Narcise? I thought…I’d hoped…”
He stopped, aware that he sounded pathetic and desperate. If the woman hadn’t come to feel anything for him in the last weeks—which had been tortuous for him, being unable to touch her with anything but his eyes—perhaps he was wasting his time trying to convince her otherwise.
“It’s Cezar,” she whispered, seeming hardly to be able to form the words.
But before she could continue, Narcise clamped her lips closed, her eyes focused on something behind him, which could only be the man in question. Giordan felt and scented her brother’s presence, that heavy and familiar aroma, tinged with something else he found inexplicably unappealing.
He felt the weight of the man’s attention on them, and then it lifted and moved on.
“But then, mademoiselle, perhaps we ought to commence with the seduction. I am certain you know precisely how I feel about it.” He managed to make his words sound light, despite the dark overhang of the situation. “Will you put on a good performance for your brother? And should I pretend to resist, or should I drag you eagerly from this chamber as I’ve longed to do these last weeks?”
The column of her throat, slender and elegant and so very bitable, convulsed as she swallowed hard. What is it, Narcise?
“Be reluctant,” she whispered as if she could hardly form the words. “I believe he is testing you—or us—somehow.”
That chill came back, ice in his veins again. Then Giordan pushed it away. The man was in his home. He could do nothing.
Yet…he’d been in Dimitri’s place, that night in Vienna, and somehow Moldavi had caused the building to burn to the ground and resulted in the death of Dimitri’s mistress.
“Very well,” he told her, turning slightly away. “I will play the reluctant target. For now. But take note, Narcise…once you are in my bed, my chamber, you’ll never leave it. I won’t let you go back with him.”
He’d delivered these last words in an undertone for her ears only, but she stiffened and curled her fingers into the lapel of his coat. “No,” she said. “I cannot stay. I won’t stay, Giordan.”
He stilled. Her refusal, coupled with her first ever use of his intimate name, told him much. Yet his emotion that overrode it all was that of anger. “Do you think I won’t be able to protect you from him, in my own home?”
“It’s not me. I don’t fear for me any longer. It’s…there are children. Hostages.”
So that was it. “I’ll kill him then. Now.” He turned away, already considering where the closest stake or sword would be, but she caught his arm. Her fingers felt frail and he could easily have shaken her grip away.
Her words were low and desperate. “If he doesn’t return tonight, the children are to be given to the servants to be fed on. They’ll tear them apart. There’s one in the carriage, waiting now with Belial. It’s a girl-child, a young one—no more than eight. His orders are that if he doesn’t return to them by midnight, Belial can do what he wishes.” She seemed out of breath, exhausted by this long speech. “There is no way. Not tonight. One more night…it will make little difference.”
Giordan was aware of a numbness creeping over him. “There must be a way. There is a way, Narcise. You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he said, thinking back to those days on the streets when sticking a blade in someone who crossed him was as common as sleeping in the gutters.
“Please,” she said, and she stumbled into him a bit. Her eyes were dark blue pools. “I can’t risk it. Not tonight. It must be when he isn’t expecting it, when he hasn’t planned it all. Tonight is a test. Do you not think he will have considered every possible outcome and planned for it? Whatever you might attempt…he’ll be one step ahead.”
Then she smiled, but it was tight, and it worried him—along with the fact that she seemed to underestimate him.
Yet, when she pressed her body against his, the warmth from her presence, her heavy, erotic scent, the feel of her curves, all set his skin to tingling and his gums to swelling. She murmured as she looked up at him with hooded eyes, “I am certain we’ll both enjoy what’s to come. Can we not leave it at that? Just for tonight?”
“Very well,” he said, yet unwilling to put the possibility of her freedom from his mind. But if she was willing and able to return with Cezar to save the children, how could he argue with her? Giordan wasn’t certain he’d be able to make the same choice, but he must respect hers.
He slid an arm around her slender waist, pulling her close to him so that her breasts pressed against his chest. Surely she could feel his cock filling out his breeches. He was already imagining pulling the pins from her heavy hair, peeling the lace from her curves, sinking his teeth into the soft side of her belly while his fingers found her swollen quim. His breathing became rough and unsteady, his fangs long and hard.
“May I succumb to your wiles now, then, Narcise? Have I been reluctant enough?”
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br /> “Yes, I believe I’ve done my duty and convinced you,” she said, and for the first time, he saw a spark of heat in her eyes.
“Will you allow me to touch you tonight, cher?” his voice dropped low. “Are you willing? Tell me the truth, Narcise.”
“I am more than willing.” Yet…something still lurked in her eyes. Some hesitance.
Confused and angry with whatever it was, he nevertheless offered her his arm. “Shall we? I’m certain you’d prefer all of this to happen somewhere a bit more private.”
When she hardly moved, he looked down at her again. Her eyes had that dull look, her lips were slightly parted. She was either deathly afraid or in great-hell.
“Where the devil is it?” he demanded, taking her shoulders and turning her to face him. Fury at his stupidity, his blindness rushed over him. “Where’s the feather? You’re wearing one, aren’t you?”
She nodded slightly, relief swimming in her eyes. “Around my neck. But not…here.” Her eyes focused on him, and now he recognized the pain behind the emptiness. “He can’t see….”
“Yes, here,” he said in a low, furious voice. But he turned so that his body blocked the view of anyone watching.
Cezar would die. Slowly. Giordan would ensure that it took days. Perhaps weeks.
He found the slender golden chain at her throat in seconds, and began to pull it from her gown. It was very long, and the single feather that hung from it had been slipped down the back of her gown, between the lace and her skin. Which meant it had been burning into her for at least an hour.
No damned wonder she’d hardly moved. She couldn’t.
Giordan snapped the golden chain and pulled the feather away, already seeing the relief in her face and eyes. Color came back into her skin and life in her blue-violet irises.
“Now,” he said, “let me have you.”
Cezar Moldavi watched as Cale led Narcise from the chamber. It had been a battle between them, he noted with satisfaction. She’d had to beg and plead, to coerce.
That Cale hadn’t immediately followed her like a besotted dog from the parlor gave Cezar hope. Perhaps he was wrong.
After all, every test he’d given Cale so far had turned out to be unnecessary. How many men would have declined the offer to “watch over” Narcise during her brother’s absence?
And even if Cale was smart enough to see that he was being set up and to refuse the offer of having—what was it they said here? carte blanche?—with Narcise, surely he would at least have attempted to visit her or otherwise see her during Cezar’s absence.
But, no. All of his prying eyes in the household had assured him that Giordan Cale hadn’t so much as sent a message to the Moldavis, let alone attempted to call, until the day Cezar returned.
Anticipation bubbled deep within and it was all he could do not to smile broadly. He knew nearly everything he needed to about Giordan Cale. The last would become clear tonight, and then he would determine how to proceed.
A burst of laughter from the corner drew Cezar’s attention to Lord Eddersley, the dark, gangly fop from London. He subdued the sneer that threatened his upper lip. Men like him, so open and obvious about their preferences, disgusted him.
Cezar turned away, sipping the fine vintage Cale had poured tonight. The man had excellent taste, along with his broad shoulders and thick, curling hair. He could hardly wait to taste the man himself.
8
Now let me have you.
Cale’s words rang in Narcise’s head, and now that the agonizing feather had been removed from the back of her dress, she could actually feel. And breathe. Her strength came rushing back, the numbness deserted her.
She wanted him to have her. Her fingers shook, her belly fluttered and leaped, she wanted him so badly.
He directed her out of the parlor, the door closing behind them and shutting off the voices and revelry—and Cezar’s watchful eyes. They were walking rapidly down a corridor furnished with an occasional painting, as well as several tables with statuary, vases and other items. Cale led her past several closed doors, and she was certain he meant to take her to his bedchamber. Once you’re in my bed, my chamber, you’ll never leave it.
Her heart slammed behind her ribs, and she nearly pushed it all away: Cezar, the worries, the children…and gave in. For she knew he was right. Once she was in his bed, safe and sated, loved, she would never be able to make herself leave.
So she must not go there.
She stumbled purposely and when he paused to see to her distress, Narcise wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her, backing herself against one of the doors. Before he could speak, or even react, she sank her fangs into the side of his neck.
Cale went rigid, and she felt his body jolt in a great shudder as the hot blood coursed into her mouth. He swore, in some low, dark curse that she couldn’t hear. For a moment, she nearly forgot her purpose…the pleasure was so intense, so long awaited. And they were in this together, as equals. Equals.
The realization surged through her, strong and powerful, and she dragged deep, pulling him into her mouth, all the hot, coppery flavor of him.
He groaned deep and low, the cords of his neck swelling in response beneath her mouth. She pressed herself all along his body, feeling the welcome ridge behind the crotch of his breeches, the heat and strength she desired and no longer feared.
“Narcise,” he managed to gasp, but his hands had covered her breasts, finding her tight nipples through the rough lace, and he seemed unable to finish. Molding her curves, sliding a thumb over her breasts, he had her flat against the door, his head tilted back, baring full, throbbing veins as she drank. His pulse pounded, sending little surges of his lifeblood into her mouth, and she sucked and licked, using her lips and tongue to taste him. He was rich and sweet, strong and yet comforting. Familiar.
She felt for the doorknob she knew was behind her, and uncaring what sort of room they would stumble into, managed to twist it. The door gave away behind her as she withdrew from the hot, soft skin at his neck and backed inside, pulling him by his lapels into the warm, dimly lit chamber.
“Out,” she heard him say roughly over her shoulder. As she tore at his coat, yanking it from his shoulders, she was aware of some sort of skittering movement, quick and clumsy, and then the stirring of the air as the chamber’s previous occupants quickly vacated.
Cale muttered something unintelligible, whipping the coat to the ground as she fumbled with the tie at the throat of his shirt, aware that his rich red blood had stained the white cotton. She tore it away and there was his bare chest beneath her hands again, as warm and solid as she remembered it.
He was pulling at the pins in her hair, yanking haphazardly and dropping them to the wooden floor with little scattering sounds. “So beautiful,” he murmured, sliding his hands into her hair, lifting its weight from where it rested at the back of her neck, untangling the mass of coils and braids and twists, spreading it wide and full so that it shimmered down her back. She felt it through the thin lace, heavy and warm, and then he lifted the whole of it to one side, baring her neck.
“Narcise?” he asked, his voice rough in her ear, his other hand firmly on her arm.
“Yes—” She’d barely breathed the syllable when he slammed his fangs into her at that soft, sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder. She gave a little shriek of pain and pleasure, and he stilled for a moment, one hand cupping her shoulder, and the other curved around the back of her head, holding her steady when she would have sagged weakly.
The release of pressure inside her, fairly exploding into his hot mouth, combined with the sting of pain and the sensual tracing of his lips made Narcise weak and dizzy in the most pleasurable sort of way. Her lips moved in a smile, taut with need but real nevertheless.
It had been so long…so long since this pleasure hadn’t been taken from her, forced from her. So long since it had been good, pure pleasure instead of terrible and dark.
But her knees were buckling an
d she grasped at the remnants of his shirt, holding on as he drank deeply. One of his hands slipped down to drag her bottom close, her torso sharply against the cock raging behind his tight breeches. She arched low, pressing against the tempting bulge, rubbing her own swollen self against him in the rhythm they both craved. Their breathing matched and mingled, hard and rough and heated, spreading over her skin where he latched on to her shoulder, his tongue caressing her behind his fangs.
There was a clink, and a jolt, and she realized they’d bumped into a table or something, and the next thing she knew, something was behind her legs. The arm of a sofa.
“Let’s do it horizontally this time,” he murmured, releasing his fangs and then sliding hot, slick lips over her wound, tenderly, gently, to close it up. She shivered at the sensation over her taut, sensitive skin, closing her eyes as her body seemed to turn to liquid, hot and pounding inside. Her breasts strained behind their lace confines, the rough material erotic and irritating to her thrusting nipples. But the pleasure rolling from belly to quim, undulating through her limbs, was delicious and unbearable, and Narcise found herself sighing and moaning in delirium, needing more.
Then he was easing her to the floor, pulling her down with him onto a thick rug. The glow of a fire spilled in a golden pool on the red wool. “The sofa…too narrow,” he murmured, pulling at the laces that bound her into the sleevelike dress, opening it along the side of her torso, pulling it with gentle hands, her skin freed from the rough lace, open to the heat of the fire, and then—