My Demon's Kiss

by Lucy Blue

  “And that makes such a difference?” Simon said. “Back in Ireland, we had May dances, too, and the duke and his knights found it no shame to attend.”

  “The duke and his knights were men, I suspect. I am a woman.” She filled a bowl with water and unknotted the makeshift bandage from her wounded hand. “Forgive me; I thought you had noticed.”

  “I did indeed,” he answered, smiling at her sarcasm.

  “You noticed, but you don’t understand.” The shallow gash had already stopped bleeding, but it stung when she washed it even so, adding still more fuel to her already raging temper. “My father’s legacy depends on my character. If my behavior is not above reproach at every moment, Charmot and all he built here could be lost.”

  “Did your father tell you this?” Simon said, watching her face as she spoke, her expressions more telling than her words. She was angry, but she was hurt as well.

  “No one had to tell me, Simon,” she retorted. “I am not a fool. This castle has no lord, no master, and has had none for ten years past, and for whatever reason, the king has decided he wants it. The only reason he has sent single knights to claim it in single combat instead of troops to lay siege to the walls is that I am here, a titled virgin of good repute with a claim to the manor of blood. I am the lady of Charmot.” She had never spoken of this with anyone, even Brautus, but in truth, it was the great truth of her life, and she knew it only too well. “If I’m just some peasant girl, dancing in a pagan grove, I’m nothing for the king to fret about, and Charmot is nothing but an empty fortress, ripe for the picking. And my father—” She broke off, turning away. “No one has to tell me how to behave, Simon,” she finished, emptying the bowl. “I am not a child.”

  “No,” he said tenderly, touched more than he cared to confess by what she’d said. He reached to take her wounded hand. “You are not.”

  “Stop it,” she said, snatching her hand away. “I am not that, either.”

  He froze, shocked by her rebuff. “Not what?”

  “Not some doe-eyed simpleton like Susannah who lives and quivers for the moment you might touch me,” she retorted, the words coming more quickly than her thoughts, she realized, as if she’d been waiting to say them for weeks. “Or some Eve in the garden, waiting to tempt you, some worldly vice you must give up like sunshine or fruitcake or whatever else it is you think God would forbid you.” He didn’t answer, just stared back at her with those dark angel’s eyes, a painted saint she could worship but never really touch. “But why do I even tell you this?” she said, turning away from his cold beauty. “Why do I always end up telling you everything that comes into my head, things that I’ve never spoken to another soul? You never tell me anything.”

  “Do I not?” he countered, moving around her to see her face, his own temper starting to rise. How dare this child attack him this way, this innocent little snip who thought the world began and ended at the gates of her father’s castle? She had told him she was not a child—no, in faith, she was an infant. “The first night I came here, I told you more than any soul living has ever known of my quest—”

  “Your curse, you mean?” she demanded, incredulous. “Aye, Simon, that you told me, and shall I tell you what I think of it? I think it’s bollocks. A curse that damns a man to live in darkness on bread crusts and go poking around in old crypts full of dead papers—what mad sort of idiot could believe in such a thing?”

  “You think I am a liar, then?” he answered, furious now in truth. He was a liar, but that did not mean he cared to be called one, least of all by her.

  “No, cousin,” she said, her face very near to his. “I think you are a fool.” His expression darkened, and she took a half-conscious step backward, quelled a bit by the look in his eyes in spite of her own fury. “Someone—Orlando, I suspect—has told you that you are a monster, that you deserve to be punished for some great evil, and you, poor fool, believe him.”

  “I should show you,” he said with a smile that was more like a snarl. “I should let you see just what sort of monster I am.”

  “In faith, Simon, I wish you would,” she retorted. “At least then I might have some chance of understanding you. What sort of monster are you?” He looked away, his jaw set in a sullen scowl quite different from any other expression she had ever seen him make. All the saintliness was gone, the angelic reserve that made him seem so distant even when he kissed her that she wanted to scream. “What is this terrible thing that you have done to make God despise you?”

  “I cannot tell you—”

  “Why not?” She moved around him, trying to make him face her. “Do you think I will despise you, too, that I will try to turn you out? We both know I couldn’t do that now even if I wanted you gone, which, by the by, I do not. You’re a good man, Simon, I swear it, and I am as fond of you as I have ever been of any friend I have ever had. I can’t believe you could have done anything so terrible—”

  “Isabel, stop it,” he ordered, trying to walk away, to shut out her words before it was too late. He didn’t want to be her friend, and he could not be anything else. “You don’t know what you ask of me—”

  “But I do.” She caught his arm. “I’m asking you to trust me as I have been forced to trust you. You say that your salvation is here at Charmot, but you will not tell me why.” The sorrow in his face as he turned away again was enough to make her almost regret her harsh words, and she softened her tone. “You want me to help you—”

  “I want you to leave me alone!” he said, turning on her in fury.

  “You do not!” she retorted, her own full rage returning in a flash. “If you did, you wouldn’t—what are you doing here now, Simon? Why are you not in the catacombs with Orlando? Why did you kiss me, not once, mind, but twice?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn’t say the words, couldn’t tell her the truth. “Isabel, I’m sorry,” he began instead.

  “No!” she shouted, her temper exploding completely. “You will not dare to be sorry, you bastard; I’m sick of it!” Never in her life had she dreamed of such a thing, screaming like a banshee at a man, much less a noble knight, but she couldn’t help herself. “If you want to kiss me, kiss me and suffer the consequences. If I don’t like it, I’ll be glad enough in future to tell you so. I may be a virgin, but I’m not a coward or a child.”

  “So you said,” he answered with a sardonic, disbelieving smile.

  “And if you don’t really wish to kiss me, if you’ve done so in the past out of some misguided sense of obligation, please, feel free to leave off,” she went on, undeterred. “I’ve lived this long without your kisses; I think I can manage to live a little longer. If you want to be left alone, then stay away from me. I swear I will not trouble you. Have I broken our agreement even once since it was made?”

  “No,” he muttered, still scowling.

  “No, nor will I.” The sheer conceit of the man suddenly struck her as comic, it was so ridiculous. “You keep coming to me, yet I’m the one who must be warned to stay away, who must promise to leave you in peace to suffer your great sorrow undisturbed. Well, worry no more, sir knight.” She suddenly felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her, blown away in righteous fury. “From this moment, you are safe from me.” Flinging the bowl she had used into the washing basin, she stormed out, slamming the kitchen door behind her.

  She heard his footsteps behind her and turned just as he caught her halfway across the great hall, sweeping her into his arms. “I didn’t promise.” His voice was almost a growl, and his dark brown eyes met hers with a hunger that made her feel faint. “I never promised I would stay away.” She opened her mouth to snap out her reply and regain her fury, and he kissed her, crushing her so close she could barely breathe, much less protest.

  Oh, no, she thought, still fighting inside, struggling in his embrace. She balled up her fists against his chest, trying to push him away. He wouldn’t steal her reason with a kiss this time. He wouldn’t make her long for him then skulk bac
k into hiding. This time she would be the one to pull away.

  His tongue pushed into her mouth, the same kind of delicious invasion that had haunted her dreams for weeks, but this time she bit him, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to hurt him. But still he didn’t let her go. If anything, he pressed her closer, kissed her harder, drawing her lower lip between his teeth to gently bite her back. Her mind cried out in fury, but her knees went weak. Furious or not, her body refused to resist him, but still she was raging inside. She slumped against his chest, giving herself over to his kiss, but when he moved to pull away, she caught a double handful of his shirt. “No, you don’t,” she warned him. “Not this time.” She saw the same old anguish in his eyes, and it made her want to scream. “Don’t do it, Simon.” She loosened her grip on his shirt, but her eyes still held him. “Leave me now, and you leave me forever.”

  For one horrifying moment, she thought he meant to do just that. He let her go and turned his face away. But just as tears were rising in her eyes, just as she was about to turn away herself, he caught her and kissed her again.

  Simon kissed her hard, resolve and reason falling into flame. She possessed him; he couldn’t let her go. He pushed her back against the heavy table, still wanting to hurt her, to punish her for capturing him so completely, her innocence be damned. He kissed the corners of her mouth, her jawline, her throat, and her tiny sigh of pleasure just goaded him on. She wanted him; she turned her face up to his kiss, her arms hanging slack at her sides, and when he lifted her onto the table, she reached for him, raking her fingers through his hair. She knew him not as a vampire, the demon in the dark he had been for so many others for so long, but as Simon, the man he had been, and she wanted him, reached for him, melted at his kiss. His anger dissolved into longing, a desire more sweet than any hunger for blood. When he drew back, her green eyes gazed up into his, fearless and warm, and he smiled, caressing her cheek. “How could I leave you?”

  He kissed her again, their faces now level, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, one leg twining around him, driving him mad. How could she be real, this wild young spirit in his arms, so sensible and cold one moment, so fevered and wanton the next? His hands moved up and down her sides as his kiss moved to her throat, the heat of her soft flesh like the taste of her skin, maddening and sweet. No one else had ever touched her, he thought as he caressed her. No other man had ever tasted her kisses or pressed her close and felt her surrender. Her passion was for him alone with no trace of calculation, no pretense of maidenly scorn. If she scorned him, he would know it; when she kissed him, it was real.

  “Isabel,” he murmured, kissing her jaw, and she shivered, loving the sound of her name in his mouth and the longing she heard in his voice. He pushed her skirt up to her thighs, and she trembled, feeling deliciously wicked. They were alone in the castle but for Brautus, who was sleeping, and Orlando, who would not leave the catacombs. No one would come to disturb them or see what they did; no one would charge in to save her. For once in her life, she was free.

  His hands moved over her legs, pushing them up in an ungainly position with her knees bent to caress the backs of her thighs, and she breathed in sharply, appalled and elated at once. She felt dizzy, drunk with a desire so intense she could hardly believe it was real. She had imagined kisses before he had come to Charmot; she had tried to imagine her marriage bed, to piece together some notion of what it would be like from the horrors and romances she had been told. But she could not have dreamed of such a fire as she felt in Simon’s arms. Nothing was as she had expected it to be; everything was better, strange and new. He arched over her, moving to stand between her upraised knees, and she reached for him again, drew his face down to hers to kiss his mouth.

  Simon felt her pulse in her lips and heard the pounding of her heart. Sweet blood rushed through her, warming her skin; he could taste it on her tongue, enticing him to murder. But her blood could never be enough. He broke the kiss; her lips parted with living breath as he bent down and kissed her again. He eased her back farther on the table, caressing the curve of her thigh, soft flesh over powerful muscle. She rose up to kiss him, draping her arms around his shoulders, pressing her body to his. Her hand went to the lacing at the bodice of her gown, baring her skin to his touch. She gasped again, catching his wrist, and a maiden’s modest blush painted her cheeks at last, captivating him. “Yes,” he murmured, bending closer, kissing her sweet lips. Her grip loosened and turned into a caress, her fingertips stroking the back of his hand as he lifted each breast from its binding.

  He kissed each one in turn, his mouth closing around each delicate pink nipple, feeling it harden to a burning peak against his tongue. Another sudden flush swept over her, warming his mouth as she sighed. His hand closed gently over one cream mound, a miracle of softness, as his mouth moved lower, but her gown still held him back. Rising up again, he tore it from her, ripping the bodice open to the waist.

  “Simon!” She should have been frightened or at least ashamed, but she wasn’t; she laughed aloud. He smiled at her, his angel’s smile, and a thrill of elation swept through her, burning deeper as he leaned down to suckle her breast. “Good,” she heard herself murmur without ever meaning to speak. “Your mouth feels so good.” Her hand stole half-consciously to her other breast as he tore her gown still further, still suckling her as he pushed it completely away. His hands were shaking as he stroked her hips, and she smiled, moaning softly as he moved to kiss her other breast, nudging her own hand away.

  He kissed her stomach, his hands around her waist, and her body arched upward, beyond her control. Her hands found his shoulders, hard muscle curved beneath the soft, thin linen that he wore, and she tore at his shirt as he’d torn at her gown, wishing she was strong enough to rip it completely away.

  “Wait,” he murmured, laughing. “Wait, sweetheart.” He licked a trail across her stomach to her sex, kissing her there as he would kiss her mouth, and she cried out as his tongue slid inside her, making her burn with sweet shock. Then he was standing, bending over her again to kiss her lightly as he pulled his shirt over his head. Weak and shaking, she reached up to touch his cheek.

  “My angel,” she whispered. His eyelids fell, his lashes dark against his cheek as she touched him. She traced the curve of his lower lip with her fingertips, and a strange thought passed through her mind, a detail forgotten before it was defined. Why do I not feel his breath? She let her touch trail down his chest, and he groaned, leaning closer, brushing his cheek against hers. Her palm slipped lower, and he kissed her, holding her close. She felt the swell of his erection brush her hip, and for a single moment she was afraid, not of pain but of sin. She belonged to Charmot; she belonged to her father; she had no right to give herself away. But Charmot could never comfort her, could never hold her close. She twined her arms around Simon’s neck, pressing a flurry of kisses all over his beautiful face.

  He cradled her cheek in his hand as he kissed her, then his mouth moved to her throat. His palm caressed her hip, his other arm cradling her waist, holding her to him, caught fast. He kissed her mouth again, capturing her sigh, and for a moment, her tongue touched something too sharp in his mouth. Then his touch moved tenderly between her legs, his hand touching her sex the same way that his tongue had done it, making her cry out in pleasure and shock. A burning thrill raced through her faster and faster as his hand opened her up, so tender but insistent, his mouth still brushing gently over hers to steal her breath. He moved closer between her thighs, and she felt his sex again, still enclosed in his hose.

  She wrapped her hand around his wrist again, not to stop him this time but to hold him, and she shivered to feel her fingers would not meet around it. Half-consciously guiding his hand ever deeper against the swollen, tender folds of her most sensitive flesh, she slowly sat up on the table, gasping again at the sudden change of pressure in his touch. Pressing a kiss to the scar on his throat, she slid her own hands down his stomach, pushing down his hose. His sex sprang up bet
ween them, pale and perfect as the rest of him, the first one she had ever seen. Entranced, she traced its shape with her fingers, raising her eyes to meet his.

  He caught her wrist and pushed her back prone on the table, pinning her beneath him as his mouth dipped down to hers. With one hand braced against the table, he pushed her legs farther apart with the other, guiding himself inside her. She laughed aloud again in shock, the pain so sweet she could hardly think of it as pain at all. This ecstasy was what she was supposed to fear? She brought her hips up eagerly to meet him, urging him to go faster, and a deeper wave of pleasure rippled through her, making her feel weak.

  Simon tried to make himself go slowly, but it was a losing fight, his desire for her so intense it hurt him. He loved her, he realized, rocking deeper, the knowledge like a knife twisted inside his lifeless heart even as his flesh shuddered with pleasure. He couldn’t stay away from her because he loved her as he had never loved another as a vampire or a man. The torches had never been lit, and the shadows from the firelight made a veil across her precious face as he kissed her. She closed her eyes, her hips rising in rhythm with his own, and he bent closer, bracing his weight on his arms to kiss her eyelids, her forehead, her cheek. He kissed her mouth as her body arched beneath him, quickening her pace, and he matched his strokes to her rhythm as she clung to him, her nails scratching his flesh. His lips strayed to her tender throat, trailing kisses down the vein… but no. He drove into her harder, his climax beginning to rise.

  “Simon!” she cried out, hands braced against the table as ripples of pleasure erupted in a single, overwhelming wave. She tried to say his name again, to hold him close, but every muscle in her body felt like liquid flame, powerless and burning. She felt him spill inside her, cold as water from a spring… why was he so cold? He was kissing her, raising her up in his arms, and she clung to him, wrapping her arms around him as if to warm his flesh, bereft as he slipped from inside her.