My Demon's Kiss

by Lucy Blue

  “Aye, you might be right.” He turned her in a circle again, a slow, sweet lover’s dance. “So you only mean to take back what is yours.”

  “Just so.” He took her hands and turned her in a figure before him with such grace, she could almost hear the music. “Tell me more about those Irish dances.”

  “As you will, my lady.” She couldn’t know how beautiful she seemed to him, he thought, a nymph crowned with flowers, dancing in his arms. His frozen heart ached just to see her. “My father was a bard as well as the duke’s castellan, so he always sang and played the harp.”

  “Your father was a musician?” she said with a laugh.

  “Aye, he was.” He lifted her off of her feet again, making her laugh again as he kissed her. “And a poet as well.”

  “A poet?” she echoed, touching his cheek. “In faith, I am impressed, sir knight.” She rose up on tiptoe to kiss his lightly stubbled jaw. “And is your father’s son a poet, too?”

  “I was.” He stopped dancing to caress her face, thinking of the lays he could sing on the beauty of her eyes if he only had the freedom. “I was a great many things, love, once upon a time.” He kissed her now in earnest, and she seemed to understand, enfolding him in her embrace as she opened her mouth to his. He pressed her closer then turned her around in a figure. “You’re a good dancer,” he teased with a smile as she laughed.

  “Am I, in faith?” She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his bare, thick-muscled arms. And to think, the first time she had seen him, she’d thought he might be a monk. “’Tis a wonder, since I’ve never danced before.”

  “In faith, I can hardly believe it.” His hands encircled her waist, admiring the softness of her curves, and she giggled, flinching away, ticklish.

  “I’ve never done a lot of things.” She lay her hands against his chest, the sheer power of him frightening and beautiful at once. “As you could tell, no doubt.”

  “I had a slight suspicion.” He touched her chin as she looked down, turning her face back to his. “I should tell you that I’m sorry.” Her eyes widened, and he smiled. “But I am not.”

  Her frown melted into a smile. “Thank God.” He laughed, and she kissed him, her hands sliding over his shoulders. He bent and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off of her feet. “I am not sorry, either.” She brushed back the dark silk of his still-damp hair to press a warm kiss to his cheek.

  “Darling…” He carried her to the high bed, kissing her mouth as they went, but rather than laying her back on the coverlet, he turned and sat down himself, holding her over him. She framed his beautiful face in her hands, finally able to reach him, to touch him asshe’d longed to do for so long. She kissed his forehead, the pale white curve of his high-arched cheek, the dark shadow of his lashes as his hands moved under the shirt she still wore to cradle the curve of her behind. She pulled the shirt off over her head, dragging the flowers from her hair in the process, then kissed him, holding his face to her own as he lifted her onto him, moaning into his mouth as he slid into her.

  Their love was softer this time, less desperate, a delicious tension building slowly inside her like scratching an exquisitely torturous itch. She bent her forehead to his shoulder, using the strength of her thighs to rock over him, and he gasped, all but panting as his hands caressed her back.

  He kissed her throat, the throb of her pulse no more than a delicate goad to his passion after his orgy of feeding. Her hair fell like a curtain all around them, and he gathered it up in his hand, inhaling her scent as he drew her head back, arching her throat up to his mouth. She moved faster over him, and he wrapped her in his arms, shifting her closer on his lap, driving deeper inside of her with every stroke, and she cried out his name, plaintive and sweet. “It’s all right,” he promised, a kiss against her ear. “I have you… I won’t let you fall.”

  “No…” She twined her arms around his back, molding her body to his, waves of pleasure making her feel dizzy as he filled her up, the two of them now one. “I trust you.” She clung to him with all the strength her melting limbs could muster as he rolled over her, pressing her into the soft mattress, their bodies still joined. Only when he drove in harder did she let him go, her hands clutching the coverlet, her hips arched up to his. Her climax came slowly this time, rolling through her with such violence, she was blind, the whole world going black. But Simon was there, still holding her, kissing her cheek, and even in the void she felt protected and safe. I love you, she thought, feeling him erupt inside her, his own rolling shudder as he fell into her arms. But even in her innocence, she knew better than to say the words aloud. Nothing had changed; he still thought he was cursed. She could so easily drive him away.

  Simon kissed her shoulder, then nuzzled her breast, drunk on the warmth of her flesh even now. He raised up to kiss her mouth, then pulled the heavy bedrug over them. “Come here.” He drew her to him, her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulders.

  “That was nice,” she said, and he smiled as she yawned, as unaffected as a child.

  “I’m glad you thought so.” He kissed the back of her hand. “As the cad who has ruined you, I feel obliged to please.”

  “Stop it,” she said with an uncharacteristic giggle as she snuggled against his shoulder. “I am not ruined, and you are not a cad.”

  “Is that so, my lady?” He stroked her hair. “What would you call it?”

  “Never you mind.” She turned her head to kiss his throat, feeling very drowsy and comfortable. “I should thank you.” She laced her fingers with his. “Whatever it’s called, I didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to do it.”

  “Dancing,” he said, making her laugh. “It’s called dancing.”

  “Ooh, so that’s what dancing is like.” The moon had begun to set outside her window, a glowing orange ball. The morning would be coming soon. “I didn’t realize.” She ran a possessive hand along his arm, trying not to think about the moment he would have to leave her. “No wonder everyone gets so excited about it.”

  “Exactly.” He kissed her brow. “What made you think you’d never get to dance, my lady? Didn’t you expect to marry?”

  “Not really,” she admitted. “I could never really imagine it. My father always expected that I would, of course. He used to talk about it all the time, the man who would protect Charmot when he was gone.” Her hand closed half-consciously around his wrist. “But I never thought… it never seemed to have much to do with me, really. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I think so,” he answered, watching her face. In truth, he had never thought about what it would be like to be a woman, treated as chattel. The number of his own choices in life had gone from one to a hundred when Francis, the duke of Lyan, had made him a knight, but Isabel, born noble as she was, had never had but one destiny before her at which she could fail or succeed. His fate was at least partly of his own making, cursed or not, but what could she have done to change her path?

  “Then when Papa died… it just seemed so sudden and so wrong, as if someone had made a mistake. I kept thinking that I must be dreaming, that soon I would wake up, and he would be there to take care of me again.” His arm tightened around her, and she smiled. “But I didn’t wake up, of course, and the king sent a stranger to be my husband. I should have let him, I suppose…” She let her voice trail off for a moment, hoping he would disagree, but he said nothing. “It just seemed so ridiculous that I should marry someone my father had never met, that his castle should go to some stranger,” she went on instead. “So Brautus helped me.”

  He shifted on the pillow, cuddling her close. “Did you miss your mother?”

  “I didn’t,” she admitted with a hollow laugh. “I didn’t know her well enough to miss her; I had never known her. Only Papa. She was like a ghost he could see that I could not, this dead peasant girl haunting the castle. Sometimes I miss her now.” She turned to face him, pillowing her head on her own arm. “What about your mother and father? Are they still in Ireland?”
/>
  “No, love,” he said, turning to lie on his back. “Not any more.” She brushed the hair back from his forehead, and he smiled. “My da died just before I left home with the duke. He broke his leg breaking a horse, and a fever set in. The whole manor mourned him.”

  The memory still pained him, she could tell, and she kissed him lightly on the mouth. “I should have liked to have met him.”

  “Oh, aye,” he said with a smile. “He would have loved you.” He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “You would have been embarrassed by the rare verses he would have sung to your beauty.”

  “You think so?” she said, laughing. “Your mother must have been a lucky woman.”

  “She was a beauty, too.” His expression sobered. “She died when I was three years old, though, murdered by a Saxon raider, so I wouldn’t call her lucky.”

  “Simon, dear God,” she said, caressing his hair. “How awful.”

  He tried to smile, but it was a poor effort. “They used to say I saw it happen, but I don’t remember it. I just remember afterward feeling like I ought to die as well, that the world had lost everything in it that was good.” He had never spoken of this to anyone, not even his father. But it seemed natural to tell her now. She was looking down at him, her eyes soft and warm with sympathy, so beautiful even in the dark. What would it be like to awaken in sunlight to those beautiful eyes?

  He drew her down to him and kissed her, tenderly but deep. “You’re wrong, love,” she said softly when he let her go. “The world can still be good.”

  He smiled for her. “I see that.” She lay back down with her head on his chest, her arms around him, and she yawned again. “You should go to sleep,” he told her, pulling her hair free before she was hopelessly entangled.

  “I can’t,” she protested, still yawning. “The others will be home soon, and I can’t let them find us like this.” She made herself let him go. “Besides,” she went on, “Orlando will be missing you.”

  Orlando, he thought, remembering. Orlando was still locked up in the catacombs, predicting disaster and cursing the vampire’s name, no doubt. The worst part was, he was probably right on both counts. “Oh, I doubt it,” he lied with a smile. “Go to sleep. I will stay awake.”

  “No,” she insisted, so drowsy now even this simple word was almost beyond her. “You have to go.”

  “I will,” he promised, kissing her bare shoulder. “I will go before anyone comes back.” She smiled but didn’t answer, already asleep. He kissed her cheek, and she barely stirred, a tiny snore making him smile. “I love you,” he whispered, lying down beside her. “I love you, Isabel.”

  9

  Isabel slept most of the next day because no one bothered to wake her. By the time she came downstairs, the household was well about the new day’s business, almost as if the revelries of the night before had never happened. “Good morrow, my lady,” Hannah said, setting food on the table before her. “You must have slept well.”

  “Aye, too well,” Isabel answered, making an effort to sound casual. “Why did no one wake me sooner? It must be past midday.” She had dressed herself with particular care, making certain her gown was neat and her hair was tucked away beneath its kerchief so that to all outward appearances she was the same respectable maiden they had all left behind the night before. But she still felt as if she must be putting off some kind of sinful glow, as if everyone must be staring at her behind her back, gaping at one another in shock to see her transformed to a wanton. Everything about her was different; how could she hope to hide it?

  “Well past,” Hannah said with a smile. “Brautus must have kept you up half the night telling war stories.”

  “No, he went to bed early.” She took a bite of bread, ravenous in spite of her raw nerves. Indeed, she felt almost shockingly healthy except for being a little sore in spots, but if she thought about that, she really would blush herself scarlet. “We both did.” And surely she must sound strange; to her ears, her voice sounded hollow and false, not like her at all. But Hannah didn’t seem to notice. “I must have just been tired.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder if you were,” the maid said, taking up her spinning, “not after all the worry you’ve had lately. You’re a very brave woman, my lady.”

  “I’m all right.” I’m in love, she wanted to blurt out. I have a lover; can you believe it? “How was the dance?” she asked instead, covering her snicker with a cough.

  “Oh, we had a grand time, as always,” Hannah answered with a mysterious smile of her own. “So grand, in fact, that our Queen of the May has yet to come back home.”

  “Susannah isn’t here?” Something about this made her shiver, though she couldn’t have said just why.

  “Not to worry, my lady,” Hannah said, twisting her thread with her usual skill, obviously unconcerned. “She took up with some miller’s son with a pretty face and no brothers as soon as we arrived; ’tis no great wonder she had no more time for us. I won’t be surprised if she turns up with a husband before the day is done.” Her spindle full, she pulled off the skein and started on another.

  “As easy as that?” Isabel laughed.

  “Oh aye, my lady. We common folk don’t have nearly the pomp and trouble finding mates as the nobility,” she said with a smile that held no small glimmer of pity. “’Sooth, we seem to trip over one another at every turning once the time is right.”

  “You make it sound so romantic.” Was that what she and Simon had done, trip over one another? He was the only man of her class she had ever known well enough to think of marrying, that was true, but was that the only reason why she wanted him? If he had been shorter or blonder or more cheerful, would she still have loved him, just because he was there? For she did love him, of that much she was certain.

  “Romance is for those who can afford it,” the maid said with a laugh. “Minstrels, mostly, and queens. Most of us are happy enough just being easy together, comfortable like. Your parents were the same, as I remember.” She smiled at Isabel again, a wise, motherly smile. “Just you wait, my lady. Someday you will see.”

  “You think so?” Isabel said, smiling back, but suddenly, she didn’t feel like smiling much at all. I don’t have to wait and see, she wanted to say; I already know better. But in truth, she did not. If romance was only for those who could afford it, she feared she was deeply in debt. She had no more business throwing herself away on Simon than she did taking a leap over the moon, not when she knew he could never marry her. But I don’t care, she thought, stubborn and defiant. Simon might not care a fig for her; he might be cursed; they might never marry; and she might burn in hell for a harlot after dying an old maid. But today she did not care.

  “I do indeed,” Hannah said as Isabel stood up to clear away her bowl. “You will have a fine husband, my lady; I don’t doubt it for a moment.” She didn’t mention Simon, Isabel noticed with a bitter, inward smile.

  “By God’s grace,” she answered aloud. “I will pray you’re right.”

  “My lady, you’re awake,” Kevin said, coming in looking pale. “You should go upstairs.” He looked around the hall. “Where is Brautus?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Isabel answered, confused. “What has happened?”

  “He’s upstairs,” Hannah answered at the same time.

  “Go and fetch him,” Kevin told his wife before turning to Isabel. “Go with her, my lady, and stay.”

  “I will not,” Isabel said, getting up. “Kevin, what’s wrong?”

  For a moment, she thought he would refuse to answer, but Raymond and some of the other men were coming in behind him. “We went looking for Susannah,” he began, obviously unhappy.

  “Did you find her?” Hannah said, alarmed.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “But we found three others.” He nodded to Raymond, who went back out again. “My lady, they are dead.” Raymond came back in leading Mother Bess, leaning heavily on his arm on one side and her gnarled willow cane on the other. “I fear the wolf ha
s returned.”

  She watched with Hannah standing beside her as the bodies were carried in, her arms crossed tightly over her breasts as if to hold back a scream. “You found them together?” she asked, shocked to hear her voice sound so calm.

  “Aye, my lady,” Kevin said as the third and last of the dead men was laid before the hearth. The first two were dressed in the leather clothing of soldiers with heavy woolen mantles of a Scottish weave. They looked as if they might have been killed by the same beast as the woman Isabel had seen at the chapel. One’s throat was eaten nearly to the bone, and the other had a deep gash in his throat just under his jaw. But the third was no fighter. He was dressed for the festival in a finespun linen shirt and woolen hose and a vest still decorated with a wilted flower. He was younger than the others, too, and handsome, and Isabel could see no mark of violence on him anywhere. But he was dead just the same. “They were arranged in a clearing near the grove,” Kevin explained.

  “Arranged?” she said.

  “Aye,” old Wat replied, his leathery face more gray than his beard. “In a triangle, head to foot, with their arms outstretched, like this.” He scratched the beginnings of the pattern in the ashes on the hearth, but his wife, Glynnis, struck the stick from his hand with a shriek.

  “Old fool,” she scolded, rubbing out the scratches with her foot.

  “The young one is the miller’s son,” Tom said, looking even more greensick than Isabel felt as he stared at the dead man’s face.

  “The one who was with Susannah?” Isabel said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Aye, he was with her.” He looked back at her, a strange light in his eyes. “But he wasn’t the only one.”

  “What is it?” Brautus said, coming in with a speed to put his injuries to shame. “What has happened?” He saw the corpses and stopped, appalled. “Isabel… come away from there.”