Born to Bite Bundle

by Hannah Howell

Anger flared in the queen’s eyes and then faded. “The decision is not an easy one.”

  “As Laird of the Highland Coven, I will win many an enemy by choosing Rowan to be my wife.”

  Ysenda studied him long and hard. “If I allow my granddaughter to wed you, many will be furious in the Otherworld as well.”

  “For Rowan, I shall risk the outrage of my people,” Aedan replied. “What of you?”

  She gave a weary sigh. “I have much to consider.”

  He nodded, pleased Ysenda would contemplate his marriage to Rowan. “For now our thoughts must be on Rowan.”

  The fairy queen nodded. “Indeed. Sleep. I will be outside.”

  “You will stay within Caorann Castle?”

  “Aye.” Violet eyes narrowed. “If Rowan dies, so shall you.” With a sweep of her hand, iridescent smoke whirled around her, and she vanished.

  Aedan sagged against his chamber wall, stunned by the events of the last few hours, amazed Rowan’s grandmother had not killed him outright.

  He studied Rowan.

  Her chest remained still. After passing out from the torment of the conversion, she’d succumbed to the deep sleep of a vampire, and all her internal systems had shut down. He refused to believe her body was giving up, that instead of moving through the conversion process, she was dying.

  Heart aching at Rowan’s desperate state, he lay beside her and drew her into his arms. “Sleep deeply. When you awaken, your transformation will be complete.” Aedan closed his eyes and prayed he’d spoken the truth.

  Agony pummeled Rowan’s body, torturous lashes that stung her over and over, only to begin again. Aedan! His name echoed through her mind, but she couldn’t see him or hear him within the blanket of misery. She struggled to push through the hurt, only to lose herself where naught existed but pain.

  The fey within her recognized the truth—she was dying.

  Rowan worked to hear the sound of her child’s heart. Failed. He could not die!

  She fought for calm, to retain her grip on sanity. Aedan!

  Silence.

  Panic overwhelmed her as she tried to push through the foggy confusion to somehow reach Aedan. A rush of sound filled her mind like bubbles. Without warning, coolness tumbled over her. Exhausted, Rowan sagged back and found herself standing within a mist.

  Framed between breaks of white, fields of potent green unfolded before her.

  She frowned. Where was she?

  In the distance, a light grew, and a soft hum began, beckoning her.

  Curious, Rowan took a step forward. Stunned, she stopped. The pain had disappeared.

  “Nor will you ever hurt again.”

  She shielded her eyes against the bright light where a voice echoed. “Who is there?”

  “Your destiny.”

  Peace radiated from the voice, so soft, so luxurious, it lured her to relax. “My destiny?” None of this made sense. She struggled to remember why she’d hurt so much, but found naught except for the image of Aedan.

  “His life is elsewhere.”

  Rowan walked toward the brightness. “Who are you?”

  “You know.”

  With a frown Rowan glanced around, took in the soft hues, the scent of lavender mixed with that of the wildflowers of her youth. Memories stumbled through her mind, beautiful images she’d seen during her life, the rush of a waterfall as it cascaded into a deep pool, the waves of the ocean as they surged up the beach, the gentle fall of rain upon the grass.

  Confused, she studied the glow of light before her, a diffused, welcoming pulse. And understood.

  She’d died.

  A tremor shook her. Nay, let her be wrong.

  “Aye, my child, your new life has begun. Here you will be pain free and will find naught but happiness.”

  “Nay, I cannot be happy without Aedan.”

  Rowan! His voice echoed from the distance.

  She whirled, secluded in the shroud of white. “Aedan?”

  “He cannot hear you.”

  She turned. “Please, I wish to go back.”

  Silence. “None has ever requested to leave.”

  “A fact I can understand. Never before have I felt such welcome, such acceptance, but never before have I felt the love that Aedan has given me.”

  Silence hummed within the cocoon of warmth. “If you go back, you will step into your life as before, into agony so intense you will wish for this peace.”

  She hesitated. “If I go back, will my child and I live through the conversion?”

  The light pulsed. “Aye.”

  “Then, ’tis my wish to return.”

  “You are certain?”

  Rowan nodded.

  “So be it.”

  The light dulled.

  Pain rushed into Rowan like a mace driven into unprotected flesh. Her body throbbed, hurt more than she believed possible.

  “She is awake.”

  Aedan’s distant voice reached her. Rowan fought against the pain, fought not to slip beneath consciousness. “Ae-Aedan?”

  A hand as soft as it was strong lifted hers. “I am here.”

  She forced open her eyes, found him watching her, his fear easy to read.

  “She is a vampire?”

  At the dazed yet melodic voice, Rowan shifted her head, winced against the slash of agony. The fairy queen stood but a pace away.

  “Only half,” Aedan replied, his voice thick with wonder. “My blood has melded with hers, and incredibly, as I’d hoped, she has retained her fey aspects, and lost only her human side.”

  Beads of sweat slid down Rowan’s body as she struggled to concentrate, to understand the full impact of his words.

  “Impossible,” the fairy queen whispered.

  “ ’Twould seem not,” Aedan replied.

  The regal woman rubbed her brow. “This is all such a muddle.” She gave Rowan a gentle smile. “There is much I wish to ask you, but later, once you have recovered.”

  “Incredibly, I am feeling stronger,” Rowan replied, finding with each passing second her words were true.

  Aedan gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “ ’Tis the mix of vampire and fey blood. Both hold enormous strength and ensure you will quickly heal.”

  She touched the curve of her stomach, surprised to feel the kick of her child against her palm.

  “Your child will grow at an accelerated rate due to the mix of fey and vampire blood,” Ysenda explained.

  Rowan nodded, understanding there was so much more she would learn. From the puzzlement on the queen’s face, she was not alone. “You have questions.”

  Ysenda studied her a long moment. “Laird MacGregor said you were left upon a healer’s doorstep.”

  “Aye,” Rowan replied. “After my mother died giving birth, my father struggled to raise me. He felt it a prudent choice.”

  “Since you were half fey, he would.” The fairy queen’s hands trembled. “How many summers are you?”

  Confused by such a question, Rowan frowned. “Eighteen, Your Highness.”

  Tears shimmered in Ysenda’s eyes. “ ’Tis true.”

  “True?” Rowan asked.

  “You, child,” the fairy queen whispered, “are my granddaughter, Princess Rowan Campbell of the Otherworld.”

  Epilogue

  Rowan leaned against Aedan’s arms as she stared down at the sleeping babies nestled in their beds. “They are so small,” she whispered, aware that, part fey and part vampire, they would be ultrasensitive and easily awakened.

  “They will grow fast,” he replied.

  “Three.” She shook her head. “Who knew I carried triplets.”

  Aedan smiled, his expression filled with pride. “Magic indeed.”

  “I am thankful my grandmother has accepted you.” She lifted her gaze, smiled. “Has accepted us.”

  “ ’Twas that or lose contact with a granddaughter and her great grandchildren.”

  “More, I think it was your insisting we name one of our daughters after my mother.”
r />   “Guinevere is a regal-sounding name.”

  “Aye,” she agreed, “but a token of peace all the same.”

  “Aye.” He winked. “One that worked well, might I add.”

  With a smile, she took in their children, and her heart filled with pride. “Elspeth and Seòras have your eyes.”

  “And your smile.” Aedan drew her into a slow kiss, lifted his head. “Our children. A miracle.”

  “They are.” She shook her head. “ ’Tis hard to believe so much has happened in such a brief amount of time.”

  He brushed a sweep of hair from the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “Aye.”

  Sadness touched Rowan. “I am sorry your cousin is dead.”

  “Do not be. Breac’s greed sealed his fate.”

  “I know. Still, I wish it could have ended otherwise.”

  “As do I, but ’tis done.” Aedan took her hand in his, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Never must we forget that our joining, though for us a miracle, will be frowned upon by many vampires as well as many fey.”

  Like an ominous foreboding, a chill raced through her as she studied the innocent faces of their sleeping children. “Never would I wish them harm.”

  “Nor I, but ’tis a consequence of our love.”

  “Aye.” She lifted the tiny hand of her closest daughter, pressed a kiss upon miniature fingers, and then tucked Elspeth’s hand beneath the coverlet. She turned to Aedan. “But my wish is to focus on the joys of this day. The challenges ahead will come.”

  “Indeed.”

  He claimed her mouth in a long, passionate kiss, and Rowan’s worries fell away. This moment she would savor the man she loved, their beautiful children, and the gift of family found. And if she and Aedan’s meeting and falling in love seemed like magic, it was only fitting, with her being part fey. ’Twould seem a perfect ending indeed.

  NEVER BEEN BITTEN

  Erica Ridley

  For Frank Stout, a born romantic

  Chapter One

  October 1830

  Lincolnshire, England

  To some, the Wedgeworth soirée might appear a splendid crush of debutantes, dandies, and music, but to Miss Elspeth Ramsay—inveterate bluestocking, indifferent spinster, and, most damning of all, tradeswoman—the evening’s crush was simply her latest assignment. As planned, she’d been commissioned to enter the world of the ton.

  If Ellie were a fidgeter, she might have been nervously smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the nicest of her outdated gowns. She did not fidget. If she were a coquette, perhaps she would be twining one of her wayward curls about her finger whilst simpering at the eligible bachelors. Ellie did not simper. If she were socially ambitious, she might be near to a swoon at having arrived at a High Society fête as the particular guest of the youngest daughter of a duke. She did not swoon. Instead, Ellie stood in the farthest corner from the orchestra, surreptitiously surveying the crowd and hoping none of them would notice her in the shadows. After mentally cataloguing and discarding each of the revelers as harmless, she turned to her benefactress with a raised brow.

  “Well?” she said, impatient to calm her client’s irrational fears and escape the oppressive splendor. “Where is he?”

  Rather than being affronted by this impertinence, Miss Lydia Breckenridge beamed with self-satisfaction. “He has not yet arrived.” Miss Breckenridge nearly bounced on her satin-slippered feet. “I knew you’d be able to discern human from inhuman upon sight, you being an authority on the paranormal—”

  “I am no such thing!” Ellie was unable to bear this speech with continued calm. “I am a woman of science, Miss Breckenridge. If anything, I am a ‘professional skeptic.’ To date, every such claim I’ve investigated has been quickly proven false, and I don’t doubt this one shall unfold in the same way.” As much as she and her mother desperately needed the coin, Ellie couldn’t help but give a slight shake of her head. “Vampires, indeed.”

  “But don’t you see?” Miss Breckenridge insisted, eyes shining. “That’s what makes your involvement perfect. When even you are forced to admit true evil walks amongst us, the rest will be obliged to take heed.”

  “And do what?” Ellie asked sensibly. “Drive a stake through his waistcoat?”

  “What a horrid image.” Miss Breckenridge’s brow creased. “To be honest, I had not thought so far in advance.”

  Ellie forbore mentioning she doubted her client had thought over any portion of her preposterous belief. Rudeness was never warranted, and besides, she planned to earn the promised ten-pound note. “At what point did you first suspect the new earl in town to be a vampire?”

  “No, no,” gasped Miss Breckenridge. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  Ellie blinked. “He’s not a vampire?”

  “He’s not a lord.” Miss Breckenridge sniffed. “Despite his sobriquet. He’s a younger son of a family in the Scottish Highlands, distantly related to the head of some forgotten medieval clan. He’s not a member of the peerage whatsoever. How could he be, if he’s an undead immortal?”

  “How indeed,” Ellie said faintly. “How, then, did he cut such a swath?”

  For a moment, Miss Breckenridge’s eyes turned dreamy. “Mártainn Macane may be penniless and a cursed bloodsucker, but he’s devilishly handsome.”

  “Penniless!” Ellie exclaimed, forming a much sharper impression of her quarry. His motive might not be much different than hers, but his method stood in stark relief. She had never feigned bloodlust for gain. “I deduce he puts himself forward in order to take advantage of innocent debutantes.”

  Miss Breckenridge gestured at the swirling crowd. “No need for such, when young and old alike throw themselves and their purses in his path at every opportunity.”

  Ellie’s lip curled at the very idea. “I’m sure he cannot refuse such marvelous gifts. The women are aware of his . . . nature?”

  “Aware? He’s nigh irresistible,” Miss Breckenridge confessed in a whisper. “Undoubtedly part of his dark magic. The competition to be the devil’s chosen has eclipsed the judgment of every otherwise sensible woman who finds herself caught in his gaze.”

  Ellie’s client clearly thought herself the heroine of a gothic novel. Either the higher the social rank, the lower the intelligence, or this Mr. Macane was an extremely skillful magician indeed. She’d bet he was nothing more than a two-bit actor who had changed his venue from the streets to soirées. “How can he be so successful and also so terrible?”

  “How?” Miss Breckenridge blushed prettily. “Because he’s bad in a very, very good way. They’ve gone so far as to dub him Lord Lovenip, and my brothers tell me the betting books overflow with wagers as to which female he shall claim next.” Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh, I do hope you yourself do not fall prey to his wicked charms!”

  “Oh, for the love of—” Ellie coughed daintily into her gloved hand, reminding herself that money earned for a fool’s errand was still money earned, and she’d be wise not to let her mouth get in the way of the Breckenridge coffers. “Have no fear on that front, Miss Breckenridge. I have yet to find the man capable of turning my head.”

  Her benefactress cast a discerning eye at Ellie’s drooping curls and woefully out-of-fashion gown, managing to convey without a single word that Ellie’s spinsterhood was far more likely due to Ellie’s own inability to turn heads, rather than any fault inherent in the eligible gentlemen.

  Be that as it may, Ellie’s distinct lack of position in Society afforded her the perfect disguise: insignificant wallflower. Unlike third-daughter-of-a-duke Miss Breckenridge, Ellie had the ability to stay both in sight and unnoticed at gatherings such as this. Granted, this was the first time she’d been commissioned to investigate a vampiric Scotsman, but she held complete confidence that she would put paid to such nonsense in short order.

  Her spine straightened as a wave of whispers rippled through the ballroom like froth chasing the tide. An unnatural hush immediately followed.

  Although the orchestra kep
t playing, the music now had a tinny, street-corner quality, as if the melody were being strained through a battered ear horn. The dancers did not falter, but their steps became disjointed and mechanical, as if they were marionettes painted to resemble aristocracy, rather than the pleasure-seeking lords and ladies they’d been just moments ago.

  Ellie’s senses became overwhelmingly acute. Miss Breckenridge’s breathing seemed to echo about the chamber, her perfume suddenly noxious. Ellie’s pulse thundered with such force, she fancied she felt the heat of her blood coursing recklessly through her veins. For the first time in her life, she had the inexplicable desire to flee the premises while her heart still beat.

  Then there he was.

  A leather thong tied thick chestnut hair at the nape of his neck. Eighteen stone of solid muscle sculpted effortlessly into ebony breeches and bone-white muslin. His skin was just as pale, yet managed to convey the strength of marble rather than the fragility of ivory. Impossibly bright sea-green eyes gazed knowingly from beneath dark lashes. Blunt cheekbones accentuated a wide, firm mouth set in a mocking smirk above a strong jaw.

  He was too big, too pale, too predatory. He should not have been beautiful, but he was.

  The music bobbled in his wake, losing its rhythm, then tumbled forth at twice the tempo. The sharp-edged lords and ladies loosened their joints until they too were fluid and careening about the ballroom once again. Widows and debutantes alike spun in and out of his path, inventing steps where there should be none, dipping to expose both cleavage and bared necks, twirling ever closer even when the music was done.

  A giddy countess lost her equilibrium when she could not keep her eyes from him. Without even facing in her direction, he righted her with a mere touch of his palm against the small of her back. She fainted into her husband’s arms. The remaining ladies were too entranced by Mártainn Macane to take notice.

  Ellie swallowed hard.

  Lord Lovenip, indeed. For there could be no other man capable of stirring a stately crowd into such a frenzy with nothing more than a moment of his presence.

  With what was surely superhuman strength, Ellie cut her gaze from the man sucking all the air out of the previously well-ventilated ballroom and forced her eyes to her benefactress. Perhaps it was the act of severing the inexplicable connection to the rakish Highlander or perhaps the unreality of the moment had been entirely in Ellie’s mind, but once the arresting Scotsman no longer filled her vision, the rest of her senses shifted back to normal. Her pulse no longer clogged her ears, her blood no longer simmered beneath her flesh, and Miss Breckenridge was no longer breathing like—