Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2)

by Telep, Trisha

  She took only what she needed. It was nowhere near enough. Never would be, she feared. Wild desire flowed from his veins and she wanted more, needed more, longed to sate herself in the richness of his human life and revel in the warmth from his blood.

  She broke away, remembering to seal his wound with her saliva, and led him back towards the street.

  Her mind was so caught up in the giddiness, she almost forgot to remove the compulsion.

  He stood, a little dazed, looking around him as if wondering why he stood there in the mist and the failing light.

  “Madam,” he said, looking at her with the same amazement she’d seen when they met in the meadow.

  “ Vale, Justinius Corvus,” she said, resisting the urge to pull him into her arms and kiss him right there in the public street. She turned and walked as fast as she dared. Whatever had happened between them stunned her and she needed solitude to consider the implications. Never in all her many years had she tasted blood as rich and heady as his. It wasn’t because he was Roman. She’d had enough of them in her early days as a vampire, leaving more than one dead as she sated her youthful hungers. No, it was as if she’d shared his heartbeat, tasted his soul.

  A decidedly anxiety-provoking thought. For which she had neither time nor patience.

  4

  Justin wandered back to camp in a daze. He’d partnered with a healer who seemed little better than a witch, had administered untested remedies to the sick and dying and was now consumed with a raging sexual desire for her that he almost couldn’t control. Ridiculous! Impossible! He rubbed the side of his neck. It felt oddly stiff.

  He returned to his hospital with all haste only to find Marcus and two wound dressers, bustling around a soldier with a spear point in his back.

  “He and three others went hunting without armour,” Marcus said, as Justin joined them. “Silly fools. They were attacked by an unknown assailant.”

  No point in arguing that point. The Legate would see to discipline. If the soldier survived.

  The spear point was lodged deep in the man’s ribs. Not as deep as Gwyltha’s had been in the boar’s skull though. At least this attack couldn’t be pinned on her. She’d been with him almost all morning. Out of his sight at times, yes, but never long enough to run out and do this.

  For some inexplicable reason, that knowledge flooded him with relief.

  The next afternoon Justin left the camp, driven by a desire to get away from the Legate’s reaction to the attack on the foot soldier – who had died despite all their efforts. At least he was spared the flogging that awaited his three companions.

  Stupid fools going out into open country without armour. Justin had little sympathy for them, but did wonder what, if any, retaliation was planned. Not much was feasible with a legion at short strength. Whatever happened, he’d be told when he was told. Meanwhile, he wandered into Eboracum, his mind mulling over which wine shop to head for.

  A slave, scrubbing the steps of a house, looked up as he passed. “Surgeon,” she called out, “blessings on you and your house. Our master lives because of you!”

  The greeting was unexpected enough to stop him in his tracks. Justin recognized the house from yesterday and remembered the man so close to death he’d almost not given him Gwyltha’s potion. “Let me see your master,” he told the slave.

  It was impossible. But there was no mistaking it. As Justin left the house, the heartfelt thanks and blessings of the entire household following him down the street, he tried to make sense of what he’d just witnessed.

  Did Gwyltha dispense magic potions, or did she just possess phenomenal knowledge of herb lore? Yesterday that man had been at death’s door. Today he wasn’t exactly hale, but he was sitting up and taking broth. All trace of fever gone.

  Justin was tempted to stop at some of the other houses to see if the results were as astounding.

  Or he was tempted, until he noticed a familiar dark head at a metalworker’s stall, inspecting the craftsman’s wares.

  Tending to the sick and satisfying his curiosity about her cures was supplanted by his desire for a different kind of satisfaction.

  He was surely moonstruck. Why this wild rush of desire and need? It was broad daylight, for Zeus’ sake, and he was the regimental surgeon of the Ninth, not a randy apprentice losing his mind over the neighbourhood Venus.

  He was drawn to Gwyltha like a moth to a lamp flame.

  Why?

  What a ridiculous question! He knew exactly why. He just didn’t want to think about it right now. He wanted to . . .

  Her laugh broke into his thoughts. He couldn’t see her face but imagined the light in her blue eyes as she smiled. He noticed the shrug of her shoulders as her laugh faded and heard what she said, clear enough to know it was the local language. She said a last word to the metalworker and turned to go. Justin stepped back out of her line of sight.

  For some reason, he didn’t want to appear to have been watching her.

  He worked back through the crowd, as she turned down the street to walk away. He ran a few paces and called out to her.

  She turned, looked right at him through the crowd and smiled. “Ave, Justinius Corvus.”

  “Ave, Gwyltha.” He caught up with her. “Do you have another name? Title?”

  “Gwyltha Briganteorum, if you like. But those who know me call me Gwyltha.” Gwyltha of the Brigantes, that much he knew already. “You need me, chirurge?”

  Why suddenly so formal? “Justin,” he replied and yes, by all the gods, he needed her.

  The light in her eyes suggested she could read his mind, hear his racing heartbeat and sense the wildness coursing through his veins. “The man yesterday, who lived in the white house by the potter’s,” he began.

  “Arius Alba?” she asked. “You’ve seen him?”

  “I have indeed. What is in the potion of yours? Yesterday I feared for his survival and today he is sitting up sipping broth.”

  “I’d hoped so,” she said. “He is a good man and an honest merchant. To say nothing of being the father of a growing family.”

  “What is in that potion?” he repeated.

  “Do not sound so accusatory, chirurge. Herbs, as I told you; nothing more, nothing less. Herbs best gathered at full moon but that is as far as healing magic goes. If you are still here in the spring, I will show you where they grow.”

  “I would be grateful. All knowledge helps save lives. It seems, lady, you possess great knowledge.”

  She also possessed enough vampire hearing to know blood coursed though his veins faster than was usual for a healthy mortal. The man was in dire need. Gwyltha looked up into his dark eyes and smiled. She couldn’t help herself. Since tasting him yesterday, he’d occupied her thoughts, confused her thinking and clouded her reason. It should be so easy to dismiss him as one more Roman, but he was more, much more. “I will gladly share what knowledge I can, chirurge.”

  He looked as pleased as a child promised a treat. “Perhaps we can visit the patients together?”

  Not now! “I have other business to attend to but tell me, surgeon Corvus, will you meet me this evening?”

  “Where?”

  Good question. Nights were cold for a mortal. “By the bridge is a wine shop, the Red Flagon. Next to it is a row of houses and shops. My home is the last one. Meet me there a little after sunset.” She had stunned him. Hopefully, not too much. She reached out and took his hand. It was warm and strong and, she was sure, so was the rest of his body. “Until then, surgeon Corvus.”

  She walked away and whispered to herself, “Justinius.”

  5

  What had happened to the discipline instilled in him through his years of army life? At least instinct was keeping him at attention, but that was about it. While the Legate harangued about the need for constant vigilance and his suspicions that the Brigantes were up to no good (a chronic conviction of the man), Justin kept his eyes forwards while his mind was still standing in the crowded street with Gwyltha. Th
en he was meeting Gwyltha in the middle of a damp meadow with a dead boar between them, then seeing Gwyltha beside a sick bed or, the best of all, imagining Gwyltha naked in his arms while he feasted his eyes, and the rest of him, on her beauty.

  He was halfway to insane. Here they were, supposedly on the brink of an insurrection (assuming the Legate was right for once), and all he, Justin Corvus, wanted to do was consort with one particular Brigante. For the rest of his born days.

  It was insanity. In a year the legion would move to a new posting. But a lot could happen in a year. It was utter stupidity and a total impossibility. He couldn’t by law marry until he retired and somehow Gwyltha didn’t strike him as the sort of woman to settle for living beyond the protection of law and convention. But she had made an assignation, and it wasn’t to discuss herb lore or healing methods.

  Gwyltha lit the fire in the brazier, saw there were supplies of wine – mortals did so like that – and some cakes and cheese, and waited. She’d been tempted to watch for his coming, perhaps from the roof of the wine shop, or one of the trees that edged the river, but trees this time of year offered little cover, even for a vampire.

  She wondered how long he would take to get here. And even if he would. Romans were strange creatures. She’d learned to live with them better than many had, but she knew she would be here long after the Romans left. Mortals didn’t have that to look forward to. There was restlessness among the tribes, not just the Brigantes, and it didn’t take vampire sight to notice the numbers of horses that had been bred the past couple of seasons, to say nothing of the new chariots and the secret caches of knives and blades in the chieftains’ houses.

  They were brave, hopeful and foolish, and if they planned insurrection it had better be soon, before the garrison got reinforcements.

  Mortals! She’d seen too much death and too many battles to think another would benefit anyone.

  But . . .

  Footsteps approached. Firm, confident steps and wide paces, such as the Romans marched.

  Gwyltha stood and opened the door. He was coming, bearing a small torch.

  Cautious man, the torch lighted his way but also made an extra weapon if anyone was foolish enough to attack a lone soldier.

  If anyone were that foolhardy, they’d have her to reckon with.

  He stopped, three or four paces from the open door, and looked at her. How could mere mortal eyes hold such promise, such heat and such desire? “Welcome,” she said and stepped forwards.

  She took his outstretched hand and as good as propelled him into the room, closing the door behind them.

  “You came,” she said.

  “You asked me to,” he replied.

  “Yes.” Was she lost? Found? Or just caught in the aura of his masculinity?

  No matter. He was here, would soon be in her bed, and would sate her craving. “Take off your cloak, Justin, and let me pour you a drink. It’s a cold night.”

  “But warm in here, lady.”

  He was back to formal address. Why? Was he unsure of her? He should be. Not that she’d harm him, but because she was not what he thought. No doubt she was unlike any other woman he’d ever known.

  Still, why ponder any questions when she had her own Roman soldier at hand? ”Wine, Justin?” she asked as he draped his cloak over the end of the bed. She handed him a goblet. Their fingers touched, his cool from the chill outside, hers cold as was her nature. But it was more than coolness in that brush of fingers: an awareness of what they had both come here for.

  She poured herself a little wine – her body tolerated a modicum of alcohol – and raised her glass to his. “Your health, Justin.”

  “And yours, Gwlytha.” He sipped, watching her over the rim of the goblet. “This is your house?”

  She shook her head. “Borrowed. I did not think you would care to venture into the deep woods where I have my real home.” Romans were still leery about the woods.

  “You live out there?” Shock tinged his voice.

  “I always have. A town is not where I am most at peace.”

  “But you’re here now.”

  “Because you are.” Three words. They held so much meaning, so much hope. Sitting beside him it was more than blood need she felt. A strange, almost mortal, longing gripped her.

  “Will you eat, Justin? I have cheese and cakes.”

  “You offer me everything, Gwyltha.”

  She did but agreeing wholeheartedly might seem churlish since he was giving more than he dreamed. “You are my guest. What should I offer you but my hospitality?”

  He tucked into the cheese with an appetite that suggested they were as short of food in the camp as they were in the villages.

  “You do not join me, Gwyltha?” he asked after his third or fourth slice of cheese.

  “I will feed later,” she replied, resting her hand on his thigh.

  Under the leather kilt, she felt strong male muscle. She’d picked well. A strong man, he could satisfy her need and be none the worse for the loss of a little more blood than last time.

  “Lady,” he said, setting the goblet down, “you did not ask me here for conversation and cheese.”

  Bless the woodland gods that Justin had no inkling what he was here for. Could not. Never would.

  “How right.” She stood and unpinned her house cloak, dropping it on the stool where she’d been sitting. She reached out her hand to him and smiled.

  He needed no second invitation.

  In only a few mortal heartbeats, they were in each other’s arms, his mouth on hers. A wildness took them both. How could a mere mortal stir this passion? Share this racing pleasure? Her mouth opened to his and sensation possessed her.

  They were touching, caressing, reaching for skin. She heard fabric rip. It seemed they were both driven by the same, wild need. He threw off his kilt and breastplate. She hauled off his tunic, while he ripped open her girdle and pulled off her gown. Without words they were on the thin mattress, rolling like crazed creatures as they kissed, stroked and scratched. He was caressing her and sending great waves of pleasure through her like a tempest of mutual need.

  Before she had time to think – if she’d even wanted to – he was inside her, driving her to a climax, sweat pouring off him as he filled her.

  He was groaning with the effort and she was crying out with passion. Shouting with her building need until she came to the brink. Sensation soared and burst in a thousand peaks of sheer joy. Only then did she remember her reason for enticing him here. As he slipped out of her, she rolled on her side and ran a line of kisses down his neck, feeling the strength and warmth beneath the skin, hearing the wild beating of his heart and the pumping of warm mortal life blood. She bit.

  Sweet gods and goddesses! What was he? This was more than a taste of life. This was mortal existence on her tongue. She drank more, making herself stop long before she’d begun to slake the thirst and craving he stirred in her.

  “By Zeus, Gwyltha,” he muttered, obviously as worn as she was. “Your lips are like magic.”

  She couldn’t enlighten him about the magic of Timelessness. But he was amazing. As he lay beside her, Justin opened his eyes and smiled. And dear heavens! He was aroused again. By her taking his blood? For most mortals it had the reverse effect but now . . .

  “I will never get enough of you,” he said, as he grasped her by the waist and lifted her on top of him. She’d heard that the Romans liked it that way. And why not? It gave her a perfect view of his manly chest and handsome face. He took every possible advantage of her breasts and body as they both came back to the peak together.

  This time he was spent. She wondered, rather idly, if another bite would arouse him again, but didn’t dare take any more. The man had to walk home after all.

  Not something he appeared to relish. But after a while spent sated in each other’s arms, he stirred.

  “I must go, my love,” he said, sounding quite worn out.

  “I know,” she replied, “duty calls.”
>
  His sigh suggested how much he honoured duty at this moment in time. “I must.” He sat up and reached for his tunic.

  It would have been rude to lie there and not help him. Besides it gave her one last chance to touch his gloriously warm, mortal flesh.

  “I’ll see you again,” he said. “Tomorrow, if I can.”

  That would be such a mistake. She kissed him. “Farewell, my handsome surgeon.”

  Once he was out of sight, she dressed, quickly, as only a vampire could. She noticed the tear in her gown and shook her head. How had she been so unrestrained? No matter. With his blood inside her she had strength to last several days and could cover the ground she needed.

  But all she wanted to do was sit and wait until he returned. Only that was impossible. Duty called her too.

  6

  For the next week, Justin was at his wit’s end. Gwyltha had disappeared, leaving no word, no message. He’d asked around the town. The metalworker, where he’d met her the day before, professed ignorance of her. When he revisited patients, every single one sang her praise, as well they might, but knew her only as a wandering healer. Some barely knew her name. If that wasn’t enough, the Legate had the entire legion on alert after agents had mentioned that the tribes were gathering. There were two more attacks on isolated soldiers foolish enough to venture too far from the camp. And, of course, the promised reinforcements and supplies were again delayed.

  Justin was beginning to think he’d dreamed the entire encounter and that Gwyltha was a figment of his fevered imagination, when a lad appeared at the hospital with a wicker hamper.

  “For you, sir,” he said, when Marcus summoned Justin to the door. The lad had insisted he speak to Justin and no one else.

  “What is it?” Justin asked, and knew the answer the minute he lifted the lid. There were six or seven large vials and several packages that he knew contained dried herbs. “From Gwyltha?”

  The lad nodded. “She said I was to give them to you in person. Said you may have need of them.”