Love Bites UK (Mammoth Book Of Vampire Romance2)

by Telep, Trisha

  Aerick fell to his knees at the scent of Christine’s tears. He’d watched her tossing and turning and knew that he was responsible for stealing the peace from her sleep and the light from her innocent eyes. She was wrong. To bring her into his world would only take more from her. Yet as he heard her muffled cries, his heart, his resolve, his whole being, broke beneath the pain. Without meaning to they’d both reached that dagger point of no return and it had plunged itself right through her heart and his.

  He left Christine as the greying shadows of dawn appeared on the horizon. Before returning to Castle Rue Morte, he returned to the darkharbour he’d shared with Christine, extinguished the fire, drank the last of the brandy and, from the bed, took the fur on which she’d lain with him. Once within the stone walls of his own home, he didn’t go to the kitchen for a meal as was his custom, but went to his study with a full decanter of brandy. His valet, Alfred, found him there a while later.

  “There you are, sir. You quite had me worried when you didn’t come home. I was about to search the darkharbours.” Alfred blinked hard and leaned over Aerick’s desk. “Looks as if you hit a spot of trouble, sir. What happened?”

  “A slayer and a bit of sunlight. I’ll live.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, you don’t look like you will.”

  Aerick eyed the empty decanter. “You might be right, Alfred.”

  “Well, let’s get you settled in to rest until the moonrise, and maybe you won’t need a hair of the dog.”

  Aerick stood, but shook his head. “There’s no cure, Alfred.” He grabbed up the white fur and carried it to his chamber. He made it to the bed and fell face down, clutching the fur. Alfred fussed about and managed to pull off Aerick’s boots and heavy cloak before he left, muttering about the idiocy of youth. Aerick lay in the dark. For a warrior who’d won many battles, he felt as if he’d just lost the most important one of his life. Everything within him ached for Christine.

  Was it possible that she had learned more in her short life than he? Was it possible that she was right and he was wrong?

  Chapter Four

  Christine woke to discover the sun already on the rise. She’d overslept. She was in a miserable state. Her throat hurt and her body felt flushed with a fever. Aching everywhere possible, she rolled from her cot and dressed for the day, then hurried down to attend her duties.

  The house was in a flurry of activity getting ready for Lord Stafford’s birthday party.

  “There you are,” the mistress said sternly. “I want both the library and Lord Stafford’s study in tip-top shape. The gentlemen are likely to retire for a port and a smoke after eating. So make sure everything is well stocked and not a bit of dust anywhere.”

  “Ye..s, mi . . . .tr . . . ” To Christine’s acute embarrassment her voice cracked hoarsely, barely audible.

  The mistress narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare become ill. Rumour has it that you were caught in the storm last night because you were cavorting like a trollop in Scarborough.”

  Christine stepped back in shock. Her appalled “no” came out no louder than a squeak, making her throat hurt even more. She shook her head adamantly.

  Her mistress just gave her a disbelieving glare. Christine shivered. Once rumours spring up they’re like weeds that keep growing no matter how hard you try to cut them down.

  “Get to work – after you cover that devil’s hair of yours with a mob cap.”

  Hurrying to gather the cleaning supplies she needed, Christine dug her cap out of her pocket and pulled it on. That she had forgotten to cover her hair before coming downstairs told her just how poorly she must be feeling this morning. Since Lord Stafford was often known to hide in his study when his wife was having a crisis – something she had before every big party – Christine decided to clean the library first. When she was finished, she walked tentatively to Lord Stafford’s study and knocked. After several more tries with still no answer, she opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief at the empty, although odorous, room. Between the cigar smoke and the stench of alcohol (Aerick’s brandy smelled so much sweeter), the room was in desperate need of airing out. She immediately opened the french windows that adjoined the terrace and looked out upon the day. Leaning against the cool glass and wood, she paused a moment needing to rest. She still had too much to do. It wouldn’t be long before the guests arrived, then after that the night would come.

  Would she ever see Aerick again? Did she dare go back to the graveyard after dark to find him?

  It was the first time she’d allowed herself to think about him since rising, to delve past the “it doesn’t matter” mantra running through her head.

  The sun had broken through the grey clouds and it glistened off the green lawn and bright blooms. The breeze was light and fresh and felt good on her flushed skin. A rainbow arched near the forest, making her think a pot of gold lay just beyond the trees. This is what he didn’t want her to give up. She seriously considered what life without sunlight would be.

  Would she miss it? With her whole heart and every part of her being she would. She couldn’t deny that. But was the warmth of the sun worth the loss of love? She could go blind tomorrow and never be able to see sunlight again. And as tragic as that would be, it wouldn’t matter as much if she were in Aerick’s arms. It wasn’t as if she were giving up every aspect of life to be with him. The moonlight held its own beauty, and if she missed a rainbow, couldn’t she paint herself one to see? As beautiful as the day was, it couldn’t match the magical heaven of being with Aerick.

  Sighing, she turned from the light and set to work. Lord Stafford was a swine. Cigar ash was everywhere, and tables were sticky from spilled drink. Everything might have had its place but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Christine set to work, forcing her body to function despite the increasing bouts of dizziness.

  “Here she is, Claymore, the wench I was telling you about.”

  Christine whipped around to find that Lord Stafford and another gentleman had entered through the open french windows and had closed the door. Though she immediately felt uncomfortable, she gave a proper curtsey. “Lord Stafford. Forgive me. I am finished here and will leave you to your guest.” Her voice was but a bare whisper, hardly audible.

  She quickly crossed to the door, but before she could open it completely, Lord Stafford pressed his obese self against it, forcing it shut.

  “Not so fast, wench.” He reached out and jerked off her mob cap. Her hair tumbled down.

  Christine reared back from him, clutching her arms to her chest.

  “You weren’t lying, Stafford. I’ve never seen hair like fire before,” the other man said.

  “And I wasn’t lying about the other either. You should have seen her last night. Came back with her lips all swollen like a strumpet who’d been whoring all night long. Look at her now, her cheeks are still glowing.”

  Shaking her head, Christine backed away from Lord Stafford, smelling the strong odour of drink on him. He was very well into his cups already, but that didn’t excuse his behaviour. She had to get out of the room. Going towards the desk would box her in more, but if she moved towards the fireplace, she might be able to get past the other gentleman and escape through the french windows.

  “She does appear to be flushed, Stafford. And definitely a beauty – for a wench.”

  “Since she’s now free with her favours, Claymore, I think we should avail ourselves of them. Sort of a birthday present to me. Just imagine piercing that hot fire.”

  The blood rushed from Christine’s head and she wavered slightly as she made a dash towards the fireplace. “Stay away from me,” she cried, but her voice was no louder than a peep.

  “Now listen here, whore. You can make this easy on yourself and end up with a nice little trinket every now and then, or you can make this difficult. Either way, Lord Claymore and I are going to have a little fun with you now.”

  Claymore wasn’t exactly encouraging Lord Stafford, but he was
n’t calling a halt to the assault either. He was looking at her as if he wouldn’t mind partaking in the birthday present Lord Stafford wanted. Christine didn’t waste another moment. She grabbed the fireplace poker and brandished it before her. “Let me out of here now, or you both will pay severely for your crime.”

  Lord Stafford laughed. “Crime? The only crime is that I didn’t get to have you first, whore. I’ve been watching you and that witch’s red hair of yours for years. You were mine and now I’ll finally have you.”

  He came at her and Christine held her ground until he was almost on her. Then she stepped to the side and brought the poker down hard on Lord Stafford’s back, knocking him to the ground. Stafford screamed.

  Before she could turn around, Claymore grabbed her from behind, one arm around her throat, the other around her breast.

  “Drop the poker,” he demanded.

  She twisted, trying to hit him with it. Lord Stafford was still screaming, but now his body was shaking wildly on the floor.

  Claymore tightened his arm around her throat, cutting off her air. He grabbed hold of her breast, squeezing until an agony of pain filled her. Still, she wouldn’t let go of her weapon. It was her only hope. She struggled against him, her vision dimming by the second as her lungs burned for air.

  Suddenly people burst into the room – men, women, servants, all screaming, demanding to know what was wrong.

  “This witch,” Claymore said. “She cast a spell on Lord Stafford so that he couldn’t move and then began to hit him with the poker.”

  “I swear her mother was a devil’s witch who up and disappeared in the middle of the night. Likely whoring for Satan, she is.”

  “Somebody get the magistrate!”

  “Lord Stafford will be dead by then. Get her to break her spell first,” someone else shouted.

  Christine screamed. She tried over and over to explain that the men had attacked her, but her voice was no more than a scratchy screech. Her throat was on fire and her body turned to rubber as she fought Lord Claymore’s hold. He choked off her air completely and the world went black . . .

  . . . she was drowning. She couldn’t breathe.

  Christine gasped for air and choked as another glass of water was flung in her face.

  “I tell you that unless you can get her to undo her spell, Lord Stafford will die,” a man said.

  She could hear Lady Stafford screaming hysterically in the background. Christine opened her eyes to find herself bound to a chair. “I’m not a witch,” she cried. “I’m not a witch.”

  “Stop her from talking. She’s making Lord Stafford worse. He’s having another convulsion.”

  A handkerchief was stuffed in her mouth and pulled tight. She blinked at the people around her. Some of the faces she’d known for years, yet they were looking at her as if she were a creature worse than the beast she’d seen last night.

  Dear God, Aerick! Her heart cried out. How could she have ever known that their stolen moments would bring such an end?

  “There’s only one thing to do,” Claymore said to the crowd. “If you kill the witch, her spell will be broken.”

  “How?”

  “Burn her! The fire will purify her sins and save Lord Stafford.”

  “Where? Where should the witch face God’s judgment?”

  “Before the graveyard’s cross!” someone shouted and met with resounding agreement.

  Men came forwards and grabbed up her chair, their hands groping indecently at her body as they carried her out of the house into the bright beauty of the day. She struggled wildly, screaming from her hoarse throat. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her now, in this day and age. Something like this was only possible hundreds of years ago when ignorance and superstition ran rampant within the minds of people. But now?

  Someone, somewhere, had to bring sanity to the mob. She tried screaming for help but the gag only became more and more nauseating the harder she tried.

  Suddenly her grandmother’s last words to her so many years ago hit home. Take care, Christine. With hair like yours, you’ve been cursed with the beauty of the MacWebbers. Your mother left before harm could befall her. You make sure you stay sensible and pure and hopefully no harm will come your way.

  The nightmarish trip seemed without end as the crowd of people carried her through the village, holding her up like a severed head on a pike. As they reached the graveyard, she saw Aerick’s statue and her heart broke in half. She’d had him in her arms and she’d let him go, though she knew with her whole being that all she would ever want in life was to be with him. Now it was too late, even though her whole soul desperately cried out for him.

  It was too late to know his kiss again. To feel the race of his pulse as his body pressed intimately against hers. To know one more time the pleasure with which he’d taken her to heaven.

  Aerick! Her heart wept.

  They scraped her skin harshly with the ropes as they unbound her from the chair. There were so many hands grabbing at her as they forced her to the cold iron cross and tied her to it, hands bound over her head, waist lashed so tight she could barely breathe, her feet numb. They began throwing wood and branches at her that they’d gathered from the surrounding forest. The sticks bruised and cut as they hit her face and chest. She could do nothing to protect herself. She could do nothing to stop the insanity. All she could do was set her gaze upon the statue of Aerick and give her mind over to their few stolen moments of bliss.

  Aerick came awake with a sense of terror grabbing him by the throat. He shook off the brandy-induced haze and rolled to his feet, battle ready. He gazed around his bedchamber. Gauging from the heat bombarding him through the sun-blocking panels covering the windows, his super senses told him it was still full daylight outside. He found no immediate threat near but the fear inside him doubled with every pounding beat of his heart. Something was very, very wrong.

  He felt Christine’s soul crying out for him, more strongly than ever before. He had to get to her!

  “Alfred!” he shouted.

  The valet came running. “Lord Aerick! What are you doing?”

  Aerick looked up. He was donning as many layers of protective leather clothing as he could. “I’m going out. Something is very wrong.”

  “Dear God! Aerick! You can’t. You know that no matter how many layers you put on, your skin will still burn. I’ll go. Just tell me what the problem is.”

  “I don’t know! I feel her terror. I have to go to her.” He donned several heavy leather masks to protect his face.

  “Whose terror?”

  “The woman from the village. I’ve spoken to you of her before. I met her last night.” Aerick explained the slayer’s attack and how they sought shelter from the storm in the church’s darkharbour.

  “Then let me go to her,” Alfred replied. “Or at least let us heat pitch to spread over your clothing.”

  Aerick shook his head. “There is no time. You can come with me if you choose, but as dire as I sense things are, I cannot wait. I’ll take the tunnels as far as I can and then pray my exposure to the sun will be . . . survivable.”

  Armed with as many weapons as they could carry, Aerick led Alfred down to Rue Morte’s dungeon and opened the portal to the underground caverns. With the lantern lighting their way, they travelled by boat beneath the moors until they reached the tunnels beneath Castleborough. Every pole stroke seemed an eternity to Aerick, for the closer he drew to the village, the stronger Christine’s terror became.

  Alfred tied off the boat as Aerick ran ahead through the tunnel. His mind told him that Christine’s logical location would be at the Staffords’ estates, but her spirit kept calling to him from the graveyard. There was a calmness about her now, as if whatever danger she had faced had passed and she now rested within a peaceful spirit realm. Dead?

  “Nooo! Dear God! Nooo!” His fangs lashed his lip with the ferocity of a cry that continued to echo through the tunnels as he ran. He couldn’t be too late.

>   He paused at the crossroads, torn over which way to go. Breathing deeply, he bit down on the panic inside him and focused his being on her spirit. He had to follow his heart. Alfred ran behind him as Aerick rushed through the dank tunnels to the stairs that led up to the surface. He looked out through the memorial’s iron doors and his heart stopped beating. On the hillside, tied to a cross and surrounded by flames was Christine.

  She wasn’t struggling against her bindings. She wasn’t screaming at the crowd who shouted, “Burn, witch, burn.” She looked towards his bronze statue with an expression of total rapture upon her face.

  Seething with rage, Aerick pulled on his hoods and burst from the crypt. He fought his way through the crowd with Alfred at his back. The mob parted like a sea but Aerick wished they would have fought him. He wanted to lash out, to maim and kill the ignorance that had thought to burn an angel to death. He felt his skin frying, despite the layers of clothing, yet kept running into the full light of the sun, knowing that every second brought Christine to the same horrific fate. He dashed through the scorching flames to reach her and cut her free, his heart and hope seizing as she fell boneless into his arms. Her skirts smoked but hadn’t ignited into flames yet. Her skin was red and her hair appeared singed at the edges. So she shouldn’t be dead. Unless the terror and the heat had been too much for her. He couldn’t feel her heart beat. He couldn’t feel her breathing. Her spirit still hung in angelic peace around him.

  Screaming with rage and vowing to murder every person there, Aerick raced for the crypt with Alfred slashing a sword before them. The sun ate mercilessly at him, but nothing compared to the pain of holding Christine’s lifeless body in his arms. Once in the darkness, Alfred barred the iron doors and they quickly descended to the secret door that led to the underground tunnels. Aerick made it to the safety of the tunnels before he collapsed to the ground. All he wanted to do was clutch Christine to his heart and send his spirit into death after hers. Instead, he flung off his masks, ignoring the raw burning of his skin, and laid her down. Then he began breathing his breath into her, compressing her heart to the rhythm of his, and delving his spirit after hers, calling her back to him.