Blood Fire (10 page)
It was magic. Pure magic. She clutched his shoulders, moving with him. It was like chasing something. Pleasure was there . . . so close . . . and if she just thrust madly against him as he buried himself into her, she would find it.
With a soft roar, the fire burned brighter. Papers flew off the desk. As they fluttered wildly around the room, the climax took her. Her fingers drove into his shirt. He gave an intense moan at the exact same instant, and he shoved his hips forward, burying his erection to the hilt. He rocked slowly, groaning, coming into her.
Then he stopped, bowed his head. Gently, his lips moved over her, touching her forehead, her lashes, the tip of her nose, then her lips. “Mine,” he whispered. “My wife.”
His lying wife. Reality hit her with more power than the orgasm. Papers had landed everywhere. How did she explain that?
He was kissing her, long and slow, and she couldn’t even enjoy it. She was staring over his shoulder at the pieces of paper she could see. The fire was now a huge blaze. Wouldn’t he begin to wonder why fires went mad when she was near them?
Sutcliffe eased back.
She stayed perched on the edge of the desk. He quickly pulled his linens up, tucking his softening shaft into them. It felt so intimate to watch him casually arrange himself inside. Then he did up his trousers.
Sutcliffe walked around the room, collecting up the papers. The office of the Royal Society looked like a normal gentleman’s study, except there were strange weapons arranged on the walls between bookshelves. “There must have been a breeze,” he muttered. “The rush of air must have made the fire flare up. Just as it did in my room.”
Octavia couldn’t say anything. She didn’t trust her voice to stay steady.
He plunked the pile of papers on the desk and smiled at her. She still sat on the edge, her skirts bunched at her waist. Taking her hand, he guided her back on her feet. Her skirts fell, but they were crumpled and wrinkled.
He smoothed them, and then he drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and held it up. “Special license. We can be wed instantly if we want.”
She
must
do so for the baby, but she panicked. How could she keep this secret from him? After spending time with her, wouldn’t he realize she caused these things to happen? Then what would he do? Kill her? Burn her at a stake? “I—”
must
do so for the baby, but she panicked. How could she keep this secret from him? After spending time with her, wouldn’t he realize she caused these things to happen? Then what would he do? Kill her? Burn her at a stake? “I—”
“Or do you want something large, ostentatious, with a grand breakfast and royalty in attendance?”
“Heavens, no. This is a duty, isn’t it? We . . . we are not in love, and I don’t want to pretend we are . . . if we are not.” Now she was glad he wouldn’t love her, because if he did, she would hate lying to him. This way she could argue he wouldn’t care.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “If you are hoping for love, I am afraid you will be disappointed.”
“I know. Because of your brother. It is all right. I don’t care that you don’t love me.”
“Lady O, do you love me?”
“I—no. And I won’t, as I’m sure you would not want that.”
He stared at her, curiously. “Then why did you agree to marry me?”
“I am going to have a baby,” she said bluntly. “Our baby. That’s the only reason I said yes.”
When a husband broke his wife’s heart before the wedding, did he get a wedding night or not?
Matthew tore off his cravat, then tried to yank off his formfitting coat as he paced his dressing room. Helms, his slender, finicky valet, rushed forward. “My lord, allow me. You will tear the seams.”
“I don’t bloody care. I want the thing off.”
What did it matter if he destroyed clothing when he had just married an unhappy woman and tomorrow he would be leaving to hunt the powerful vampiress who had killed his brother?
Helms turned stark white. “But my lord, the cloth . . . the tailoring . . . You must not treat such a work of art with such disdain. This is the morning coat of your wedding—”
“Don’t remind me,” he growled.
Fussing, Helms stood on a step stool to reach his shoulders and eased the coat off. It was driving Matthew mad to have his clothes taken off with care.
When Helms paused to brush his coat before dealing with his shirt, Matthew snapped. “That’s enough. Go away.”
Pouting, Helms left him alone. Why was he in such a hurry? He had no idea if Octavia would welcome him into her bed. True, she was his wife, and he could demand she do her duty, but he refused to make love to an angry woman.
This morning, he had stood beside her at the altar. Then he had been at her side at their wedding breakfast.
He had spent the morning beside her, and he had never felt more distant from anyone in his life. Even his mother, who had been distant and ice-cold after his father’s suicide, had been warmer to him than Octavia had been on the morning of their wedding. After the ceremony, she had not smiled once. At breakfast, she had barely touched a bite of food. She had accepted congratulations from the few friends in attendance, but when no one was looking at them, he saw such pain in her eyes, it had twisted his heart.
What in Hades was he supposed to do?
The ceremony had reminded him at every moment that Gregory wasn’t there. It had reminded him of how empty and hollow his parents’ marriage had been. His father had been in love with another peer’s wife, a woman who refused to become his mistress. Matthew had never learned who the woman was, but his father had committed suicide over her. Father’s devotion to the mystery lady had broken Mother’s heart and had destroyed her.
As Octavia had sipped wine and refused to meet his gaze, he had regretted what he’d said to her. He should have lied. Should have told her he was in love. He could have faked it; she would have been happy, and if he died in the Carpathians, she never would have learned the truth.
He hauled his shirt over his head. Nerves gave him enough strength to drag off his own tight-fitting boots. Then he took his trousers off and put his robe on.
It was easy to stride into the parlor that separated his bedchamber from Octavia’s, but almost impossible to dredge up the courage to rap on the door. It was insane, but he preferred to stand there, with his elbow resting against the door, than knock and find out she didn’t want him.
Hades, how was he going to hunt vampires if he couldn’t face a confrontation with his wife?
He rapped on the door.
7
After the Wedding
T
here was no answer. Matthew felt he should walk away, leave her alone, but this was to be their wedding night. Even if she threw something at him in her anger, he had to face her. He grasped the doorknob, turned it, and began to open the door.
here was no answer. Matthew felt he should walk away, leave her alone, but this was to be their wedding night. Even if she threw something at him in her anger, he had to face her. He grasped the doorknob, turned it, and began to open the door.
Then he heard it. A soft, helpless sob.
A bride should not be crying on her wedding day. Even he knew that. His mother and father had reputedly been filled with joy at their wedding—and it had gone sour. What hope for happiness was there when the bride began her new life in tears?
He pushed the door open the full way. “Don’t cry, Octavia,” he said gently.
Octavia was seated on the edge of her bed, wearing her gown. She looked up; her eyes were red and puffy, and tears had streaked down her cheeks, leaving glistening traces.
Damn.
What words were there? Just the lies he could give her. Maybe, if he told her he loved her, if he pretended he was capable of it, he would stop her tears.
Or maybe he needed to distract her.
“There are some advantages in being a bride,” he said softly, awkwardly.
She stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “If you mean pleasure, that’s what got us into this mess. And what will I do, when you’ve gone away for months? I’ll grow ill again.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t know how to answer that. “Have you felt sick? It’s been a few days since we last made love.”
“I feel sick with the baby, but not the kind of sickness I felt before.”
“Then you are probably well.” He had to believe that, because it was his duty to hunt vampires and destroy what he had stupidly unleashed.
“Thank you. Now that you’ve said I am,” she said in a prickly manner, “I suppose I must be.”
He felt like his father, saddled with a wife who was angry, sharp-tongued, and determined to jab at him. And like his father, he was responsible for his own disaster. He couldn’t believe that sex with him was keeping Octavia well. It made no sense. But seduction was the only method he knew to ease her anger. And if she believed it made her feel better, he had to provide her special form of healing.
Could he be good enough in bed to make his wife retract her claws and purr?
Oh, she was
furious
with him.
furious
with him.
And furious at herself for seducing him in the first place—without thinking to ask him to take precautions against making her pregnant. If she hadn’t been so impetuous and impatient, convinced she was dying, she would have avoided a loveless marriage.
But mostly, Octavia was scared.
Before Sutcliffe had come in, she had lost her temper, and all her perfume bottles had exploded on the vanity. At least she’d only had three. She had quickly opened the window to air out the room, then had swept the shards of glass into her wash basin.
Now she was shaking with horror and fear. And Sutcliffe could see that.
“Shh,” he murmured. He lifted her to her feet, embraced her. Softly, his lips brushed the top of her head, and his large hand stroked down her back. Her husband was gentling her in the way a man did with a frightened horse.
Her simple ivory dress was loose, but she had sent her maids away when she had realized her perfume bottles were rattling on the marble vanity top.
Sutcliffe drew her gown down from her shoulders. He ran his lips gently over the nape of her neck. The bodice, tugged down over her arms, kept them trapped. She closed her eyes and let him kiss her.
What should she do? She was angry with him because he insisted he would never even try to love her.
Should she fight not to feel anything? Or should she let herself enjoy sex with him, because it was the only tenderness she could hope to have in this marriage?
She didn’t know. Why did she have to even make this choice? Why did he have to be so stubborn and wrong?
He undid a few more buttons on the back of her dress and gave her bodice a tug. The sleeves went down to her elbows, and the bodice slid to sit below her breasts.
He gently kissed the swells of her breasts. Of course it tickled and tingled and felt wonderful.
Even if she tried, she couldn’t stop showing her pleasure. His mouth suckling her nipples made her moan.
Then he scooped her in his arms. Carrying her, he bent to her bosom, and he sucked her nipples once more.
She was trying to be annoyed, but it was
sooooo
good.
sooooo
good.
Next minute she was on her stomach on the bed. She gasped as he threw her skirts up and her bottom was bared.
She had bathed last night. She’d wanted to be clean and fresh to start her new life, even if it wasn’t a happy start. And bathing had given her something to think about other than watching the hours tick away to her wedding to the man who didn’t love her.
“You smell beautiful,” he murmured. “Like roses.”
To her astonishment, he kissed her bottom. She twisted to see. His mouth dropped dozens of kisses on the curves of her derriere.
“I bathed.” She blushed fiercely. She had had no idea men kissed
bottoms
.
bottoms
.
“Now that you are my bride, I can do everything to you I’ve ever fantasized about.”
But men did not do that with wives. That was what she’d learned from gossip. Gentlemen were supposed to be gentle with their wives in the bedroom, and take their . . . wilder interests to mistresses.
The Earl of Sutcliffe, her husband, clasped the naked cheeks of her bottom with both hands. He parted them gently, scandalously exposing the valley between. Then he kissed—
kissed
—the opening there.
kissed
—the opening there.
It was shocking. Stunning.
If he was doing this and he wasn’t going to love her . . . what desires would he take elsewhere?
It was hard to think as he stroked her in that forbidden place with his tongue. Hard to remember he didn’t want to love her. Hard to be afraid of losing him to a mistress and of being unhappy. . .
What he was doing was so very good.
He lifted her bottom in the air. Then something stiff and hard brushed against her nether lips from behind. It was his shaft, and the stroking made her slippery and wet.
He slid his member inside. His hands reached around, and he clasped her breasts.
She had seen how animals mated from behind. Never had she expected to do the same thing. Though, now that she thought of it, there had been a scene like this in the erotic book.
It was as if he knew all the scenes in the book and was showing her every one . . .
In this position, his hips collided hard with hers. Each thrust, each time his groin hit her bottom, her cheeks jiggled. It was so very erotic.
His hands cupped her breasts, then he began pinching and tugging on her nipples with each thrust.
She couldn’t see him, but she could feel everything he was doing. She didn’t know what he was going to do. He released her right breast, then slid his fingers down to her nether place and stroked her clit, and she came.
Instantly. With screams. And gasps. She rocked madly beneath him. Her arms shook, then gave out, and she fell on the bed.
He fell with her, still thrusting. He went deep inside her. The taut head of his erection stroked in new, fascinating, thrilling places.
She’d barely finished gasping from her first climax when the second one hit her, making her shout. And scream.
Heaven, heaven, heaven.
Her marriage might be a disaster, but her husband was giving her a glimpse of heaven.
Then he withdrew, and she sobbed. Gently, he eased her over. Her wedding dress was a wrinkled mess. But when she saw the hungry gleam of lust in his eyes, she didn’t care.
“More,” she whispered.
“At your command, my lovely wife,” he whispered. He thrust deep inside her and made her come again and again and again. . . .
Her husband collapsed beside her. Sweat gleamed on his handsome face. The hair on his chest was damp with perspiration, and his back was slick with it.
“That was amazing,” he growled. “You made me come so intensely. Watching you reach so many climaxes was unbelievably exciting.”
Octavia couldn’t speak. Her throat was too tight. She’d had six orgasms. So many that she did not believe she could have another one without exploding into a thousand pieces. She was so sensitive that even the brush of his breath on her skin made her feel close to a climax.
But nothing had changed. They still had a duty marriage, an empty one. She was going to share a future with a man who was determined never to love her.
“I’m exhausted,” he muttered. “Let’s sleep now. I have to sail tomorrow.”
She let him put his arm around her and cradle her to him, but she could not relax. He was going to leave in the morning. Nothing had changed. Being married had not chipped away any of the ice around his heart.
He was still going to leave her, even though she was expecting their baby. Even though she didn’t know if she would become sick again.
The only good thing was that if he was far away, he would never find out she was a witch. But she still had to hide the truth from her family, her friends, the servants.
She might be married, but she felt completely alone.
Late April, 1821
Flakes of snow swirled around him as Matthew emerged from the tiny, warm inn in the small village of Bistritz, at the foot of the Carpathians. It was the last village before the Borgo Pass that led through the mountains into Bukovina. This was where he had stayed with Gregory months before. This had been their “base camp,” from which they had left to hunt for the supposed tomb of a demoness and had found the vampire Esmeralda.
The memories of the last few days he had spent here with Gregory hit him hard and fast. The memories had forced him out of doors. He had been inside, struggling to interpret as Sebastien De Wynter questioned locals. Matthew could speak some Russian and some Czech, but De Wynter had been talking to men in dialects he did not know. He had taken it upon himself to buy the drinks.
He had recognized two of the words:
vrolok
and
vlksolak.
Both meant the same thing—vampire or werewolf. One was Slovak, the other Servian.
vrolok
and
vlksolak.
Both meant the same thing—vampire or werewolf. One was Slovak, the other Servian.
When one old man looked at them with pity, then crossed himself, Matthew knew what it meant. Now, outside, he stamped his feet, for his toes felt ice-cold in seconds. De Wynter came out, coat open and scarf flying in the blustery wind. The man never seemed to get cold.
“What did you learn?” Matthew asked.
De Wynter shook his head to brush off a dusting of snow, then plopped his hat on. “The men I spoke to said they had seen a woman demon near the village. She was hunting for children and young men. They think she has gone. They believe she bought a coffin, filled it with earth, and paid gypsies to take her to the Danube, where she traveled by ship. She has not been seen since.”
He groaned. “So we return?”
“We should make sure first,” De Wynter said. “We should go to the cave in which she was entombed.”
The snow had begun falling more heavily. It soaked up all sound and brightened the night sky. In England, it was spring. Here, blizzards still raged and snow covered the earth in ten foot-deep drifts.
He and De Wynter returned to their carriage, but the driver refused to travel through the pass. “Too much snow,” he said in his native language. “Threat of avalanche. Not at night. Never travel the pass at night.”
“Could we ride?” Matthew asked De Wynter.
“We won’t go on horseback,” De Wynter said. “Not through the pass in the middle of the night. Wolves would tear us apart before we made it a quarter of the way.”
Matthew was impatient to go, but he recognized the sense of his friend’s argument. They took rooms at the small inn. An excellent chicken with paprika was served, and many bottles of red wine, but he had no appetite.
He had gone to his room when De Wynter knocked, then walked in. His friend casually handed him a cheroot and strolled over to the window. “What’s troubling you, Sutcliffe?”
Matthew lit the cigar and drew a lungful of smoke. “Hunting vampires isn’t the obvious reason?”
“No. You’re a hunter by nature. You would enjoy that. And I don’t believe it is guilt over your brother’s death. It’s something else, I suspect.”
“I’ve left my new bride to go on a quest that will probably kill me,” he growled.
“Indeed. You know, you didn’t need to come. I could have assembled a group of slayers and hunted the demon Esmeralda by myself. This is too dangerous for a newly married man.” De Wynter puffed on his cheroot. “You’re going to be distracted during the hunt, Sutcliffe.”
“It’s my fault the demon got out of her prison. I couldn’t leave the job of killing her to someone else. It’s my responsibility.”
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