Authors: Sharon Page

Tags: #Romance

Blood Fire (25 page)

BOOK: Blood Fire

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One of the men lifted his hand, and suddenly there was a loud thud from the box as if the coachman had fallen, then the horses were free of their traces, running away.

Matthew pushed the carriage door open and jumped down.

He was going to protect Lottie and Octavia. But he couldn’t let Octavia know how he was going to do it.

“You cannot go out alone,” Octavia cried. “I could use magic. I can help you.”

He couldn’t let Octavia see how he was going to protect them. “I will be fine. You will stay here and protect our baby.”

Werewolves he had been able to fight with brute force . . . and sharp knives.

Male witches were a different breed.

The moment Matthew jumped to the ground, lightning bolts shot through the air toward him. He couldn’t let them hit the carriage, so he could not move out of the way.

They slammed into him, but he stood his ground. Amazing—his body withstood the force. He tried to run toward the witches, but they threw everything at him: trees, dirt, waves of wind. He lured their magical strikes away from the carriage.

Searing heat filled his body—no doubt, they were throwing spells at him to make him burn to dust, but for some reason, their magic didn’t work.

He transformed to bat shape and flew through the darkness at an incredible speed. He reached one of the witches unscathed and transformed back instantaneously. He drove his knife into the witch’s heart.

Witches were the closest to mortal men. This one fell, clutching the hilt of the knife.

Matthew leapt on the second witch and sank his teeth into the man’s muscular neck.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the carriage door swing open. Saw a flash of golden hair.

Damnation, Octavia hadn’t listened. He tore his teeth free of the witch’s neck.
Get back inside,
he roared in her thoughts.
Now!

His teeth had torn open the man’s throat, rendering him helpless.

Octavia drew back at once, and as soon as she couldn’t see, Matthew plunged his fangs back into the warlock’s throat. Blood rushed out through the wound, filling his mouth. Quickly, he drained his opponent. Sparks of light flew out of the warlock’s fingertips. They slammed into Matthew’s body, hitting like dozens of hot needles.

But the bolts weren’t strong enough to kill him.

He was winning.

Octavia cradled Charlotte to her chest and peeked out of the carriage window. There was no moon, and everything around them was a fathomless black. Through the glass, she couldn’t see anything in the dark. Even when she’d opened the door, it had been almost impossible to see.

All she had been able to detect was a male form, which had looked almost ghostly, leaning over a struggling man. Then her husband, who had sounded angry and not wounded, had ordered her to look after Lottie.

She’d hated leaving him out there, but he was right—she had to protect their baby.

And somehow Sutcliffe could see in the dark. He was able to fight. She could tell the three men were battling like madmen by the roars of anger, the flashes of lightning between the trees, the
thud
cracks of punches, the cries of pain.

How had her husband withstood bolts of lightning?

How long could he continue to do it?

She had to try to use a spell and save him—

Then everything went quiet. Plastering her face to the window, she spotted a movement in the dark. The slow steps of a man. He seemed to be prowling carefully toward the carriage.

Her hands shook against Lottie, and she heard a mewling sound of fear escape her baby.

Courage, Octavia.

If only Sutcliffe had let her help him, he wouldn’t have been killed. . . .

Now he was
gone
. She’d never known such pain. It gripped her heart and squeezed, stopping a heartbeat, making her dizzy. It slammed onto her shoulders, making her sway. It tightened and dried her throat so quickly, she couldn’t draw breath. But it hit her so hard and so fast, she didn’t cry.

It was like the horrible moment of waking up and finding her baby gone.

She lifted her right hand, ready to send her power to kill—before she and Lottie were killed. The door swung wide.

Sutcliffe
stumbled into the carriage doorway.

He was safe. Dear heaven, he’d survived.

Octavia’s knees almost crumpled. She rushed to Sutcliffe, gripped his wrist, and hauled him inside. His clothes were dirty, torn, and half-open. She pushed him onto a seat, then she sat at his side and pressed close to him—as close as she could, for she had to be careful of Lottie.

She lay her head against his chest. “Thank heavens. I thought you were dead. I was so afraid—”

Something dripped on her chest, just above the neckline of her nightdress. A red droplet.

She jerked her gaze up. Blood ran down her husband’s lower lip and dripped off his chin.

She stared, horrified. Then she reached up, searching for the wound.

Sutcliffe jerked in surprise, sliding away from her. He swiped away the blood with the back of his hand. “I must have cut my lip. It is superficial, and nothing for you to fret about. I destroyed the two men—male witches.”

She nodded. Blood was smeared everywhere on him—in his hair, on his shirt, on his trousers. Closing her eyes, she wished him healed. When she opened her lids, he was gingerly touching his mouth. “The wound is gone. Dawn is close—and we can safely travel in daylight. We are going to head to the castle as quickly as we can.”

“How? What of the horses and of the coachman? Was he not killed?”

“No. The witches used a spell to keep him frozen, and he had fallen onto the footrest of the box. The spell was broken as soon as the witches perished. And I was able to round up the horses.”

“So quickly—?”

“They had not gone far. Do not worry, you will be safe now.” He drew her to him on the seat and adjusted her so she lay on his chest. His strong arm kept her secure, and she cradled Lottie to her.

She closed her eyes.

She was so exhausted, her head felt as if it was stuffed with wool. She was weak with relief, yet ice-cold with fear there might be another attack.

And she was aroused. It was insanity, but she was. Perhaps because she had been afraid she’d lost Sutcliffe, only to get him back.

But she couldn’t have sex with him here, now. Not with Charlotte with them. Not when they were hurtling up the Great North Road, seeking his Scottish castle.

She closed her eyes with her cunny aching and her heart pounding.

Next thing Octavia knew, she was in the middle of an orgy, and her husband was stripping off his clothing to join them.

This was the dream his wife wanted to have?

Slumped on the seat of his carriage, with Octavia and his baby sleeping on top of him, Matthew had closed his eyes but he wasn’t sleeping—as a vampire he couldn’t sleep until dawn came fully. But he was drawn into Octavia’s dream.

So he joined her. Just as two young courtesans grasped her by the hands and led her, giggling, to another courtesan and group of three Regency bucks who had just taken off their clothes.

Groups of cavorting peers, rakes, and beautiful light-skirts filled the room. It was an elegant ballroom with a soaring ceiling and six blazing chandeliers. Oval beds had been arranged throughout.

Heat and the smell of sex wrapped around him. Matthew was already naked—Octavia had dreamed his clothes away. Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he decided to watch. His cock felt as if it were watching, the way the head bobbed to and fro.

The three young men bowed over Octavia’s hand. She wore a gown of sapphire blue silk, one that made her eyes look as dazzling as a sunny sky. Each quick breath strained her full breasts against the scooped neckline.

He didn’t think the lavish kisses the men gave her hand, her fingers, her palm were exaggerated. They were struck by her beauty. And who wouldn’t be?

She blushed as they bowed to her. It made their cocks wobble. He wondered if she was noting differences in size and shape of their different equipment, then comparing it to his? He made a good showing, though he would have liked to be the largest. One of the lads was longer, but his cock had a smaller head, thick base, and heavy veins. Not as attractive as his, Matthew thought.

Another young buck had a thicker member, but it stuck out straight forward and looked ungainly. It didn’t have the attractive curve and taper of his cock.

The last one was smaller, which gave Matthew a sense of satisfaction, though the lad was good-looking, with blond hair, a thick pelt of it at his crotch, and a body like the statue of David.

Would Octavia want any of them more than him? What if she desired them equally as much as she wanted him? Hell, he had no idea how to cope with this. He just watched her, trying to see if she looked at their naked bodies any differently than she looked at his. . . .

“My name is Desiree,” cried one of the courtesans, who had exotic uptilted brown eyes and thick brown hair. “The blond is called Honey, for she is sweet and tempting. The redheaded girl is Flame.”

The other two pretty light-skirts, Honey and Flame, curtsied. Octavia curtsied also. In this orgy, only the men were naked. The prostitutes wore elegant gowns. Again, was that his wife’s fantasy—where the men were the ones expected to take off clothes?

“Would you like to see what two men can do together?” Flame asked, looking mischievous.

Octavia looked mystified, then smiled. “Ooh, I think I would.”

Always the explorer, always curious. It made Matthew smile. He already knew what she would see—what intrigued him was how she would react.

The courtesan pointed at the two youngest men, striplings in their early twenties. Both so young, they had smooth hairless chests formed of lean muscle, tight stomachs that sucked in, prominent hipbones, and the long legs of colts.

Octavia looked entranced as she studied their naked bodies. They stood beside each other, nudging each other, laughing.

Matthew felt an acid spurt of jealousy at her wide-eyed appreciation.

This was a dream; it wasn’t real. None of these other people were real. They had been conjured, by her powers, for seduction. He had to remember that, or he’d start punching men right and left for even looking at her.

Matthew waved away a woman who approached him. He just wanted to watch his wife. That was his fantasy at this moment: watching pleasure through Octavia’s eyes.

“The gentlemen are Viscount Cayne and Mr. Dashwood. His Lordship has the blond hair, and of course Mr. Dashwood is the dark-haired gentleman,” Honey whispered to Octavia. “Lord Cayne is my most favorite gentleman.”

Matthew had expected Cayne, who was more slender, more boyish looking, would prove to be the man on the bottom. He was wrong.

Dashwood got on all fours on the bed. Matthew tried to look on the scene and see what Octavia would see. The golden light of the chandeliers accentuated Dashwood’s muscular arse and the indents of his haunches. He had well-muscled legs. His hair was black and fell in waves to his shoulders.

All in all, he was a damnably good-looking man.

Octavia was waving a fan before her face. Her cheeks were fetchingly pink as she stared at Dashwood’s rump, which was pointing at her. The redhead, Flame, led her around, so she was watching the bed from the side. “A better view,” Flame explained.

Cayne mounted from behind, getting on his knees on the bed. It was an ungainly, graceless thing—getting on a bed, holding one’s cock down, and aiming it at the orifice on offer. But Octavia looked fascinated. She gasped and squealed as Cayne managed to push his erect prick downward, and got it wedged between Dashwood’s tight cheeks.

Matthew let out a low whistle. His wife had a vivid imagination when it came to dreams.

Then he saw her fingers. They had strayed to the bodice of her dress and were gently stroking. She wasn’t doing it consciously. Watching the men had inspired her, and she was lightly caressing her breasts.

His cock jumped so smartly it smacked his stomach.

“You will have to wait,” he muttered, glancing down at it. “It’s too much fun watching her watching them.”

Dashwood let out a restrained moan, and Cayne pushed his hips forward. He gripped the hilt of his cock and braced his other hand on the curve of the other man’s ass.

Matthew could guess the moment of penetration. Cayne gave a thrust, and Dashwood reacted. His back curved, his hands tightened into fists, and he hissed.

Cayne withdrew, waited, then tried again. The men didn’t speak. They knew what to do, and likely conversation felt awkward.

Octavia was panting and fanning herself fiercely. Her hand now cupped her breast.

BOOK: Blood Fire

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