Bond of Fire (2 page)

Rodrigo’s deep voice overrode his. “I’ll make sure her suitors are acceptable.”

Jean-Marie raised an eyebrow. He’d expected Rodrigo to be hunting here, too.

“I fed earlier—and well.” Rodrigo almost purred the words, investing them with an entirely appropriate carnal significance.

Indeed? Jean-Marie considered the implications for his protector’s duties.
Vampiros
, such as Rodrigo and Sara, fed on the emotional energy carried in blood.
Vampiros
who were pleasant companions enjoyed carnal energy and had spent every year of their long lives perfecting their techniques for granting the utmost sensual pleasure to their lucky partners. With five hundred years’ experience to guide Rodrigo, his prey were uniformly fond of his company and sustained him very well.

Disgusting
vampiros
, on the other hand, fed on terror and death.

Even knowing Rodrigo was both free and capable, Jean-Marie had his own concerns, starting with Rodrigo’s health. “It’s my duty to guard her at all times.”

“Tonight you’re off duty and must enjoy yourself.
¿Comprendes?
” Rodrigo shrugged lazily, every inch the haughty grandee, whose word alone was more than enough justification for any action.

Jean-Marie hesitated before nodding his acceptance. Rodrigo loathed watching Sara feed. He’d likely be depressed and guilty tomorrow, ridden by old memories that only she shared and might be able to discuss with him. But there was no use arguing with him in this mood. He’d use a
vampiro
’s gifts of mind compulsion to gain his way or, more likely, his own remarkable ability to forge clever punishments no sane man wanted to repeat. “You are too kind,
mon frère
.”

“I live to make my family happy.” Rodrigo swept Jean-Marie a ridiculously ornate bow, and they both laughed at the absurdity of him ever behaving like an overanxious flunky. He slapped Jean-Marie lightly on the shoulder and strolled toward Sara and the card room, shaking out the lace under his cuffs. The crowd parted before him, most of them probably not even aware they were doing so.

Jean-Marie shook his head, wishing his best friend had more to occupy his mind than sacrificing his peace for his family’s momentary comfort. He’d been far happier as Washington’s spymaster in New York City, when he’d needed to continually juggle everything from Washington’s desperate needs—and utter lack of funds—to the British perceptiveness and bloodthirstiness. He’d even managed to have Jean-Marie assigned as his courier, in order to feed discreetly from Sara. They’d done well after peace was signed, too, helping to rebuild America’s cities and mercantile empires. Only Sara’s increasingly rabid loathing of North American provincialism had made them leave for Europe.

Europe, with its bright lights and frivolous assemblies, intent only on pleasure. Europe, which expected the French court to show the way in art, music, and dance.

His intuition jostled him then, sending a frisson rippling through his spine. It was the irregular voice that had guided him through an unsettled childhood surrounded by enemies and sycophants, where he could speak freely to nobody and his only assets were what his grace and sweet speaking won from his father. It had told him when to speak or remain silent, when to move or remain still. It had always been right, even though it rarely spoke in words.

His oldest friend, other than Rodrigo, and his most trusted companion, although he could never predict when and how it would visit him.

He glanced around—and was rewarded with another nudge when he faced the ballroom. So be it.

He headed for the glittering room, enjoying a minuet’s brilliant cascade of notes. He’d been trained in dancing from earliest childhood, part and parcel of learning swordplay and riding. A few minutes of that would fulfill his promise to Rodrigo, after which he could return to their rented Paris mansion.

The ballroom was as magnificent as anywhere else in Versailles, of course. Spectacular chandeliers, gilded mirrors, lavish paintings and murals, polished floors—all combined to form a setting of immense style and majesty. Yet here, the emphasis was entirely on the dance. An alcove at one end allowed the orchestra’s music to pour over the dancers and through the halls beyond. A single row of gilded chairs circled the oval room, allowing the few spectators to gossip in comfort. The center of the room was filled with set after set of magnificently dressed men and women, all dancing the minuet.

The doorway was full of men, much more so than Jean-Marie would have expected for a dance while the king was still present.

Ah, here was a small puzzle to unravel!

He stepped forward, elbowing his way through the crowd. The throng swayed—and rebounded, refusing to move. Even more interesting.

He grew more determined and worked his way into the knot of people until he could see what drew them.

As was the pattern in minuets, a single couple had taken the center of each set and was dipping and turning, gliding and swaying together, in a pageantry so precise dance masters spent a lifetime studying it.

Yet one woman held everyone’s eyes. The most graceful lady of all was centered under the finest chandelier, her jewelry making her sparkle like the sun. She was young, too, and slender, standing more than average height. She danced like a young Diana, as if the delight of the moment was more than enough reward for her, totally disregarding everyone and everything else.

Jean-Marie froze, his breath hanging in his throat. His heart forgot to beat.
Nom de Dieu
, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Her partner, a cavalry officer, was bowing and gliding as if he’d give his life to see the line of her ankle and foot displayed to their fullest advantage. He caught his dress sword on his coattails and stumbled.

Jean-Marie’s hands started to close into fists, ready to snatch the clumsy fool away from her. He caught himself before he lunged, cursing himself for being an idiot.

The boy—a mature soldier, to give him his due—recovered and danced on, barely missing a beat.

Jean-Marie recklessly memorized her face—the perfect oval, the straight nose, the winged brows, the—God help him!—carnal mouth, and the green eyes like the deepest glade in a forest. Her long swan’s neck, so well suited for tilting to look over her perfect shoulders at her partner. The sweet rise and fall of her breasts, inside the stiffly corseted blue dress.

What he wouldn’t give to have her smile at him, while he unlaced her…

She and her partner backed into their side of the set. Another couple bowed and curtsied before gliding and dipping into their set’s center, to begin another round.

Jean-Marie blinked. All around him, men shuffled their feet, the tension sighing out of them, and some left.

Fingers gripped his elbow, and a scent reached his nose.

Vampiro?
But not Rodrigo or Sara. There was only a faint hint of
vampiro
here and no other
compañeros
, of course. Given the vast unpredictability of making a
compañero
, few
vampiros
cared to try it and fewer
prosaicos
were stupid enough to have been caught as easily as he’d been.

He glanced toward its source.

“This way, old friend.” Donal O’Malley jerked his head at him. He was dressed expensively, but almost quietly, in dark green silk, and his few jewels were very fine. His arms-dealing business must be very profitable.

Jean-Marie threaded his way through to the Irish
vampiro
’s side. Together, they slipped along the wall until they found a gap among the spectators. Jean-Marie was still irresistibly drawn to watch the same woman, even though she was doing little more than occasionally curtsying to her partner or the gentleman next to her.

“Who is she?” Jean-Marie asked under his breath.

“The tall lady in blue?
Madame la marquise
d’Agelet. A very wealthy widow, as you can see by all the sharks circling around.”

The
marquise? “She should have family to guard her,” Jean-Marie growled protectively, eyeing one greasy slob who was ogling her far too openly.

“They’re back in the Vendée, at her grandfather’s sickbed.” O’Malley joined Jean-Marie in glaring at the clumsy predator.

The slovenly fool quickly retreated, clearly alarmed.

“Why is she here alone?”

“The late
marquis
was an explosives expert and a friend of Lavoisier. She’s here to present his final work to the Gunpowder Administration and the Royal Academy, which aren’t invitations easily refused.” A soft Gaelic burr colored every word, despite almost two centuries away from western Ireland. “Even so, the stubborn, loyal lady managed to delay her arrival here for over a year, which is why she’s not wearing mourning.”

The four couples in each set glided forward and sank down courteously, the gentlemen bowing and the ladies curtsying, marking the dance’s end.

Jean-Marie’s mouth curled in anticipation.

Christ, but he was being foolish beyond belief even to consider feeding this attraction that was burning so fast, so hot, so bright—given all that had happened the last time he’d been tempted by a woman. But why not? After all, what the hell did he have left to lose?

“Will you introduce me?”

O’Malley’s dark eyebrows arched. “What of Señorita Perez?”

“She is busy elsewhere.” Jean-Marie shrugged, remembering all the other times she’d gone off to find her own amusements—as the Irishman knew very well.

The orchestra crashed into a long chord.

But if I could spend a few minutes with Hélène d’Agelet, I could pretend I was unattached. Maybe dance with her and simply enjoy being alive, as I had when I was young and foolish in this place…

“You have my word, my intentions toward
madame la marquise
are entirely honorable,” he added harshly, half-wishing he could say he wanted more.

O’Malley searched his face for a long moment but nodded abruptly. “This way.”

Hélène nodded politely, glad nobody expected her to have enough wits to think about anything more important than a glass of wine. Otherwise, she might have had to pay attention to the conversation around her, instead of longing for the musicians to finish their break and start playing again. She fanned herself, wishing that the wood and silk concoction was actually a steel-tipped pole long enough to give her a respite from importunate fools. She’d been prepared for fortune hunters, even for throngs of them clamoring for attention from all sides.
Cher
Bernard and she had discussed how to handle them many times, since she was almost certain to outlive him.

But she hadn’t anticipated their female relatives and allies, buzzing around her like hornets. Those were by far the worst since no place was safe from them. No form of shopping, of course. But church? And surely a retiring room should be a sanctuary, if nowhere else. But it hadn’t proven to be.

Returning home couldn’t happen too soon, if she was to see
Grandpère
again while he was still alive. Frivolously, she also had mountains of new clothes for Celeste, her younger sister, to enchant her beloved Raoul with. Plus, there were books for
Maman
and two stallions for Papa, to help rebuild the family horse farm. It had been famous throughout France before
Grandpère
decided that success as a breeder of horses granted him equal brilliance at cards. Only
Grandpére
’s stroke and her own marriage to
cher
Bernard had salvaged their estates, land that had been held by her ancestors for almost four hundred years.

She’d married
cher
Bernard straight from the convent and counted herself lucky. He’d been courteous and considerate, interested in what she thought and felt despite the years between them. Certain that she’d never betray him, he’d even been able to laugh over her occasional flushes of admiration for young men. She had never been unfaithful. She’d never truly been seriously tempted to.

A fortune hunter’s female ally was talking now, the nasal rasp of her voice destroying any possible pleasure in her effusive praise for her nephew.

Hélène allowed her gaze to drift toward the door where the musicians had disappeared. Not a crack in a panel, no liveried musicians bearing gilded instruments, nothing.

She considered the men around her, never letting her eyes rest on anyone for very long. A wide variety, certainly, but mostly fops—and every one of them turning alert and eager when her glance passed over them. Dependent on her for a good time. What she wouldn’t do for someone who didn’t care about her money…

Two men approached, tall enough to be glimpsed over the others’ heads, even between the ladies’ high-piled marvels of the hairdresser’s art. Somehow a path opened before them, revealing
cher
Bernard’s Irish business associate, Donal O’Malley.

The other man was young, looking little more than her own age, yet he bore himself with the assurance of a much older man. He was very handsome, too, and almost pretty with his light brown hair and brilliant blue eyes, like a free-running river on a hot summer day. He didn’t just walk—he prowled, as unselfconsciously graceful and deadly as a lion she’d once seen in a private zoo.

Hélène’s fan stilled, matching her startled heartbeat. What woman wouldn’t kill to have him worshipping her?

The nasal voice fatuously compared her relative to Zeus—and the five-foot-tall dolt preened.

A wonderfully genuine smile danced through the stranger’s eyes. His sensual mouth curved, drawing attention to its potential for sin.

Her eyes caught his, and they shared the joke.

A matching grin surged forward but she bit it back, desperate not to be publicly rude. She whipped her fan into action, pretending to be slightly overcome by heat. Would she have longed to flirt with the stranger so much if Bernard were still alive?

“Ma chère madame.”
O’Malley bowed and kissed her hand, casually displaying their long acquaintance by addressing her only as a dear lady, not
the
marquise.