Dawn Thompson
Authors: Blood Moon
RAVE REVIEWS FOR
DAWN THOMPSON!
THE FALCON’S BRIDE
“Thompson’s intriguing time-travel intelligently blends 17th-century Irish legend with Regency sensibilities, passion, mystery and a wondrous love story of two engaging characters—the stuff of myth and magic.”
—RT BOOKreviews
“Dawn Thompson is . . . a force to be reckoned with. . . . This was an absolutely spellbinding effort by Ms. Thompson. . . . [A] riveting and unforgettable read! I highly recommend this book!”
—Marilyn Rondeau, Reviewers International Organization
“Ms. Thompson has done it again! This is an evocative, sensually romantic read which aptly demonstrates why we read romance. Once again, Ms. Thompson has raised the bar on the standards of romance. With time-travel elements, a little Gothic feel, mystical gypsies and wonderfully dynamic characters,
The Falcon’s Bride
will steal the reader’s heart.”
—The Best Reviews
“
The Falcon’s Bride
is an intriguing, sensual story with larger-than-life characters. . . . The way Ms. Thompson cleverly weaves the threads of the different times together creates a love story through the centuries [and] makes this a most entertaining read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Those looking for passion and escape will be pleased.”
—
Publishers Weekly
MORE RAVE REVIEWS
FOR DAWN THOMPSON!
THE WATERLORD
“Original, intriguing, and captivating,
The Waterlord
blends paranormal fantasy and historical romance with panache. [Ms. Thompson] puts a fresh spin on a delightful plotline.”
—
RT BOOKreviews
“It is a pleasure to read an author who can make her fictional world come to life. The Waterlord and Ms. Thompson earn a perfect 10.”
—
Romance Reviews Today
THE RAVENCLIFF BRIDE
“With its delicious Gothic overtones, haunting suspense and thrilling climax, Thompson’s tale sends just the right amount of chills down your spine. . . . Thompson creates such appealing characters that you’ll be hooked. . . . A novel that will entertain and give you chills.”
—
RT BOOKreviews
“A seductive brooding tale of dark love. Victoria Holt, move over!”
—Bertrice Small, Author of
The Last Heiress
“For a novel that will entertain and give you chills, grab a copy of
The Ravencliff Bride
; it is guaranteed to appeal to fans of Gothic and paranormal romances.”
—
Romance Reviews Today
“No danger?” He spun her around and propelled her down the stairs. Holding his candlebranch high, he led her to another alcove. A pile of old furniture, rolled carpets and bric-a-brac that had occupied the recessed space lay strewn on the cold stone floor beside it. Cassandra gasped. He watched her gaze flit over the cot that had replaced the collected trappings, and the bucket of dirt beneath.
“In an hour’s time, I might be lying upon that down here in the dark, Cass,” he said through clenched teeth. “And there I will stay until the sun sets if I cannot bear the sunlight. My symptoms are worsening. It could happen at any time now.” He set the candlebranch down on an old drum table and seized her upper arms, pulling her against his hard-muscled chest, against his thump-ing heart, his turgid arousal forced against her. “Here is your danger,” he said. “I am your danger.”
Other
Love Spell
books by Dawn Thompson:
THE FALCON’S BRIDE
THE WATERLORD
THE RAVENCLIFF BRIDE
LOOD
M
OON
D
AWN
T
HOMPSON
For DeborahAnne MacGillivray, for her friendship and awesome support, and for all the talented ladies at Gothic Romance Writers, where it all began.
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2007 by Dawn Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1765-3
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-0144-7
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: March 2007
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at
www.dorchesterpub.com
.
B
LOOD
M
OON
HAPTER
O
NE
Cumberland, England, Summer, 1811
Jon stripped naked in the woad field. There wasn’t a minute to spare; Cassandra would be waiting at the crypt in the kirkyard. He would have been there an hour ago if he hadn’t stopped to feed . . . so he wouldn’t be tempted to feed upon
her.
He glanced about. There wasn’t a soul to be seen, just the tall swaying woad, its strong-smelling yellow blossoms tinted green by the velvet blue of pending darkness. The tall stalks swayed, dancing in the breeze, whispering their secrets, keeping his, just as they always did. They would be gone soon. Midsummer’s Eve; the harvesting would begin. Then he would have to take shelter in the forest when he roamed his land in the north.
In a blink and a blur, he sailed through the air and hit the ground running on four sturdy, corded legs, his thick footpads trampling the woad, bending the stalks, his tall, muscular, barrel-chested body grown taller, thicker, covered
with a shaggy coat of silver-tipped black fur. He could make better time as
canis dirus
, the dire wolf, beating a path through the woad on all fours, than he could standing upright, though that was always an option—better time than he could in his normal incarnation, come to that.
Normal.
The word didn’t even signify. He would never be normal again.
His vision had narrowed now, just as it always did when he shifted into the shape of the great wolf, and his facial features transformed into an elongated snout. It wasn’t because of the darkness. He was possessed of keen night vision in both incarnations.
Small consolation, that
, he thought bitterly, swallowing hard in a vain attempt to break up the lump in his throat. His bared canines were dripping blood carried over from his other self and the feeding that had just taken place. It slid down his long pink tongue, splattering his forefeet with foam and spittle as he ran. But still, the thick, metallic taste laced with salt clotted at the back of his palate. Its rich, toothsome flavor—piquant and mysterious—would stay with him until it was time to feed again.
Maybe she wouldn’t come tonight. Maybe all this haste was for naught. It was a pleasant fiction. He loosed a bestial canine whine. If she wasn’t there, he would agonize over her whereabouts until he set eyes upon her again, just as he was doing now, running his heart out, burning his lungs dry gulping the cool night air. If only he hadn’t needed to feed. If only he trusted himself in her presence when the hunger—the feeding frenzy—was upon him once the sun sank below the horizon each night. Streaking through the woad, he cursed Sebastian, the vampire who had infected him and nearly made
her.
Sebastian would stalk her until he finished what he’d
started, until he’d made her his slave like the others. Over Jon’s dead body.
Would she have sense enough to climb the tor to Whitebriar Abbey, his inherited manor, when she didn’t find him at the crypt? Would Bates, his faithful servant, admit her? Why hadn’t he told her to meet him at the Abbey in the first place? He was counting upon the sacred ground in the kirkyard keeping Sebastian at bay. According to legend, full-fledged vampires could not bear crosses or consecrated places—or anything sacred, come to that. How Jon himself still could was a mystery, though holy water boiled when he touched it. But this wasn’t legend; this was
real.
Perhaps these things came about gradually in the newly made. Whatever the cause, he was glad of the effect.
He was out in the open now. He had left the woad behind, though its pungent scent still filled his nostrils. Was it something remembered from his childhood, when he’d played in these fields and knew every inch of them, or something related to the here and now? More likely the latter. His sense of smell was always heightened in wolf form. It was almost painful when he needed to feed, stabbing pains shooting through his sinuses until he’d tracked down his prey. At least he didn’t have to suffer that now; he wouldn’t need to feed again tonight. It was safe to be with Cassandra, to hold her in his arms, to comfort her. He dared not take it beyond that, though he longed to live in that exquisite body, to succumb to the lure of an innocence that had bewitched him from the moment they’d met at Almack’s in London that Season. Sebastian might have taken her first blood, but
he
—Jon Hyde-White, third son of the Earl of Breckenridge, who’d had noble aspirations of becoming a vicar and had answered the call to Holy Orders before it all began—was to blame,
as surely as if he’d been the one who’d plunged his fangs into that sweet flesh that smelled hauntingly of meadowsweet and lilies of the valley.
Wolf though he was, tears misted Jon’s eyes. Padding to a halt in the clearing, he threw back his head and howled into the darkness. The sound trailed off to a mournful wail, lonely and sad. No creature answered it; no woodland voice replied, though birds fled the trees into the clouds at the edge of the copse that bearded the thicket. Across the moor, a light in the kirk at the foot of the tor beckoned, and he bolted toward it, praying he wasn’t too late.
Nothing stirred in the kirkyard when he arrived. Surging into human form—if he could still be considered human; he wouldn’t dwell upon that now—Jon stood naked, clothed only in the mist that drifted among the crooked headstones like wraiths risen from the dead. The Hyde-White crypt loomed before him, deserted, an upright vault covered in woodbine creepers, fitted with an iron-barred door. It would be open. Since the nightmare began, the vicar, Clive Snow, his mentor and confidant, had unlocked it every night at dusk, and locked it again once the first gray streamers of dawn chased the mist each morning. Just to be certain. In case Jon needed sanctuary from Sebastian, who only roamed the moor at night.
