Lord of Vengeance (41 page)

And her breasts . . . Lucan could not resist the peachy dark nipple that peeked out from under the sheet draped haphazardly across her torso. He teased the little bud between his fingers, tugging it gently and nearly growling with need as it puckered into a tight bead, hardening at his touch.

He was hardening as well. He licked his lips, growing hungry, eager to have her.

Gabrielle squirmed languidly beneath the tangled sheet. Lucan slowly drew the cotton coverlet away, baring her to him completely. She was exquisite, as he knew she would be. Petite, yet strong, her body was lithe with youth, supple and fair. Firm muscle shaped her elegant limbs; her artist's hands were slender and expressive, flexing mindlessly as Lucan trailed his fingers along her sternum and down to the concave dip of her belly. Her skin here was velvet and warm, too tempting to resist.

Lucan moved over her on the bed, and slid his palms beneath her. He lifted her to him, gently arching her up off the mattress. He kissed the sweet curve of her hip, then let his tongue play across the small valley of her navel. She gasped as he plumbed the shallow indentation, and the fragrance of her need wreathed his senses.

“Jasmine,” he rasped against her heated skin, his teeth dragging lightly as his kiss ventured lower.

Her moan of pleasure as his mouth invaded her sex sent a violent jolt of lust through his veins. He was already stiff and erect; now his cock throbbed beneath the constricting barrier of his clothes. She was wet and slick against his lips, her cleft a heated sheath against his questing tongue. Lucan suckled her as he would sweet nectar, until her body convulsed with the coming of her release. And still he lapped at her, bringing her to the crest of another climax, and then another.

She'd gone slack in his arms, boneless and trembling. Lucan trembled as well, his hands shaking as he carefully eased her back down onto the bed. He'd never wanted a woman so badly. He wanted something more, he realized, bemused by the impulse that he had to protect her. Gabrielle panted softly as her last climax subsided, and she curled onto her side, as innocent as a kitten.

Lucan stared down at her in silent fury, heaving with the force of his need. Dull pain tightened his mouth as his fangs stretched out from his gums. His tongue was dry. Hunger knotted in his gut. His vision sharpened as lust for blood and release slung its seductive coils around him, and his pupils elongated to catlike slivers in his pale eyes.

Take her
, urged that part of him that was inhuman, unearthly.

She is yours. Take her.

Just a taste--that was what he had vowed. He would not harm her, only heighten her pleasure as he took a bit of his own. She wouldn't even remember this moment, come the dawn. As his blood Host, she would give him a sustaining sip of life, then awake later, drowsy and sated, but blissfully unaware of its cause.

It was a small mercy, he told himself, even as his body quickened with the urge to feed.

Lucan bent over Gabrielle's languid form, and tenderly swept aside the riot of ginger waves concealing her neck. His heart was hammering in his chest, urging him to slake his burning thirst. Just a taste, no more. Only pleasure. He came forward, his mouth open, his senses swamped with her intoxicating female scent. His lips pressed down against her warmth, settling over the delicate pulse that beat against his tongue. His fangs grazed the velvet softness of her throat, throbbing now, like another demanding part of his anatomy.

And in the instant before his sharp teeth penetrated her fragile skin, his keen vision lit on a tiny birthmark just behind Gabrielle's ear.

Nearly undetectable, the diminutive mark of a teardrop falling into the cradle of a crescent moon made Lucan rear back in shock. The symbol, so rare among human females, meant only one thing . . .

Breedmate.

He withdrew from the bed as though touched by fire, hissing a furious curse into the dark. Hunger for Gabrielle still pounded through him, even as he grappled with the ramifications of what he might have done to them both.

Gabrielle Maxwell was a Breedmate, a human gifted with unique blood and DNA properties that complemented those of his kind. She and the few numbers like her were queens among other human females. To Lucan's kind, a race comprised solely of males, this woman was a cherished goddess, giver of life, destined to bond in blood and bear the seed of a new vampire generation.

And in his reckless lust to taste her, Lucan had nearly claimed her for his own.

~*~

KISS OF MIDNIGHT is available now, wherever books and ebooks are sold.

Please visit

www.LaraAdrian.com

to read excerpts, info and reviews

for the rest of the Midnight Breed series titles:

KISS OF CRIMSON

MIDNIGHT AWAKENING

MIDNIGHT RISING

VEIL OF MIDNIGHT

ASHES OF MIDNIGHT

SHADES OF MIDNIGHT

TAKEN BY MIDNIGHT

DEEPER THAN MIDNIGHT

A TASTE OF MIDNIGHT (ebook novella)

DARKER AFTER MIDNIGHT

EDGE OF DAWN (tba 2013)

. . . and more to come!

~*~

THE DRAGON CHALICE SERIES

(Paranormal, historical adventure romance)

HEART OF THE HUNTER (Book 1)

Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award Winner

Romance Writers of America RITA Finalist

“Passion, danger and a bit of mysticism all come together brilliantly in the bewitching Dragon Chalice medieval paranormal series.”

–
Booklist

Ariana of Clairmont would risk anything to save her kidnapped brother, a quest she knows is fraught with peril. Her only ally is Braedon le Chasseur, a formidable knight with a mysterious past, whose scarred face and brooding nature mask a soul filled with pain. Ariana fears this dangerous man and the secrets he strives to conceal--but Braedon’s touch is pure seduction, his kiss a potent lure that tempts her into a passion she is powerless to resist.

Once known as The Hunter, now haunted by a dark legacy he struggles to deny, Braedon lives in a world of shadow and isolation--until he is thrust together with an innocent beauty in need of his protection. Embarking on a journey that will lead them to a legendary treasure, Braedon will be forced to confront old enemies and the stunning secret of his true nature--or risk losing Ariana and the only happiness he has ever known. . . .

~*~

EXCERPT

“You didn't tell me you owned a ship.”

Braedon unlashed one of the lines on his cog and turned to find Ariana of Clairmont standing behind him on the wharf, regarding him in stormy accusation. He was not surprised to see her there; he had heard the terse clip of boots on the dock as she approached, but his instincts had told him it was her even before her light gait and the angry swish of her skirts and long cloak gave her away.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

He threw her a brief, dark scowl. “You didn't ask.”

His curt tone should have been enough to dismiss her, but to her credit and his dismay, she remained firmly planted where she stood, hands fisted on her hips, brow pinched in haughty offense. Her departure from Rob and Peg's house must have been hasty. Her unbound, sleep-rumpled blond hair tumbled around her shoulders, devoid of hat and crispinette. The pale delicate strands lifted in the morning breeze that blew in off the river. Her cheeks were flushed pink, but Braedon suspected their color had more to do with her ire than the chill mist of the dawning morn. She had the look of a woman who would stand firm through the most brutal tempest, and for a moment--just a moment--Braedon found himself admiring her tenacity.

“Go back to Rob and Peg's, if you have any sense. The docks will be alive with men soon, and you don't belong down here.”

“I'm not leaving until you hear me out.”

“Why does that not surprise me,” he groused, not quite under his breath. “Move on, demoiselle, before you invite more trouble for yourself.”

“Because you will no doubt be more bother than you are worth. This isn't a royal pleasure barge, my lady, it's a working vessel. And even if I were inclined to take on a passenger, the last place I would take one is to France.”

“Oh? Why, have you left a string of broken-hearted women there?”

He chuckled wryly and tied off the cog's single sail with a harsh tug. “I gather you've been talking to Peg.”

“She told me I should keep my distance of you. She said you can't be counted on, that you leave people just when they need you most.”

Braedon rounded on her, ready to challenge that charge. He thought better of it, however, and caught himself before he was pricked into defending his old, tattered honor. He came around the thick wooden mast and leveled a hard stare on the girl. “If she said all of that, and you believe her, then why are you here?”

“I told you. I need your help.”

“I have helped you,” he replied. “If you didn't want what I offered, that's not my concern. My obligation to you--such as it was--is done.”

She let out an affronted little gasp, her footfalls clipping behind him on the planks of the dock as he stalked away from her to check one of his cargo nets. “You stole my passage money and left me at the mercy of strangers whom I know nothing about, and now here you are, preparing to sail off without a care in the world for stranding me with no options whatsoever. You are despicable.”

Her barb stung him more than he wanted to give credit, but he cast off the insult with a shake of his head and an exhaled curse. “You were safe enough with Rob. He is an honorable man. He would have made sure you got back to Clairmont in one piece.” He felt the corner of his lip curl as he glanced up and met her indignant glare. “And I didn't steal your money, either.”

“You most certainly did, no matter what you choose to call it. That purse belonged to me, not Monsieur Ferrand. And not you, sirrah.”

He threw the web of rope netting down at his feet. “You are quite quick to judge me, demoiselle.”

“If I am,” she replied with a haughty toss of her head, “'tis only because you betrayed yourself immediately and continue to prove yourself a scoundrel the longer I see you. You, sir, are as wicked as you look.”

Provoked beyond toleration, he stalked toward her then, advancing to where she stood on the wharf, chin held high, fists clenched at her sides. “You judge only what you plainly see. Is that so, Ariana of Clairmont?”

That stubborn chin climbed up a notch. “Yes.”

“Then why don't you have a look in that satchel of yours and tell me what you see.”

Braedon found a perverse measure of amusement in her sudden look of confusion, in the wary frown that put a crease of apprehension in her smooth white forehead. “What do you know about this?” she demanded, protectively clutching at the large, fat leather pouch and holding it to her as if she feared he might steal that, too. She unhooked the thong and toggle that held it closed, her fingers trembling in her haste to check the contents. “If you took anything from within here, I swear, I will...
oh
.”

She reached in and withdrew the small coin purse from where Braedon had placed it in the moments before he left Rob and Peg's a short few hours ago. A flush of color filled her cheeks.

“Satisfied?” He arched a brow to make his point. “Now, if you'll excuse me. As you can see, I have work to do here.”

He pivoted to dismiss her bodily and heard the jingle of coins behind him. “I can pay you.”

“I know how much you have in that bag, Ariana. You can't afford me.” He threw a knowingly arrogant glance over his shoulder. “Besides, if I needed your money, I'd have kept your purse.”

“Fine,” she replied. “If that is how you feel.”

“It is.” He stared, unblinking, waiting for her to absorb his refusal. “Now, run along, demoiselle. The tide is in, and I'd like not to be delayed any longer with pointless conversation.”

Giving his back to her for what he hoped was a final time, he continued with the last checks of his vessel. He listened for a muttered curse or a huff of frustration. For the angry, staccato clip of boots retreating up the dock in defeat. He heard no such thing. Only the lengthy pause of contemplation--the persistent, almost audible turning of a stubborn female mind--assailing him from behind. Her gaze needled the back of his head like tiny daggers.

God's blood. He would not turn around and invite further argument. He owed the chit nothing. He would not give her the slightest concession in this--

“Very well,” she said. “If my coin is of no value to you, and honor does not compel you to help me, then let us make a different bargain. There must be something else you might accept in exchange for my passage...”

Try as he may to remain unaffected by the woman, her suggestion halted him where he stood. Cocking his head, he slowly swung back around to face her. She was nervous now, her slender fingers fidgeting with the furred edge of her mantle. A flush of pink filled her cheeks and she quickly glanced down, averting his gaze.

“What do you propose?”

She seemed reluctant to meet his gaze in that moment--an innocent, there could be no doubting that fact, despite the sensual implication in her blurted offer. Without looking at him, she said, “Name your price...and I will pay it.”

Tossing down the end of the rope he had been coiling, Braedon crossed the deck of the cog and leapt down onto the wharf. He strode up to Ariana, leaving not a half-pace between them, and grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his eyes. “What exactly is it that you suggest to bargain with, demoiselle?”