Bond of Fire (13 page)

Even more, she prayed her contact would see the chalk marks she’d left on the designated convent wall and come quickly, even though it was now hours later. It was also two days, almost three, since she’d last tasted the life-giving cocktail of blood and emotion. She was starting to stagger, even though she’d slept undisturbed yesterday in the abandoned wine cellar.

She’d actually considered sidling up to a drunken muleteer she’d seen, hideous thought! Thankfully, no man was handsome when compared to Jean-Marie St. Just, and she’d turned away.

But,
parbleu
, the fellow’s bulging muscles had almost made him look acceptable…

She shuddered and rubbed her forehead, trying to force her abominable headache away, along with any chance she might actually carry out such an ill-advised, humiliating activity.

“Hélène!” A sibilant whisper reached her ears. A man and unmistakably French, even familiar. Jean-Marie? Could her exhaustion and loneliness be making her fantasize?

“Hélène.” Callused fingertips brushed her arm as lightly as swan’s-down.

“Jean-Marie!” Totally ignoring any need for stealth and uncaring what had brought him here, she flung herself at him. His arms closed hard around her, bringing her breathtakingly close to a solid masculine chest. She clung, most satisfactorily cozy.

He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, caressing her hair. She sniffled happily, glad she’d stuffed the damn veil into her pack.

“We need to leave. Where are your things?”

“Only this leather pack.” She pointed at it, forgetting he probably couldn’t see anything in the dark. Although his scent wasn’t exactly like any other
prosaico
she’d ever met.

He picked it up without so much as a fumble.

She gawked but told herself he must have spotted it in a patch of moonlight or starlight.

He caught her by the hand and guided her from the thicket, carefully leading her past the worst of the ensnaring branches and twigs. Within minutes, they were weaving through Madrid’s archaic warren of streets, rarely stopping even to catch their breath.

Celeste stumbled and fell to the ground. The stupid Wade was on her in a moment to help her up—but she’d already seen what she needed: two horsemen watching them from a distance, with moonlight glinting on a spyglass.

In an impoverished land whose people could barely afford donkeys, much less mules, horses were a great rarity and usually had to be imported. But even at this hour and upwind from the beasts, she could tell the difference between horses and mules.

They were French soldiers or sympathizers, it didn’t matter which. Nobody else would have the arrogance to display such valuable beasts so close to Madrid, when open war was about to break out between the so-called
Patriots
and Napoleon.

But why the devil had they shown themselves?

She stretched her memory back, struggling to remember her French master’s hasty words during those few snatched minutes back in Portsmouth.

There were only two of them, both men, with no sign of a woman.

Merde!
The fools hadn’t captured Hélène. The self-righteous bitch who always succeeded in every mission, just as she’d killed Raoul with little more effort than snapping her fingers.

Celeste ground her teeth, fighting not to scream out loud. How could they have been so inept? She’d walked Hélène straight past their ambush. All they’d had to do was have their powerful
vampiro
bind her mind and grab her. Then take her back to France for questioning, which would end up with her alive and in the service of the Emperor—or dead.

Celeste truly didn’t care which. The first would relieve her of the sin of fratricide, something she wasn’t sure she could explain to Raoul in the hereafter. It might even stop her from ever seeing Raoul again, in this life or the next. But the second would be the proper penalty for Hélène’s murder of Raoul.

Her fingers curled into claws, longing to rip out her sister’s throat. She forced them to relax, one by one, and went back to considering the horsemen.

What would they say—they hadn’t seen her in the darkness? She snorted in disgust and quickly covered it with a bout of coughing.

Now what?

Mercifully, she’d managed to cloak her true feelings for her sister well enough that Hélène still believed they both thought of each other as family. Celeste had given the excuse she didn’t like to think or talk about any reminders of life in France.

Protocol dictated missing team members would rendezvous with the others at predetermined points. The first one was in Salamanca, northwest of Madrid and past the tall Guadarrama mountains. Hélène, the noble bitch—and murderess—would no doubt make every effort to rejoin them there.

Celeste would have to let her French masters know somehow. There should be something in those signs they’d taught her.

She’d have to keep Sir Andrew from suspecting anything. Given his propensity for thinking with his dick, the wonder would be if he had a coherent thought on any subject!

She snickered privately.

Maybe she could even lift that codebook Sir Andrew was clutching so closely and slip it to her friends soon.

Hélène hesitated when Jean-Marie opened the side gate into an elegant house’s garden. “Yours?”

“Yes, of course. Don’t worry—you’ll be safe here.” His hand tightened on hers, urging her forward.

“But will you be?” She fumbled for words to describe his danger, without saying she was a spy.

“Hélène.” To her shock, he chuckled slightly. “I’m sorry, I forgot we haven’t been properly introduced yet.”

He released her, gave her a neat bow, and declaimed,

He waited expectantly, one eyebrow visibly arched in the light from the kitchen window.

She stared at him, her jaw dropping open. Him? Jean-Marie was the brilliant, long-lasting, British spy resident in Madrid? How had he swallowed his distaste for the Hanoverian kings and their minions long enough to serve them? Quite possibly for the same reasons she had.

She managed to recover herself, curtsy, and respond with the correct countersign, also taken from Milton.

Jean-Marie threw back his shoulders and cleared his throat.

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

She finished for them both, feeling definitely stunned. He was definitely the British spy she’d been seeking.

“Now will you come inside? Perhaps I should have mentioned I’ve already met Sir Andrew and his companions. They’re all quite well, by the way, but have already followed their orders and left town.”

“Orders? Left town?”
Mon Dieu
, how she’d hoped to be reunited with her sister and
creador
.

“Very clear and emphatic orders.” He sounded completely sympathetic to her discouragement. His hand rested on the small of her back, gently urging her up the stairs to the kitchen. He rapped lightly and swung the door open. Two servants were revealed, an older but still vigorous couple, who promptly swung into action, fussing over her as if she was a lady of the house.

An hour later, Hélène belted the dressing gown closer around her, muttering possible conversational gambits to toss at Jean-Marie. She’d bathed in hot, gardenia-scented water and knew herself clean from head to foot, even if she wore only this soft velvet and the thin silk nightgown underneath. The maid had carried off her clothes to be washed, clucking over their condition, a summary with which she could hardly argue—even if it did leave her at a disadvantage in facing her host.

At least the dressing gown and nightgown were a lovely deep gold, superbly made from the finest fabric, and long enough to fit her well. They couldn’t belong to Mademoiselle Perez, who barely reached Hélène’s shoulder, and Hélène refused to speculate about anyone else. Not tonight, not when she was warm and safe—and nervous about a multitude of other things.

Mulling over how best to apologize for her hasty judgment and quick temper at their last meeting, she stepped out of the bathroom without checking her surroundings.

A cough brought her up short.

Her heart stopped beating. Her eyes widened, striving to take in the astonishing sight.

She stood in a small bedroom, furnished with only a few, very finely made items—a carved bed whose four posts were as solid as her waist, a sea chest, a small table next to the bed, and a chair. Rich curtains offered glimpses of the typical Spanish ironbound shutters, capable of blocking all sunlight. A dozen flaming candles burned in a great candelabrum on the small bedside table, revealing the room’s true surprise—her host.

Jean-Marie watched her arrogantly, legs spread in the confident stance of a ruler. Candlelight caressed him, emphasizing his strong jaw and high cheekbones, the deep-set blue eyes with their intense emotions, the salt-and-pepper hair glinting in the light. Even worse for her skittering pulse, he wore only a simple linen shirt and wool trousers, the shirt unbuttoned to show his strong muscles, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the pulse beating in his neck.

Hélène’s throat dried, and her tongue cleaved to the top of her mouth.
Mon Dieu
, but he was beautiful beyond belief.

“Cognac or a kiss, Hélène?” Jean-Marie lifted a crystal decanter, flames dancing within its golden depths.

“Eh?” she stammered, trying to retrieve her brain from purely carnal spheres. From this angle, she could see the strong muscles in his thighs, the ones he’d use to ride his lover…

“What do you want first—cognac or a kiss?” His tempting mouth quirked briefly but grew stern again. “Answer me, Hélène.”

The growled order rippled through her like a wave of molten lava, leaving every inch hot and aching. She somehow dragged her gaze up to his eyes. “Do you mean talk or make love?”

He inclined his head, his expression mildly encouraging.

“But…” She blinked, fighting for logic in this unfamiliar landscape. So few steps separated them, yet he was unreachable until she understood him. Baffled and too famished to think of pretty words, she fell back on the truth. “I’m a
vampira
and a firestarter, Jean-Marie. You can’t want to kiss me.”

“Why not?”

“I could drain you dry. Or burn you to a crisp.” Those were the nightmares walking through all of her lovers’ eyes, even her
creador
’s.

“I am disappointed in you, Hélène.” He clucked his tongue. “Perhaps I enjoy playing with fire.”

She gaped at him.

“How shall I punish you for your lack of faith in yourself? Shall I tie you up and make you wait for fulfillment?”

An image of herself, bound in soft leather and completely helpless under his skillful mouth, flashed through her head. Hunger jolted through her, shaking her knees and sending cream floating onto her thighs. She bit back a startled moan. “No, please, Jean-Marie.”

“Perhaps I should heat your lovely derrière with my hand until your clit enjoys every touch?”

She pressed her legs together, fighting a desire to fondle herself. How had he known, when she had not, that those words would trigger such a hungry response in her?

“Hélène, your words say one thing, but your body declares quite another.” He pulled a few items from the bedside table and prowled toward her, graceful and deadly as a big cat. “Must I force the two halves of you to reach agreement?”

She fought for breath, but her feet wouldn’t run away, mesmerized by a man so confident in himself a dangerous lover was seen purely as a woman.

“Are such drastic measures the only way to ensure you believe at least one man doesn’t give a damn you’re a firestarter?” Jean-Marie whispered in her ear. He knotted a twist of leather around one of her wrists with the ease of long practice and quickly secured the other as well, leaving a few inches between them.

She stared at him, gasping for breath, wondering why her nightgown’s delicate silk suddenly felt so harsh against her aching nipples. Her breasts were taut and far too hot underneath her clothing.

“Excellent. You’re starting to look more pliable, Hélène.”

“This is insane,” she whispered.

“Not if it will teach you to trust,
chérie
.”

He unfastened her dressing gown but didn’t immediately remove it. Instead he kissed her throat and breasts, and fondled her hips and ass with those wicked hands. Ah,
le bon Dieu
, how fire leapt through her veins in response! She twisted closer, writhing against his leg, shamelessly throwing back her head so he could suckle her breasts through her nightgown’s fragile silk. With her hands bound, she could do little to tempt him, but she tried, stroking his arm and his shoulder, moaning with hunger, and sobbing with delight every time another strong tug on her nipple sent a spear of desire into her womb.

When she was about to go mad if he didn’t finish her, he abruptly sat down on the sea chest and pulled her down across his lap. Despite her keen awareness his cock was burningly hard against her hip through their clothes, he put his full attention to arranging her dressing gown and nightgown in order to give him full access to her derrière.

“Jean-Marie?” Her voice quavered but perhaps he wouldn’t notice her desperation.

“Hmm?” His big hand rested on her rump, easily spanning more than half of it. He rubbed her curves gently, clearly measuring his grip.

“Jean-Marie, would you please…” She wriggled, uneasy about his intentions and wishing he’d return to his previous activities.

“What,
chérie
?” He changed his grip, slipping his fingers between her legs to test—but not tease—her clit.

“Jean-Marie!” To her absolute shock, her core heated faster and hotter than it had from his attention to her breasts. Her folds swelled, achingly conscious of every detail of his hand—down to the placement of every joint in his finger.