Authors: Diane Whiteside
His hand remained completely still for a moment before leaving.
“Jean-Marie, no! Don’t spank me!” Not when cream was rushing out to greet him.
“Yes.” He smacked her very lightly. “You must learn that a man can desire you for yourself. If that means punishing you for your lack of faith in me, then so be it.”
He swatted her again, catching her in a magical spot which sent sparks of bright-edged delight through her core and into her clit.
Hélène moaned helplessly.
He swatted her again on the same spot in exactly the same way. Pleasure blurred her senses, and she writhed on his lap, seeking more from his all-knowing touch.
He spanked her on the other side, the mirror image of the first swat. Heat swirled through her core, inviting stronger fires.
Hélène gasped, wondering if she could walk away after his idea of punishment.
Was he playing with her or punishing her? She couldn’t tell, nor did she much care. His touch was sometimes teasing, sometimes hard as iron—but always irresistible. Sometimes he swatted her, or stroked her derrière or thighs or hips. But at other times, his fingers delved deep between her legs—playing with her folds, teasing her clit. Or sliding into her channel, ruthlessly stretching her for the cock so close and yet so sternly locked away.
Her skin was tight, stretched tight over the bonfire blazing within her. Nothing mattered except being with him again.
“Jean-Marie, I’ll do anything if you’ll take me!”
He pulled back to look down at her, his eyes glittering in a harsh-edged mask. Hunger dwelt there, twice as strong for being bitterly leashed. A slow smile of pure masculine triumph turned his mouth into the carnal temptation she remembered.
“Please…” she whispered.
He rose and tumbled her onto the bed, quickly covering her and rolling her. He freed himself from his breeches with a few harsh twists of his hands, just enough to unleash his cock. Barely a minute later, she lay on top of him, her bound wrists wrapped around his neck.
He claimed her mouth, hot and passionate. She kissed him back desperately, half-blind with frustrated lust and love.
He growled and roughly gripped her hips, shoving her legs apart and lifting her over him. His cock eagerly nudged at her pussy and entered, thanks to an expert twist of his hips. He began to rock, driving himself in and out of her. Stoking her fires higher and higher.
She moaned, still reluctant to feed. Not Jean-Marie, not the man she’d dreamed of for so long.
He rubbed her clit, perfectly matching the pulse of imminent orgasm, and pressed down.
She howled. Her fangs descended, and she bit into his neck, perfectly finding his jugular. Rich, spicy blood flowed—sweet as honey, with no taint of caution or mistrust, only passion and complete trust.
She drank, filling her empty soul.
“Ah, finally, Hélène, finally!” He pulled her hips down hard onto him, shouting his satisfaction when he climaxed, extravagantly jetting his seed into her.
She gripped his shoulders and clung closer. Stars swirled, blinding her in the most joyous meal she’d had as a
vampira
.
Jean-Marie caressed Hélène’s back, enjoying the aftershocks still shaking her body and delightfully making his cock twitch deep inside her. If he’d been stronger—or younger—he’d still be spilling his seed like a twenty-year-old. As it was, he savored the slow glide down from the best orgasm he’d enjoyed in years.
Thank God he had enough blood left from Rodrigo and Sara to keep propelling him forward; otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to feed Hélène while she was here.
Prosaico
food might keep his body alive and create enough blood to feed a young
vampira
. But without Rodrigo or Sara’s blood, he was a dullard who could scarcely think or move past the demons drilling spikes into his skull. Even with their blood, the physical changes in him were coming more and more rapidly.
Although Rodrigo had said drinking a
vampira
’s blood would keep him going for a time…
Hélène happily muttered something and buried her face against his shoulder, her arms still around his neck.
He kissed the top of her head and disengaged himself, carefully settling her beside him on the bed. It was a moment’s work to take a dagger from the bedside table’s drawer and slice the leather off her wrists. His heart swelled with pride and something softer when she never flinched at the sharp blade, simply twisted her arms to allow him better access.
He disposed of the scraps and turned away.
“What? Where are you going?” She blinked at him, all tousled golden hair and flushed creamy skin.
“One moment,
chérie
.” He kissed his fingers and touched them to her lips. She grumbled but didn’t loudly complain.
He returned a minute later to find her trying to sit up in the bed.
“Let me wash you first, Hélène, and you’ll be more comfortable.” He set the basin and towel down on the chair. “As a
vampira
, you’ve already healed from the spanking, so you can choose whether to sit up or lie down.”
She blushed furiously—and enchantingly. “I’ll lie down,” she said gruffly and flopped onto her stomach, a position that hid her face from him. It also showed him a great deal of her most intimate delights while he cleaned her.
What he wouldn’t do to bring her up on her knees and ride her…
Relaxed and sated, all Hélène wanted to do was be his lover. Yet they desperately needed to talk after so long a separation—and with the shadow of war hanging over them. She steeled herself, glad she was lying on the coverlet rather than between the sheets. If she’d been half-asleep in his arms, she doubted she’d have had the strength to do anything more than memorize every blissful second.
First came the apology, of course. “I’m sorry I importuned you in Provence. I saw you as a toy who could be rearranged to suit my world, not as a man with plans of your own. It was none of my business how you spend your life, and I was very rude.”
He glanced at her, surprised. She forced herself to meet his eyes, even though she was lying on her stomach.
“Hélène, how could you have known what life among
vampiros
was like? You made a mistake born of ignorance, leaving nothing to forgive.” He shrugged off the old insult and moved the basin and towel onto the table.
“You speak like a diplomat.” She came up to face him, suddenly unwilling to let him escape this conversation with any of his well-polished word games.
“Vraiment?”
He raised a haughty eyebrow and straightened up, totally ignoring his dishabille of sweaty shirt and trousers.
Mon Dieu
, Louis XVI had never looked as regal.
“Who are you?” she whispered, her eyes going very wide. “You sound and move like a prince, yet you live with Spanish adventurers.”
His face hardened into a mask, but unfathomable thoughts wheeled behind his eyes. He blew out a long breath before speaking, every syllable precisely placed.
“My mother was known as the Jeweled Butterfly.”
Her breath flew out of her lungs. In any place, at any other time, she might have collapsed into a faint. She came to her feet, facing him, too agitated to stay still.
“Marie-Louise de Montpazier?” The ancient name rang through the small room like an exotic cymbal. “But she was Louise de La Vallière’s great rival for the Sun King’s affections.”
Jean-Marie bowed in acknowledgment. “First rival,” he corrected her. “The great rival—and the victor—was Madame de Montespan.”
Her vision grayed slightly, her lungs still unable to find air. She fought to think logically. He lived among
vampiros
, although he was a
prosaico
. He could be old enough, if he was a
compañero
. But royalty?
He was intelligent, beautiful, and proud enough.
Her heart began to beat steadily again.
“The poets still sing of the Jeweled Butterfly’s beauty. You must resemble her a great deal.”
He shrugged off an obviously boring comment. “As my arrogance came directly from my father.”
Her eyes flashed. “And your grace.”
He flushed, startled by a compliment delivered so directly as to seem a statement of purest fact.
“But not the legendary de Montpazier greed, which forced the Jeweled Butterfly into banishment after a bribery scandal. Yes, yes, I’ve heard the old gossip.” Hélène impatiently waved her hand, still staring at him.
A wry smile twisted his mouth at the obituary for his mother.
She put the rest of the puzzle together, hunting for his true name.
“But—but that would make you the Duc de—”
“Enough, Hélène!” He gripped her hand, stopping her voice. “That man is dead—and even here, the walls may have ears.”
She cocked her head for a moment and studied him, finding the pain behind that all-too-fast denial. She wished she could help heal him. But it was easy enough to promise never to call him that.
“Still, you are a prince,” she whispered.
“But I cannot inherit the throne and am no threat to Louis XVIII, or the other Orleanist heirs.”
“What happened?”
“You should ask instead, what am I?” He laughed, unable to keep the bitterness entirely out of his voice even after all these years.
She blinked, caught completely off-balance by his tone.
“I am a
concubino compañero
.”
“A
prosaico
who drinks
vampiro
blood—but not enough to become a
vampiro
?” She frowned. “They’re very rare, aren’t they? I’d heard of them but hadn’t met one.”
“That’s a
compañero
. But a
concubino compañero
is also bound by carnal ties.”
“Do you mean blood and emotion, like a
vampiro
? Or more precisely, blood and sex like some
vampiros
?” He was looking more and more tense.
“Correct.”
Poor darling, his hand was shaking. How hard on him would this be? “A
concubino compañero
is very dependent on their
vampiro primero
or
vampira primera
.”
Dependent? Her proud Jean-Marie
dependent
on anyone? How appalling! But if so, it would have to be on…
She gasped, her eyes rounding. “Mademoiselle Perez?”
“Correct.”
“That’s why you stay with her—you need her blood.” Her hand covered her mouth. Oh, how she had misjudged their relationship if he needed the woman only in order to survive.
He nodded, his body rigid and his face unreadable.
Or might there have once been an emotional tie between them?
“Did you—did you ask to become her
concubino compañero
?” Hélène’s voice was very soft.
“
Merede
, no!”
Thank God! Hélène beamed at him.
He gawked at her.
She swallowed and decided to take the chance of openly displaying her hopes. “Could you consider—coming to care for somebody else?”
“
Mais oui, chérie.
I have loved you since the day we met at Versailles.”
She flung herself into his arms, barely giving him time to put their wine aside before their lips met. He kissed her passionately, for the first time letting loose all of his joy, all of his need for her. She clung, kissing him just as desperately, their tongues dueling to tell the other who’d longed the most.
Was it forever or was it seconds before he lifted his head and caressed her cheek? She kissed his fingers and rubbed her cheek against him, pleased that they were now ensconced together once again on the bed.
“If you need Mademoiselle Perez,” she said slowly, choosing every word with great care, “shouldn’t she be close at hand?”
Jean-Marie flinched but drew himself up. “She’s in Galicia with Don Rodrigo. I’m supposed to join them as soon as I deliver the message to your team.”
“But that’s days away from here.” Hélène lifted her head to look down at him from her perch stretched atop him. “Can you travel that far? Shouldn’t
compañeros
receive blood more often than that?”
“I have blood mixed with wine,” he answered stiffly.
“Is that enough?”
He was silent.
“What goes wrong if it isn’t?” She stroked his cheek and slid her hand into his hair—his almost entirely
gray
hair.
“Mon amour,”
she whispered, “you look twenty years older than when we met last. I thought
compañeros
never aged.”
“I have lived for more than a century as a
compañero
, Hélène. Death is approaching quickly.”
Death?
To keep him alive, she’d shove him into Mademoiselle Perez’s bed every night. She would not lose him now. “They shouldn’t have left you behind!”
“I couldn’t let them risk their lives when mine is already forfeit, Hélène.” His expression and voice were implacable.
“I can’t lose you now, not when I’ve just found you. I’ve had years full of imaginary conversations with you—exclaiming over new sights, mulling over acquaintances, sharing good books, just as we did in Paris. How can I lose the comfort of your presence and the joy of your mind?”
His eyes offered her no hope.
She buried her face against him with an inarticulate sob, and he hugged her close.
“I don’t know how soon it will happen,
chérie.
But we can spend all our time together,
oui
? Frequently making love and sharing our blood?”
Her arms tightened around his neck, and she wiggled closer. He wasn’t looking at her while he spoke, and she didn’t want to see how much truth he was telling, even in that seductive tone.
“I will accompany you on your mission, Hélène.” His voice strengthened to a warrior’s note. “I am as strong and fast as most
cachorros
, the newborn
vampiros
, and my senses are as good. Together we can do much.”
She sniffled. His voice was so husky, painfully unlike his usual smoothness.
“Plus, a
compañero
, who is well-provided with
prosaico
food, can easily take care of a
vampira
. I swear, you will not lack.”
“But will you,
mon amour
?” She braced herself to kneel over him. “If accompanying me risked your life in any way, brought you closer to dying by taking you farther from the blood that will keep you alive…”
His gaze softened, and he possessively rubbed her shoulders and back.
“I adore you, Hélène. I would far rather spend what time I have with you, fighting Bonaparte’s tyranny, than doing anything else in the world.” The words rang through the quiet like a vow.
“Then we shall go to war together, my love.” A brave smile quavered on her lips.
They met halfway, sealing their love with a kiss both sweet and fiery hot.
SAN LEANDRO, GALICIA, THE NEXT DAY
Rodrigo exited San Rafael Arcángel and set his hat on his head, preparing for yet another snowstorm. He automatically considered the peasants around him as they too departed morning mass. He personally hadn’t taken communion, of course, simply attended the service—his second visit to a church in the past five centuries.
There were far too many men here, reflecting the migrant laborers’ return from other parts of the Iberian Peninsula. Yet on the whole, San Leandro was a peaceful, prosperous town with men and women receiving the priests’ blessing before bustling off to the day’s chores. Many of them were tall and blond, clearly descended from the Celts and Visigoths who’d originally conquered these mountains. Their clothing was stark black, enhancing the warmth of the sunshine and the smiles when they greeted the priests. Here, unlike so many other places in Europe, the clergy were obviously deeply trusted.
The younger priest, one of the very strict Capuchin Franciscan, was a stout fellow deeply involved with their lives. Every woman and most of the men paused to talk with him, not just receive a quick blessing. Some obviously promised to return later, while the nuns clearly enjoyed his company. He was apparently the senior priest, given the congregants’ fondness for him and that he’d been the one to celebrate mass.
The older priest was taller, thinner, and quieter—except when small children scampered past. Also a Capuchin Franciscan, he had a knack for dropping to one knee and speaking to them in a way which brought chortles and rapt attention. Mothers and grandmothers chuckled and lingered, letting their priest practice his halting
Gallego
on their offspring for a few minutes.
The people were well fed, thanks to the rich green pastures of the Costa Verde and these natural mountain fortresses high above it. Here they had plenty of beef, pork, and chicken, as well as wheat—so long as no grasping landlord or provincial government stole it. They’d been hit hard by those scourges but not destroyed, probably thanks to their isolation—especially the sheer difficulty of reaching San Leandro over the famous bridge.
Centuries ago, Rodrigo’s father and grandfather had drilled him and his brothers in how to protect their people, how to husband the land and enrich it, how to build for the ages. As a knight, he’d sworn to protect his people and his lands—but his captivity had torn him completely away from those obligations. He couldn’t have walked in daylight to see what needed to be done, and he’d closed his mind to the responsibilities—and the joys—he’d been denied.