MIDNIGHT CONQUEST: Book 1 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles (20 page)

The only men who seemed capable of such caresses and thrills were the midnight lovers. These were not the things a husband seemed capable of. So, could Broderick be a midnight lover? Davina’s body tingled. He did seem capable of caresses and thrills. But, the memory of the triumphant smirk on his mouth reminded her the experience would be short-lived. She didn’t think she could live with the regret of being used when the encounter ended. Broderick sought to claim her as a midnight conquest—nothing else. As foolish as her fantasy seemed, she wanted more. Yet, she didn’t think she could be mistress material. She shook her head and buried deep within her covers. Nay, she couldn’t be like Rosselyn. She had a daughter to think of.

Rosselyn pulled her cloak tighter against the chilling darkness as she strolled beside Nicabar through the forest. In the distance, the flickering light of the campfires and torches made the caravans and people appear as if they hovered in blackness. She smiled as Nicabar’s fingers slipped between her own in a possessive grasp, her heart dancing in her breast. Something about Nicabar, something alluring and so masculine, excited her senses. His bonnie eyes and long lashes drew her in, held her captive anytime he gazed at her. The rest of the world faded away. He stopped and faced her, the distant firelight illuminating his face with a soft, orange glow. She didn’t need to see his features with any clarity. His face already etched a clear vision in her mind—each thick lash, twinkling eye, roguish twist of his full mouth—all of it memorized.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he whispered, as if careful not to disturb the silence of the forest. “I am flattered you dressed so deliciously for me.”

To Rosselyn’s surprise, her face flushed with warmth. A rare activity for her, blushing normally came during limited times of embarrassment, but never when a man complimented her. She turned away from Nicabar. “And what makes you think I dressed for you this evening?” she said in a teasing tone.

Nicabar snickered and turned her around. His arms slipped under her cloak and around her waist to her back, pulling her against him. Rosselyn stared into his striking eyes and he appeared as if he would kiss her. She hoped he would. His finger caressed her cheek. Did he pause to give her a chance to push away? Well, he wasted his time. Being bold, oftentimes she would initiate the next move, but she melted into the helplessness of Nicabar’s embrace. Then his mouth covered hers in a deep and searching kiss. She clung to him, her fingers sliding through his silky black hair, the hardness of his body against the full length of her. His teeth nibbled at her bottom lip, his delicious hands roaming over her body. Nicabar stopped and pushed her back a short distance. “I do not trust myself with you this evening,” he said with mischief, his voice dripping with his lovely Spanish accent. “I will take you home.”

Rosselyn sighed inwardly. In spite of her longing, though, she nodded. He hadn’t disappointed her. Every man she had relations with pursued her with unrestrained desires. They went for what they wanted and didn’t think twice about her feelings. Nicabar’s self-control made her feel cherished, and she smiled as they loitered back toward the castle.

Croft hugged the wool blanket closer, trying to stave off the visions running rampant through his head while cradling his broken fingers against his chest. “Go away,” he whispered, sweat dripping down his brow and into his eyes. The sting of sweat seemed a small comfort against the blaze of agony tormenting his mind. He shuddered and closed his eyes tight against the images, but that only seemed to make them clearer. Opening his eyes wide, his body begged for sleep, which he’d not seen in days…not since that Devil Gypsy attacked him…not since that Devil Gypsy fed from him with those vicious fangs.

The feeding had been blissful for the time they were locked in the exchange. He gave his blood and the Devil Gypsy gave him nightmares. “I promise,” he prayed to God for the hundredth time. “I promise I will never touch another child. Just stop the agony, Lord. Stop the nightmares!”

“Be afraid, poor lad. They will never stop.”

Croft choked back a scream as the Devil Gypsy towered over him. “Nay! You stay away from me!”

The Devil Gypsy grabbed Croft by the throat to silence him, but now that he stood nose-to-nose with him, it wasn’t the Devil Gypsy, though they shared a resemblance. “I’m not the one who caused you this torment. I’m the answer to your prayers.”

“Who are you?” Croft managed to rasp through the chokehold.

A slow smile spread across his lips, exposing his fangs, with the same silver glow in his eyes. “I am the Angel of Death.” Turning Croft’s head to the side, the Angel of Death bit into his neck, and the same euphoric sensation flowed through his body as when the Devil Gypsy fed from him. However, no demonic images invaded his mind, no scenes of hell or torment. His mind disappeared into the blissful blackness. He would finally find rest.

Broderick rose from the creaking bed, careful not to disturb the barmaid sleeping beside him. He stared down at her motionless form, a lazy smile on her lips. She was the one he saw their first night in Stewart Glen, with the generous cleavage and dazzling smile. He came to the tavern after a hasty feeding in the forest. With the Hunger raging inside him after being with Davina, he attacked a roe deer unfortunate enough to cross his path. At least with his blood lust somewhat dampened, he could control the Hunger without taking a human life, but he still needed human blood.

Soon after he arrived at the tavern, he watched the barmaid’s seductive glances and obvious invitations while he gulped at the bitter ale. Not wanting to taste the salted, sweaty, stinking skin of another thief or murderer, or deal with their horrid mental images, he decided to take her offer and follow her to the room upstairs. He had no need to bed the wench—it was her blood he was after. Instead, he swept through her mind to lull her to sleep, and with a swift bite to her throat, fed from her and wiped the encounter from her memories. Though her mental images appeared less horrific, he understood what led her to live a life where she sold her body for profit. He used his blood to wipe the wounds from her skin, wishing his immortal gifts gave him the ability to change the past for people.

He sat on the windowsill, closed his eyes, and took in the last few hours of the night. His mind flooded with images of Davina’s silken lips. On his own skin, he still smelled the musky rose oil she wore, and the memory of her throat lingered upon his mouth. He sighed in defeat. His face burned with regret as he remembered how the Hunger surfaced when he touched her throat. Not having fed before visiting was a foolish thing to do.

Broderick stared into the blackened sky, at the sleeping village, searching for some solace in the peace around him. But he found none. He feared losing control. A frigid breeze flurried past him and the wench stirred on the straw mattress. Broderick placed a small handful of silver
half groats
on the table beside the fireplace and left her moaning in her sleep.

Broderick stepped out onto the street, and a familiar tingling rustled the hairs on the back of his neck.
Angus!
He probed his senses outward, picked up the direction and dashed between the buildings, picking his way through the darkness. The trail led to an open door at the far edge of the village, still swinging on its hinges. In the blackness of the room, a man sat crumpled in the corner, his breathing shallow, his heartbeat weak. Broderick picked him up and the scent of blood forced his fangs to extend in anticipation. This was the man Croft he fed from a few nights before, his broken fingers cradled against his chest, his neck torn open and still pulsing a rivulet of blood.

“You said you would kill me,” he whispered.

The man wouldn’t survive, so Broderick took the opportunity to feed upon him and gain what information he could. In the dying man’s memories and blood, Broderick saw Angus Campbell. He also saw the torment this man lived with since Broderick fed from him and poured horrific images into his mind. Aye, the man changed his ways. He had no desire to prey upon children, but he also didn’t have the means to carry out his new-found transformation. The images Broderick put into his mind caused near madness for this poor creature. Dropping the man to the floor, Broderick struggled to keep the guilt from overcoming him. His intentions were to reform the man, not drive him insane. How many more had he driven to such madness?

But they deserved it!
Broderick swallowed the bile rising in his throat. The death rattle coming from Croft brought him back to the moment, and Broderick forced himself to keep his wits about him. He healed Croft’s wounds, not leaving any traces of the attack to avoid suspicions. The poor, mad soul would be found with no explanation for his death.

Broderick fought the grief as he rushed through the door and extended his senses into the night. Nothing. No Vamsyrian presence that he could detect. Not willing to give up just yet, he headed out of town in the direction he last sensed Angus. Why Angus pulled back and taunted from such a distance, Broderick could only guess. Perhaps he wanted to find out what Broderick’s weaknesses and strengths were. Perhaps Angus just toyed with him.

Broderick roamed the area for as long as he dared, battling his conscience and the frustration at failing to find Angus. When the horizon hinted with the coming sun, he headed for his own lair. Dashing through the forest, he approached his cave and stopped several feet before the entrance. He sighed. Veronique. Her sweet, young scent wafted on the bitter air. Shaking his head and steeling for the encounter, he stomped into the cave and found her standing in the darkness—topless. He grumbled. “‘Tis much too cold for you to be wandering about without covering.” Continuing deep into his cave, he prepared for rest. “And you’re ignoring my wishes again. Do not come here, Veronique.” He pointed a finger at her. “Ever.”

She stepped in front of him in the darkness, very visible with his immortal vision. Her bare breasts, round and full, youthful and proud, jutted toward him. Her blouse and shawl hung off her shoulders and at her elbows, her hands rested on her hips, still dressed in her skirt. Broderick scanned her figure and shook his head.

“I have been waiting for you,” she said in a soft voice.

“Did you not give yourself time to sleep? Amice is awake at this time, needing your help. You will be no good to her tired.”

“I have rested. I rose early to meet you before—”

“Veronique—”

She stepped toward him and smoothed her hands over his chest, up his neck where she tried to pull him down to meet her. She pressed her soft and eager body against him. He pushed her away and yanked her blouse and shawl over her shoulders.

“Veronique, you need to go back to the camp.”

“
Pourquoi
, Broderick?” She tried to kiss him a second time, and once more he pushed her away. “
Je t’aime
, Broderick. Can you not see?”

“Veronique, you don’t love me. ‘Tis just a passing infatuation. You need to understand—”

“I understand you, Broderick. I embrace what you are. Will she? I am much more woman than that Davina. If she was any kind of woman, you would not have left her chamber that night.”

He grabbed Veronique’s wrist. “Back to the camp!” he said, dragging her behind him.

“This is true, Broderick, and you know it is!” Veronique struggled against his grip. “She will never love you like I do! She will hate you once she finds out what you are!”

“Enough!” he thundered, silencing her for a moment. Dawn threatened on the horizon. Pulling her shirt closed, he hoisted her struggling body over his shoulder. “‘Tis not the time to argue, Veronique!” Broderick raced her to camp with his immortal speed, dumped her before their caravan with little care, and then raced back to his cave. He grumbled as he ducked inside the safety of his black velvet curtain, a pinkening sky on the horizon.

* * * * *

 
“You cannot take everything I have!” the woman shrieked at the man atop her horse. The surrounding farm lay in ruin, decomposing from neglect and lack of funds. “You have taken every piece of silver I have and now you’re taking my horse! How do you expect me to live?”

“What makes you think this concerns me?” he asked, not interested in her answer. Such a pitiful display, with her mousy-brown hair, tangled and dirty, her clothes, rags, her calloused hands. He shuddered over the last several months he lived with her.

“After all I’ve done for you?” She fell to her knees in the freezing mud, clenching her hair in fists. “You used me!” She glared at him with her tear-filled eyes. “I should have let you rot! I should have never taken you in! I should have—”

He trotted over to her and kicked her face, silencing her pleas. She lay sprawled in the mud, weeping. She did what he needed, provided what any woman was bred for. She nursed him back to health from his near-fatal wounds given to him by Davina’s brother Kehr; gave him a dry place to lay his head, a wench to bed, food in his belly, and now the means to leave. Snorting at her pathetic figure, he turned the horse toward the road and left the smells, decay, and tears behind. Her sobbing faded in the distance as he urged his horse down the road.