Love At First Bite Part 25

"No," Rufford said, a small smile touching one corner of his mouth. "But your thoughts aren't hard to guess. I'm sorry I made you leave someone you love behind."

"How did you know it was Miss Fairfield?"

"It was written all over you two the day I married Beth. Did you tell her?"

Davie shook his head. "I was on my way to propose when Whitehall called."

"You didn't go through with it?"

Davie shook his head. "Couldn't make her feel... obligated, under the circ.u.mstances."

"Probably wise. s.p.u.n.ky, that girl. Stood up for Beth when no one else would."

Davie smiled. No one could help liking Emma. He looked away, lest Rufford see his weakness. "She was my best hope for a... normal life. After... you know. After... her."

"I like Englishmen," she said. They were in the chambers of the former amba.s.sador in the English compound in El Golea. She lay across the huge bed of English walnut carved and inlaid with rococo magnificence, her body draped with strips of almost transparent cloth. A spill of heavy black hair splayed out over the rich cut-velvet spread. Her nails and lips were painted gold. Her nipples were dusted with it. Kohl lined her eyes. She wore a wide necklace of interlaced gold links to which had been attached hundreds of tiny gold disks, each set with a tinier jewel. Her wrist had a bracelet of the same. They tinkled when she moved.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, and he had never been more frightened of anyone. He knelt on the cool tile beside the bed, head bowed. He was naked, as always, knees wide, his most private parts vulnerable to her. She did not allow him even a sc.r.a.p of cloth to cover his loins. He was full, if not fully erect. Two round marks punctured his flesh over the big arteries that ran down into each thigh from his groin. That was one of her favorite places to feed. She had him shaved and bathed daily and whipped almost as often with wide leather straps. She liked fresh welts but didn't want them b.l.o.o.d.y. If he was too injured, he would lose the strength to service her. He had become dulled to the horror of compulsion. Revulsion at her habits was a luxury not allowed a slave. The time when he had been Major Vernon Davis Ware, attache to Lord Wembertin, was a distant dream.

"Come, Englishman," she whispered, beckoning with one long golden nail. Her eyes went red. He felt the familiar tightening in his b.a.l.l.s, the throbbing in his c.o.c.k that signaled a full erection. She could keep him hard all night, and she would. He crawled up onto the bed and lay beside her, his c.o.c.k stiff now. He thumbed her nipple because that was what she wanted. She commanded, though she didn't speak. He obeyed. He kissed the top of her breast. She ran those long-nailed hands through his hair, over the welts on his back and b.u.t.tocks. Then she lifted his chin with one finger even as she grasped his c.o.c.k with the other. His throat was bared to her. He saw the glint of her canines in the darkness, felt the sharp pain. She sucked only lightly, a prelude to excite her as she writhed against him and pulled at his c.o.c.k. The sensation cycled up to excruciating, but he wouldn't come. She hardly ever let him e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e. She liked to keep him raw and needing. With a jerk she pulled her teeth from his neck and lay back on the pillows. She wanted him to lick her.

She spread her legs and he knelt between them. She tilted her hips up. He parted her fur with his tongue and tasted her musk as he slid his tongue up and down to her point of pleasure, teasing her toward her release. As her excitement grew, she held his head to her pelvis and ground against him, moaning. Then her hips began to jerk and he sucked on her small nub, harder and harder, drawing out the sensation for her. When at last she could stand no more, she cried out and fell back. Her eyes faded from red to jet-black.

"I like you, Englishman," she said. She could speak many languages and did, seeming to choose them at random. He understood her when she spoke French or Arabic, Latin or Greek, but lost her when she started speaking the guttural one that sounded a little like German or Russian but wasn't. "But I find you have been keeping secrets from me."

Fear cycled up through Davie. What secrets could an attache to an incompetent amba.s.sador in a G.o.dforsaken place like El Golea have that she could want? He crawled to her side again. Should he beg forgiveness? Should he speak at all?

She arched. He had been well trained. He bent to suckle her nipple. The gold dust tasted bitter and metallic in his mouth. "I am told, slave, that an Englishman crawled in off the desert here some months ago. He had the marks on his body." She fingered the twin wounds at the inside of Davie's elbow. "Do you remember this man, slave?"

"Yes, G.o.ddess," he said, around her nipple, which had tightened. She would be ready for his c.o.c.k soon. She meant Rufford. He knew now how Rufford got those wounds. He understood the pain that drenched the man's eyes, why he said he had turned into his own worst nightmare.

"Where is he now, slave?" she whispered. Poor sod. Hadn't Rufford suffered enough?

"He's gone." There. He could give her that. That couldn't hurt Rufford.

Compulsion slammed into him. His c.o.c.k grew painfully hard. "I know that!" she barked. "Where?"

Davie let out a moan. His b.a.l.l.s were swollen almost to bursting. A molten core of fire was trying to get out through his c.o.c.k and couldn't. "England." She couldn't reach Rufford there. How he longed to be in England with Rujford! He bent to kiss her. That was what she wanted. Her lips were soft, but he knew they covered fangs that would bite and suck yet tonight. She thrust her tongue into his mouth and lifted her hips again. He tore himself away and lay between her thighs, his c.o.c.k aching as it trembled at her entry.

"Where in England?" she hissed.

He held up her hips and thrust inside her, hard, ramming his c.o.c.k home. It was excruciating for him. She wanted it harder yet. She wasn't pleased. He slid in and out. Where? She wanted to know where. He couldn't tell her. He'd pretend he didn't know, even to himself, and then he wouldn't tell her. His c.o.c.k screamed for release.

"Where?" Her eyes were full red now.

Stanbridge. Rufford said he was going home to Stanbridge. He couldn't help the thought. No! He should never have remembered it. He pumped inside her. She bucked in counterpoint. He bit his lip until it bled, trying not to say the word. He leaned down into her. She licked the blood from his lip. That brought out her canines. They pierced his carotid on the other side. She clung to him and sucked as he rammed his c.o.c.k home. He felt her womb contract around him with her o.r.g.a.s.m. His own c.o.c.k was beyond pleasure and well into pain.

At last she lay back on the bed, panting, and allowed him to withdraw. His c.o.c.k was raw, still throbbing with sensation.

"I was distracted," she said conversationally. "Now, where were we?"

Her eyes went from burgundy into carmine.

He panted against the word that thundered in his brain, pressing to be uttered. He twisted away, but she grabbed him by the nape of the neck and with incredible strength brought him round to face her. "I know you know," she whispered, almost inside his brain.

"Stanbridge!" he cried, and collapsed beside her. Betrayer! His eyes filled.

"That's better," Asharti soothed, stroking his head. "I'm surprised you had so much resistance left in you. You'll leave tomorrow for England, with a letter."

He raised his head. Leave? He shut down the hope that might just show in his eyes. Leave her? His betrayal had earned him freedom. Guilt washed over him.

"But first, tonight, you must be punished for your resistance."

Davie blinked as the tiny house and the smell of blood flickered back into his consciousness. He pulled his mind away from El Golea before he could relive that punishment. But Asharti could never be banished for long. He was doomed to relive that time again and again, maybe for the rest of his life.

Rufford gripped Davie's arm. "She's dead. I saw her die."

Davie closed his eyes once. "Is she? She seems fairly alive to me."

Rufford took a breath and sat up. His body was covered with scars that were disappearing fast. Davie saw the older scars, though, that he had first seen when Rufford dragged himself in off the desert in El Golea, twin circles at throat and groin and the insides of his elbows, jagged tears in his pectorals and his thighs, scars of a whip across his shoulders. They were made before he gained his power of healing. They said he knew what serving Asharti meant. "There is life and... love after Asharti. Take it from me, Ware." His eyes were blue pools of pain and determination.

Davie chuffed a bitter laugh. "Are you sure? We're barely hanging on against her leavings, and I'm not sure you can last much longer."

"I'll hold out. I have to."

I'll go to Northumberland, Emma thought. Surely things will be better at Birchwood.

She tossed her gloves on the dressing table. She was still agitated from leaving Bedford House in a huff. Flora, her maid, unpinned her bodice and untied her skirts. She let the skirt pool at her ankles. Flora helped her shrug off the bodice and unlaced her corset, saying nothing. "You may go, Flora." Emma drew the chemise over her head and slipped on the nightdress Flora had left.

Things wouldn't be any better in the country.

Love didn't come along every day. But against all odds, Emma had found love. She loved Davie. Probably had loved him for years. That was why she never mistook girlish crushes on a man in a uniform or with a handsome face for real love, and why she could refuse dukes and poets in the face of betting at White's. And since she'd found love, she wasn't content to be a spinster. She wanted more of the feeling she got when Davie took her shoulders or brushed his lips across her hands. Much more. She wanted Davie in her bed making love to her, and at her side at the breakfast table planning their day. She wanted to share his life, and give pleasure and comfort to him in all the ways a woman could. She wanted to grow old with him and wise.

She crawled into the great bed in the room reserved for the lady of Fairfield House. A fire crackled in the grate, its warmth proof against the capricious March winds.

The worst of it was that Chlorinda and Miss Campton thought her a rebel because she was willing to be a spinster if she couldn't have love. No, the worst was that she thought herself a rebel. What had she done but refuse a few offers of marriage that were distasteful to her and occasionally speak too bluntly to be conventional? What kind of rebellion was that? It hadn't cost her anything. And what if she set up housekeeping on her own so Richard could retire to Northumberland with Damien? Would that be rebellious? Hardly.

No, rebellion would be chucking it all to go after the man she loved.

She sat up. The room seemed to expand and contract around her as everything changed. Her mind darted in a thousand different directions.

Why not? What did she care for danger, or hards.h.i.+p?

But what if he didn't love her? She thought back to that day in the breakfast room and their painful conversation. He loved her. She was sure of it. Duty was in the way. What of that? She could help him execute his duty. That was what people who loved each other did.

The whole problem with being a woman was that you had to wait for a man to give you what you wanted. You couldn't make a push for it yourself.

But why? Davie didn't think he could ask her to sacrifice her comfortable ways. But that was exactly what she wanted to do. She wanted to make her rebellion real.

There would be a cost. She'd be leaving behind everything she had known, including Richard. She'd never be received in polite society, ever. There was danger, according to Davie. Davie might be angry. Probably would be angry. She might die with him.

And what of the cost if she didn't even try? A dry descent into a half-life of regret. That was all she had to look forward to if she retreated from this moment without taking any action.

Plans formed and re-formed in her mind. Could she do it? How did a gently bred young woman just up and leave for Casablanca? Money, of course. A companion, no, two. Where to get them? She mustn't tell Richard until after she had gone. He wouldn't understand. But Damien would help her. He always had a soft spot for her, and he had an interest in getting her off Richard's hands. Besides, Damien was a believer in true love. He'd brave Richard's wrath. Pa.s.sage on a packet. Could she even find Davie in Casablanca? Surely the emba.s.sy would know where he was. Unless the worst had already happened. But she wouldn't think about that. She'd write to Damien first thing in the morning.

Chapter Four.

Davie strode through the dusty streets of Casablanca wearing leather boots, a vest over his bare chest, and the loose pants identified with Berbers. Not that anyone would mistake him for one. His pale skin had tanned and his light hair was concealed by a head cloth, but his light eyes betrayed him. The saber hanging from his belt clanked against his thigh. The city would be unbearably hot if not for a hint of the sea in the air. The sun beat down remorselessly even in April. Behind him two bearers he had hired only this morning carried a large wooden box of sabers and a huge pack filled with food, leather pouches of blood, and clean clothing. They had no idea what they carried, and he was careful never to use the same ones twice. He chose only those sitting full in the sun to be sure they weren't vampire, just in case the scent of cinnamon was masked by the aroma of spices or the smell of camel dung.

How long had he been doing this? Forever. It must seem longer to Rufford and Fedeyah. Now Davie stayed each dawn until they arrived to be sure they could get the blood they needed to heal. The toll their campaign took on them was horrible to behold. There was no question of retreat, though. If humans were raised for their blood and vampires multiplied indiscriminately, both races would die out entirely.

He fingered the message from Admiral Groton demanding a full report on the status of Casablanca and Rufford's plans for coordinating the effort against Asharti's army. Davie didn't think he wanted Whitehall interfering with Rufford, now or in the future. Rufford was a moral man. Davie smiled to himself. He had never thought to say that about a monster. But it was more than he could say of Whitehall on occasion. He trusted the future of the human race more to Rufford than the Admiral and the Lord High Chancellor.

Davie directed the bearers into a side alley and up the stairs into a small apartment that would be their shelter tomorrow. He would sleep here tonight to ensure that no one but him was waiting for Rufford and Fedeyah.

Cinnamon! Davie jerked around, scanning the tiny winding street lined with bright fabrics drying in the sun and filled with children laughing as they darted over the cobblestones. He could see no one suspicious. Lord! He was getting jumpy. He dismissed the bearers, unpacked his supplies, then ventured out to scour the city for tomorrow's safe retreat. Finally, his work done, he returned to the house he had left at dawn to check on the vampire warriors as they slept the day away and tried to regain their strength.

He slipped into the darkened house. Lately they were so exhausted they had been sleeping like the dead. He grimaced at the image. They weren't dead, though. Vampires were very much alive. He moved quietly through the front room, the table still strewn with the remains of their repast, and into the dim sleeping quarters.

There was no reason he should sense trouble. The cinnamon scent could have belonged to Rufford and Fedeyah. The presence he felt could have been theirs. But it wasn't.

There! The wind flapped the dark fabric at the window and let in enough light to gleam against metal. Davie didn't stop to think. His sword slithered from its scabbard. The shadow, a deeper black in the dark, whirled to face him. His two charges stirred from their sleep. He raised his sword, not quite sure of his target. Metal bit into his side. He grunted with the shock of pain. Rufford rose. The sword in Davie's side was pulled out. The shadow was moving left, toward Rufford, sword up. Rufford's neck! Davie lunged forward, swinging the saber with both hands. It struck and stuck. He felt a warm splash across his face and chest. He pulled his sword away and tried to find an opening to strike again. Rufford struggled with the intruder. He couldn't risk wounding Rufford. Something thumped onto the floor. The vampire's sword clattered away. Fedeyah crouched, fighting another attacker. Davie turned to Fedeyah's foe, but Rufford, moving too swiftly for Davie's senses, was there before him. Did Rufford grab the intruder's head with both hands and simply wrench? Davie must have been mistaken. He was feeling dizzy now. It was dark. He sank to his knees.

Rufford turned from the shadowy figures lying on the packed-earth floor, and dragged Davie into the front room. Fedeyah lit a candle. Davie looked down and saw that his flowing pants were soaked with blood that was oozing from a wound in his side. Blood was splattered across his chest and leather vest, too.

"Got you good," Rufford muttered, sitting him forcibly in a chair. Davie craned to see into the room beyond, now dimly lit by the glow of the candle beside them. A body was clearly visible. It didn't have a head that he could see. "You almost got his head off." Rufford knelt beside Davie to examine the wound. "Saved my neck."

"It's hard to decapitate with a sword," Fedeyah observed as he ripped a clean burnoose into strips. "You have strength."

"Rufford had to finish the job," Davie said through teeth clenched against pain.

Fedeyah examined the wound. "Thrust clean through. Nothing vital touched."

Rufford touched the blood sprayed across Davie's torso. He looked up, shock in his eyes. "Some of this blood isn't yours." He pulled Davie's vest away. Davie looked down. The splatter of blood crossed his chest diagonally and splashed across the wound gaping in his side.

"Must be his..." Davie stared up at Rufford as the implications washed over him. Vampire blood. In his wound. "My G.o.d..." He looked around wildly. "Water! Flush it out."

Rufford straightened and put a hand on his shoulder to hold him in the chair. "Too late."

Davie slumped. He was a dead man.

In that moment all he could think about was Emma. He realized that somewhere inside he had held out hope he would survive this nightmare and return to Emma. Now, she would never know why he had left or how very much he loved her. He remembered her sweet face, anxious with concern for him, trying to tell him in every way allowed how much she wanted him. A vision of her as a tomboy, holding up her skirts to wade through his lily pond after frogs, slipped through him. At seventeen to her nine years, he had seemed so much older and wiser than she was. He felt a smile tremble on his lips. He had known nothing about her then, and now that he knew, he would never get to tell her just how wonderful she was.

"Guess we'll have to find you another procurer," he managed.

Rufford stared at him, brows knit. Suddenly Rufford jerked away and began to pace furiously, hands clasped behind his back. His knuckles were white. A burning started in Davie's side. He blinked several times, trying to master it, but it seemed to creep into his veins. Fedeyah stood over him, sympathy in his eyes. "How... how long?" Davie asked.

"Several days. A week. Not a pleasant death," Fedeyah remarked. He glanced to Rufford.

"You'd... you'd better leave me, then." Davie was having trouble getting his breath. "I'll draw a map... to your next... safe house." Rufford ran his hands through his hair. That loosened the ribbon that bound it, and it cascaded over the shoulders of his burnoose. "d.a.m.n it, Fedeyah, we can't serve him thus!"

Fedeyah nodded, thoughtful. "I remember thinking the same of you once."

Rufford came to stand over Davie. His face was grim. "I have the blood of an Old One in my veins. My blood can give you

immunity to the Companion and it will do its work quickly."

Davie cast about for meaning. "Make me... vampire?"

Rufford nodded. A muscle jumped in his jaw where he clenched his teeth.

"I thought the point... was to eradicate... made vampires." Davie wondered if the smile he managed was wry.

"You've got it wrong." Rufford's eyes were hard. "Fedeyah and I are both made vampires. The point is to stop those who would

upset the balance of the world."

"I don't want... to be a monster." What had happened to his brave words to the Lord High Chancellor about vampires being

victims, not monsters? They seemed naive. No, with reality staring him in the face, he realized he'd rather be dead than one who drank human blood.

Rufford nodded. "I know. I felt the same. But it doesn't have to be like that. You don't know the... joy of being one with your

Companion. It can be... good. In all senses of the word."

"Doesn't look... very good... from here." The burning was consuming his vision. He felt light-headed, whether from loss of blood or the infection he didn't know. "Think I'll decline."