Bond of Fire

“What do you get when you cross the Crusades, Texas, hot and steamy sex, and immortality? The first in a vampire romance trilogy by the master of erotic prose…[an] incredible, sensuous story.”

—Booklist

And the novels of Diane Whiteside

“A very interesting story related in prose so steamy that it fogs one’s reading glasses.”

—
Booklist

“Extremely titillating…an excellent and engrossing story. I know I couldn’t put it down. I…eagerly look for more books by the amazing Diane Whiteside.”

—
The Best Reviews

“Erotically thrilling and suspenseful story line keeps the reader riveted to the book. Diane Whiteside has created fascinating characters that turn an ordinary story into a work of sensual art…it’s a scorcher.”

—
The Road to Romance

“A devilishly erotic story…full of vivid imagery that sets your heart aflutter…a hero who will melt your heart and make your blood pressure rise at the same time.”

—
Affaire de Coeur

“Hot and gritty, seething with passion and the aura of the Wild West, Whiteside’s debut presents readers with a solid western as well as a highly erotic romance, and the combination is sizzling. Erotic romance fans have a tale to savor and an author to watch. SPICY.”

—
Romantic Times

The vocabulary for the Texas vampire universe is drawn from feudal Spain. That very special time and place, where Christians, Moslems, and Jews lived in a rich cultural synthesis, was also the origin of the
vaqueros’
—and later the cowboys’—cattle herding skills and specialized gear.

A detailed glossary explaining those words, plus any other non-English terms, is provided at the end of
Bond of Fire
.

Brief pronunciation guides to French and Spanish (with hints about Don Rafael’s quirks) are available on my website, www.dianewhiteside.com.

PROLOGUE

PART ONE REVOLUTION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

PART TWO WAR

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

PART THREE THE NEW WORLD

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

AUTHOR’S NOTE

GLOSSARY

VERSAILLES, PARIS, FEBRUARY 1787

Thomas Jefferson, ambassador of the young American republic, led Jean-Marie St. Just and Rodrigo Perez down the long hallways, Sara Perez radiant on his arm. Candlelight blazed from hundreds of candles, magnified and scattered through mirror after mirror, only to shine like freedom’s torch on his red hair. The quartet cut through the throng like masters of their own fates, wearing their peacock attire as if it were no more than a diversion or camouflage—not a grab for attention or a naked declaration of unassailable power.

Chattering courtiers, sweating under their paint and powder, as gaudy in their brilliant silks as parakeets, circled and glided inside the palace’s spectacular cage. Predators, barbed glances flashing like knives, stalked their prey.

The king and queen of France were displayed on gilded chairs in an alcove, arrayed in their finest clothes and surrounded by fawning, over-bred lackeys. The corpulent, unhappy excuse for kingly omnipotence looked like a peasant forced to sit on the throne. If there was any hope for the next generation’s intelligence or energy, it came from the Austrian queen, whose flashing eyes captured every detail. Marie Antoinette displayed her legendary sense of style by wearing a costly, amber silk dress, which turned everyone and everything else here into a backdrop for her glory.

Louis XVI looked the newcomers over coolly, obviously wishing to be anywhere else. His royal hand waggled in a languid sign of recognition.

Jean-Marie retained his impeccably pleased demeanor, despite the dirk in his heavily embroidered silk sleeve and the overwhelming urge to retch. After all, how many times had he been caned in this very palace for promoting republican ideals, rather than the divine right of kings?

Whatever else Father had been, he’d rarely been openly rude without a good reason. If he’d lived to see his great-great-grandson sit on the throne of France, there would have been hell to pay in the royal nurseries decades ago.

But that had nothing to do with tonight’s visit.

Jean-Marie let his expression slide further into open sycophancy, masking his opinion of his many-times-removed nephew and his body’s unease. His mouth tasted of smoke and ashes, and a demon was drilling spikes into both temples. It was hardly the first time these agonies had attacked him at Versailles.

Jefferson nodded formally, stopping just short of a bow. “Your Majesties, may I present Don Rodrigo Perez, one of General Washington’s most trusted advisors?”

And spymaster, come here to personally verify for Washington that France was not an immediate threat.

Rodrigo bowed low and very smoothly, as befitted a man who’d mastered the skill while wearing eighty pounds of chain mail, sword, shield, and other knightly accoutrements.

“And Mister Jean-Marie St. Just, whose gallantry in action has been recognized by both General Washington and your own
Marquis
de la Fayette?”

Jefferson’s Virginia drawl managed Jean-Marie’s name quite well, including the tricky detail of pronouncing the
J
’s like the
s
in “measure.”

Jean-Marie’s bow matched Rodrigo’s in depth, although he automatically added the flourishes appropriate to greeting a king. They were taught to every member of the royal brood, legitimate or not. No matter how many decades had passed since he’d been here, some things were never forgotten, even when the skill could cause comment.

“And Señorita Perez, Don Rodrigo’s sister.” Jefferson’s Virginia drawl lingered over every syllable, caressing her name.

Sara sank into a deep curtsy. While she was not blood kin to Rodrigo, they’d endured long years of hard trials together, forging a bond closer than many brothers and sisters. Her eyes were shining now, and her color was very high, causing an almost audible groan of desire from their watchers. Even the king’s eyes widened, despite his notorious disinterest in carnal congress.

Instinctively, Jean-Marie’s fingers flexed, and he started to edge forward, moving to protect her.

Rodrigo’s foot tapped his, once, briefly.

Jean-Marie stilled. The other man was as tense as he was, perhaps more so. But he was willing to allow Sara’s eagerness to shine like a diamond amid the jaded courtiers. Her hunger was, after all, the official reason they’d come to Paris.

Jean-Marie relaxed slightly, resuming his original sycophant’s posture. He would wait and watch, as Rodrigo did. If any of these fools lifted so much as a finger against her, they’d wish they were dead. There was no need to do anything more now.

She rose, sending her taffeta skirts sighing back into place like an houri’s invitation to paradise. She cast her eyes down, teasing those around with a come-hither look that seemed meant for each one alone. Meaningful glances were exchanged, laden with coded messages.

By Jean-Marie’s reckoning, she’d guaranteed at least one assignation before the courtiers remembered to watch their monarch again.

He clenched his teeth, refusing to react to another stomach-churning wave of dizziness.

The king yawned, having lost interest in Sara, and waved the newcomers away impatiently. “Yes, yes, I know. Come back again with whatever you wish to say, Jefferson. And these three are welcome to Us, too. Now go.”

They hadn’t gone more than two steps away from the king and queen before a fresh-faced young man, with a weak chin and slender build, asked Sara to join an
innocent
card game.

“Ooh, certainly, Monsieur Simenon, is it not?” she cooed, her middle-aged face softening with delight. “It would be a pleasure to spend time at
play
with you. You’ll excuse me, Don Rodrigo, Mr. Jefferson.”

The men murmured their regret and bowed, hemmed in on all sides by the throng of courtiers.

Sara departed, her hand resting on her new acquaintance’s and her head tilted attentively up to his. He was already chatting to her, of course, and would almost certainly be in her bed before the night was out. He’d probably consider himself lucky, although she’d likely drop him within a week or so—once she had an eye to where the king’s spymaster might be found. She loved having a focus for the game of seduction, and it had saved them all more than once.

With Sara gone, there was little to keep Jefferson around, and he soon disappeared with a few polite words of farewell. He’d visit them again, of course, to exchange more conversation about French intentions toward America—and to indulge his fascination with Sara.

Courtiers rustled, eager to advance on their monarchs. By unspoken agreement, Rodrigo and Jean-Marie moved to the next room, seeking fresher air. They found a comparatively cooler space in a window embrasure, Rodrigo’s imposing height and formidable presence chasing off its previous occupants.

Jean-Marie claimed a pair of glasses from a passing lackey’s tray and handed one to Rodrigo. He sipped it cautiously—and the champagne’s cool refreshment eased his throat a bit. Before he could stop himself, he’d gulped the rest, sending bubbles jolting into his stomach.

Merde
, that was stupid. This was not the time or the place to display any weakness.

His head came up warily, and he scanned for watchers. Nobody tossed back champagne like water, especially at court. Growing up in these halls had taught him to guard every move, every glance, every word at all times.

Rodrigo silently exchanged glasses, providing him with another round. Droplets of red swirled and dissipated within the champagne, changing it to a pale pink.

Jean-Marie stilled and directed a suspicious glare at his friend’s hand.

Rodrigo casually rubbed his thumb over his fingertip, erasing the few traces of blood.

“You do not need to guard me from every disaster,
mon frère
,” Jean-Marie snapped, well aware starvation was turning him foul-tempered.

“You should have let her feed you this morning, as she asked.” A big shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I do not have so many friends that I find myself able to face the loss of even one with equanimity.”

“I do not need it,” Jean-Marie all but snarled.

“Your stubbornness makes a donkey look as flexible as a papal diplomat,
mi hermano
. Bend your pride enough to take extra blood for greater needs, such as tonight,” Rodrigo hissed, stepping close enough to block the view of onlookers. Only another
vampiro
or a
compañero
like Jean-Marie, whose body had been altered by decades of drinking
vampiro
blood, could have heard him. “You’ll have to make do with mine for a few hours, until she can feed you again.”

Despite the rational explanation, Jean-Marie gritted his teeth, loathing yet another example of his enslavement.

Rodrigo’s iron grip closed around his wrist under his cuff and tightened until Jean-Marie could feel tendons start to grind against bone. “It has been weeks since you fed. Even at that, you need more than blood.”

“I swore I wouldn’t take more from her when I learned the truth of what she’d done.” Jean-Marie shot him a barbed glance.

Rodrigo snorted in disgust. “In that case, let the
wine
cool you and your temper for a few moments.”

Jean-Marie seethed but nodded acquiescence, knowing all too well the truth in Rodrigo’s words. He’d nearly died a dozen times in Washington’s army—never because of wounds or disease but rather, because he’d been separated from Sara, the mistress who held him literally in thrall.

If he went another day like this, he’d barely be able to speak. Three days, and he wouldn’t be able to walk. A week longer—
eh bien
, that was as long as he’d ever been able to force himself to live without a taste of Sara. Much more than that and he’d die—very painfully.

He drank the second glass more slowly, letting the bubbles break against his tongue before diving down his throat.

A slow, rich warmth crept into his torso. His dizziness faded into the background, followed by the bitter headache. His roiling stomach settled back into position. The aches still lingered at the edge of his consciousness, like unwelcome houseguests. But he’d be able to function normally for a few hours more until he could claim Sara’s blood.

Silence stretched between them, emphasized by the chattering fools around them and a seductive minuet dipping and gliding in the distance.

All the while, the less favored—younger brothers and sons, lower ranks, the purely ambitious, malcontents—plotted and planned and whispered while watching every passerby at this most brilliant and deadly of all Europe’s courts. The one whose queen could lock the king out of her favorite bedroom, while lewd pictures of her with a legion of lovers were bought and sold in every city. The one whose greatest royal palace glittered like a diamond and reeked like a cesspool, thanks to the open latrines in the stairwells.

Beautiful, corrupt, and deadly—like its
vampiros’
reputation. Yet even here they respected certain fundamental tenets of
vampiro
society, such as the necessity for speaking Spanish. Charlemagne had brought to France Spanish translations of Arabic travelogues, including Spanish names for everything related to
vampiros
. Given that most
vampiros
were widely scattered and a quarrelsome lot at best, their lingua franca was the only thing that allowed any courtesy. Every young
vampiro
—or
cachorro
—therefore learned the Spanish terms, or was quickly destroyed by a testy older
vampiro
for bad manners.

So-called civilized Frenchmen could no more avoid the painful necessity of accepting Spanish terminology than they could hide their monarchy’s decay.

Jean-Marie had not survived this long by ignoring bitter truths.

“I will go to her later this evening, after she’s sated,” he said abruptly. “The taste should be extremely—satisfying by then.”

“
Sí
, her taste should completely heal you, given how rich it’s likely to become,” Rodrigo agreed.

Both men glanced across the room at her. Sara was barely visible in a card room, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, both men and women. She was usually considered lovely but quiet, with her dark hair and eyes and olive skin. Now she was glowing with all the radiance of a girl enjoying a long-promised treat, making her appear a great beauty. Her sultry looks promised pleasure and fulfillment to all those around her.

Even if she hadn’t been a
vampira
, her vivacity would have been more than enough to capture the attention of any
prosaico
—or mortal—whose carnal favors she wanted to taste. As a
vampira
on the hunt, she was irresistible.

“She’s chosen well for her first night here, since all of them appear very sensual. The morning should see her very replete,” Rodrigo commented. He claimed two more glasses from a servant and gave one to Jean-Marie. “But,
sabe Dios
, I’d rather be in Texas, breathing the open air, than here amid all these courtiers…”

“High in the hills north of San Antonio?” Jean-Marie queried softly, remembering where he’d ridden half-wild horses with even rowdier Indians, and Rodrigo had spent days roaming the hills and rivers. But there’d been little peace between the Spanish settlers and the Indians, until finally the governor had eliminated all but a few heavily armed settlements. After that, their small household had headed north and east, their wanderings eventually leading them to Savannah and finally to Washington’s army.

Rodrigo and Jean-Marie lifted their glasses in a silent toast to the one place they’d found on their travels that they’d both loved.

“It was worth exploring La Salle’s survivors’ fantastic tales, was it not? After all, not every story voiced in these halls can be completely false.” Rodrigo twirled the fragile crystal goblet, sending shards of light dancing over their brilliantly embroidered suits.

Jean-Marie huffed in mock dudgeon, allowing himself to be teased out of his megrims. He stretched, subtly shifting his coat’s fine silk across his shoulders and checking the position of his weapons. While his instincts hadn’t warned him of any trouble near Sara tonight, there was still work to be done. “I’d best be going. Sara’s already gathered a court and…”