Bond of Fire (17 page)

He smiled tightly, hooked his foot around a chair, and pulled it up.

An instant later, he sat down and drew her hips to him, posing her on the edge of the table.

“Hmmph?”

The sound was barely a question, and he chose not to answer it with words, just as he refused to yield to the heat sparkling through his body. He caressed the inside of her other thigh, and she promptly tightened her legs around his hand.

Bien.
Very, very good indeed.

He folded her skirts back and nuzzled her leg. A long, gentle lick brought her hips rolling to meet him, her folds dripping with cream. Lovely, perfectly lovely—and the most intoxicating taste in the world, fully capable of driving a man insane.

His pulse speeded up, driving into every cell of his body until it made even his fingers tremble.

He tasted more, nibbling, teasing, stretching her sweet folds like the beautiful flower they were. Writing her lovely name with his tongue onto her wildly sensitive muscles, while his own skin leapt with a matching fire.

She was the finest banquet in the world, the richest and the spiciest delight ever to enrapture him. He could have spent hours or days finding new ways to lift her to the heights, while his body throbbed with anticipation.

Until finally he lifted her hips up a little more with a subtle twist and fine pressure on her mound—just so!—to urge her clit closer to his mouth.

And, ah,
mon Dieu
, did she howl with delight! She writhed and she moaned, she surged to meet him and she ground herself down on his fingers. She poured cream over his hand and she begged for more.

He was half-blind with lust. His cock was leaking pre-come, his trousers clearly having been unbuttoned by his mindless fingers at some point. Thinking about anything was nearly impossible—but he knew she had to be lifted into ecstasy, and left sated.

She cursed him again, frantic at being denied. Her fingernails sank into his shoulders, ripping through his shirt and stabbing his skin with a
vampira
’s strength.

He flung back his head, startled. His breath seized, and his cock jerked, demanding everything. Sanity fled.

He knocked the chair over in his hurry and came down on her.

“Take me now,
mon prince
!” she ordered, locking herself around him with both arms and legs, her green eyes closing in anticipation.

No one had ever called him that before with love.

He entered her in a single clean stroke, aroused beyond endurance. She tightened herself around him in welcome, her channel caressing his cock.

He pulled out and slid back, trying to make the moment last, while she rippled around him. Again, and again, and again, impending orgasm building deep within his spine and groin.

She bit his shoulders, sending the familiar bright burst of
vampiro
pleasure wheeling through him.

He stiffened and howled. Climax poured over and through him like a geyser, blasting up out of his spine and through his cock, pummeling his sanity as much as it shook him to the bone.

CASTRO SANCHEZ, BEFORE DAWN THE NEXT DAY

Hélène edged farther uphill along the slippery path, the old castle rising solidly at her back. The river foamed and frothed below her, laden with mud and boulders after the sudden thaw and a day of heavy rains. Bringing down the bridge would send fragments downriver past Napoleon’s engineers’ ability to recover them.

She could see remarkably well, though, the rain having yielded to a brilliant moon, which reflected off the river and the town. To her
vampira
eyesight, it was almost as bright as day. She could certainly discern the barrels of gunpowder she and Jean-Marie had laboriously wrestled into place under the pier closest to the tower. Destroy that, and the structure it supported would collapse in a cloud of stone and dust.

But if she miscalculated, the explosion could take out the tower, as well as some of the town and the mountain.

Jean-Marie cautiously pulled himself over the bridge and onto the road. There were still a few passersby at this hour, mostly a few ill-equipped soldiers serving the local junta at the castle. Many had already disappeared into the mountains to become guerillas, knowing full well their odds of defeating the tens of thousands of Frenchmen who’d arrive tomorrow were nonexistent. Plus, the English cavalry were rumored to be only hours behind the French but on the other side of the river.

He vanished into the shadows and reappeared beside her on the path. Scarcely wider than a goat trail and hanging perilously close to the cliff edge, it must have originally been an escape route for the castle’s garrison. It was certainly the only spot from which she could see the ledge holding the gunpowder under the pier, given the restricted choices of bridge pier, wide ledge for gunpowder barrels, and a high enough sill to keep the fuse dry.

Unfortunately, this vantage point was almost completely exposed to any blast effects. They could knock her off her feet—and there wasn’t a parapet here to protect her from sliding into the river, as there was beside the road.

Jean-Marie kissed her lightly on the mouth, a sweet but risky salutation, given their rather public location. She shook her head at him in mock dudgeon, which he completely ignored, of course. Instead, he threaded his fingers through hers, and they held hands, quietly enjoying each other’s company.

“The monastery is holding Vigils tonight,” he whispered.

“Prayer service?” She blinked. People were
moving
about the old city tonight?

He nodded grimly.

“How many are attending it?”

“At least two dozen, some of whom probably came from the other side of the river.”

She bit back a curse. “Do we know how long the service will last?”

“Do you want to take the responsibility for guessing?” he countered.

She blew out a breath and shook her head. The priest could add extra prayers or psalms to extend the service until matins. Or simply send his congregants home early.

“I’ll go down to beyond the bridge portal, where the statue of Saint Peter is,” he said firmly.

“I can see it.” The
downstream
side of the bridge? Chills ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather or the wind. If the blast went wrong, he could be hit by the portal.

“I’ll signal you when the road is clear, so you can light the fuse. We don’t have much time, after all, not with the British cavalry likely to arrive at dawn.”

“Of course,” she echoed faintly. She tried to think of an alternative but couldn’t. Of course, they couldn’t let innocent people die—and there was no other spot where someone could watch the church and signal her.

She nodded briskly, pushing her fears aside.

“Hélène…” He cupped her face in his hands. His fingers were long, callused, and shaking slightly. “Give me a kiss for luck,
chérie
.”

She blinked at him, a little startled by his unusual seriousness, but leaned up to him. He caught her close in a passionate kiss, as if he wanted to devour her into his memories. An instant later, he released her abruptly and turned away, immediately vanishing into the shadows.

He reappeared when he reached the bridge portal, raising his hand in a startling echo of Saint Peter’s protective watchfulness over his flock.

She waved back at him reassuringly. Her bruised lips were already healing from his kiss.

Church music stirred the night.

A quick glance reassured her she could still see the gunpowder, lurking under the bridge like an oncoming thundercloud.

Jean-Marie moved farther downstream along the road, his gray hair turning silver in the moonlight. She dug her nails into her palms, fighting not to scream at him to stay closer to her.

He braced himself beside the parapet, facing the church, and scanned the small plaza.

Calm swept over her, extending time into long steady beats. She and Jean-Marie were the perfect team, two halves of one whole, acting together to execute a single thought.

He came alert, poised on the balls of his feet like a dancer—or a brilliant swordsman.

The gunpowder barrel was as easy to see as if it stood next to her. A bit of slow match curled on the sill above it, dry as a cat on a winter’s night.

Jean-Marie brought his hand up—and slashed it down, as if slicing through an opponent with his saber.

She pushed the slow match, shoving into motion the small things inside that couldn’t be seen. Flame leaped into being on the fuse and sped toward the gunpowder.

What the devil? The slow match was burning much faster than she’d expected.

Hélène ran toward the road with its protective parapet. Jean-Marie raced toward her but he was far, too far away.

With an ear-shattering roar, the gunpowder blew up, shattering the night with its thunder. Flames leapt upward, stabbing through roiling clouds of black smoke. The deep, narrow gorge had increased the explosion into a beast of incalculable strength, rather than a neat shove at a single pile of stone.

The ground tried to tear itself apart under her feet, dropping Hélène to her knees onto the slick, muddy slope.

Windows shattered throughout the town in a heavy staccato torrent. Chunks of roadbed flew into the sky like birds and rained down in an avalanche, chipping chunks of stone the size of men’s heads out of the tower. The great bridge portal swayed, its immense columns teetering as if drunk.

Hélène started to slide toward the river and grabbed for an ancient rosebush, sturdy enough to climb several stories up the castle.

Jean-Marie flung himself up the road toward Hélène. Debris rained down around him, and cracks opened in the cobblestones under his feet.

Something groaned, long and loud. Jean-Marie hesitated but quickly redoubled his speed, ignoring the huge pieces of stone dropping from the sky.

With a great crack, the portal’s columns ripped out of the cliff nearest the town, taking Jean-Marie with them, as if a giant had thrown them. They fell into the river, followed by the bridge’s few remaining pieces.

“Nooo!” Hélène screamed. “No!”

She caught the rosebush and brought herself up with a yank, her feet dangling over the precipice. A crack formed in the tower and another, as chunks began to slowly drop off it.

The church’s great bell was ringing madly. Ignoring her own peril, Hélène changed her grip on the thorny, icy shrub until she could peer into the river.

Everything below was thundering white waves, pounding against chunks of rock the size of horses. For an instant, she could see Jean-Marie’s head, but he wasn’t moving.

One of the columns rolled over him, and he went under, not to be seen again.

“Jean-Marie!” she screamed. “Jean-Marie!”

A crooked gap formed around the bush’s roots, and it slid toward the river. The tower groaned like a dying soul.

Was she going into the water, too? Did it matter? Did anything truly matter now? Sobs ripped at her heart.

“Hold on, ma’am. We’ve got you. Uh,
señora, por favor
,” a very Welsh accent coaxed, and a man’s arm reached out from the unstable slope.

She reluctantly let him catch her.

CASTRO SANCHEZ, THE NEXT EVENING, DECEMBER 1808

“Ma’am, there’s no sign of anyone washed up below the castle.”

Hélène closed her eyes, glad her heavy veils concealed the signs of still more tears. The major had led the squadron of British Hussars who’d stormed into Castro Sanchez in the explosion’s wake and rescued her from the cliff edge. He was also well enough trained that he’d recognized her as a spy, after they’d exchanged passwords. He’d guarded her very closely, of course, keeping her out of town in the British camp and away from the French army. She doubted many, if any, of the local townsfolk had caught a glimpse of her since the patrol had brought her down off the tower.

“Thank you for looking, major. I’m sure you searched very thoroughly.”

At least her voice was completely composed, as befitted a Sainte-Pazanne or a d’Agelet. Without Jean-Marie at her side, she had only her family pride to uphold her, after all, throughout the long lonely years—centuries!—ahead.

Not that it would help her to forget him.

Her visitor lingered, and she waited to learn the reason why.

“If you don’t mind, ma’am, the colonel would like to leave within the hour.”

“Very well.” She rose, shaking out her skirts. She’d sponged out the worst of the mud after they’d brought her safely off that cliff.

“If you’ll tell us where your luggage is, I’ll send a man to fetch it.”

Her stomach knotted, and she fought the need to wrap her arms around herself and keen her grief. Go back to the rooms where she’d last shared love with Jean-Marie? And relive those last happy moments? No!

“Ma’am? If you don’t have any luggage, I’m sure General Moore’s chief exploring officer can provide you with some clothes.” Despite the major’s evident caution in dealing with her, at least he was clever enough to know General Moore’s chief spy had the resources and the knowledge to cope.

“I have no baggage worth reclaiming, major.” Let the honest landlord have their clothing, whenever he decided to search the rooms. “I am ready to depart whenever you wish.”

“As you wish, ma’am.”

CASTRO SANCHEZ, THREE DAYS LATER

Jean-Marie turned his back on the devastated plaza after two days of searching and refused to scream—or curse God. Either would have been satisfying. Neither would have solved anything.

He’d managed to grab a large beam, part of the roadbed’s supports, and hold on to it during a wild ride downstream. Water, stone, and mud had all done their best to batter him into pieces—but that was nothing compared to arriving back here and learning nobody knew what had happened to his gentle lady. They’d all seen the bridge destroyed and the tower nearly shattered. But they hadn’t seen any survivors.

The French had killed her, as surely as if they’d put a gun to her head.

He smiled mirthlessly. And for that, he’d carry out her work as her memorial. It was the least he could do for her.

Hélène, his only love. He’d become a
vampiro
for her.

Une éternité d’amour ne paraîtrait jamais que passagère.
Loving you forever doesn’t seem like long enough.

He had to reach San Leandro, despite two warring armies on the main road and impassable winter snows in the northern mountains. He started walking north, his pack on his back.

Barely an hour later, he slipped and fell into the river again, the waves tumbling him like a child’s toy. He staggered out of the water and collapsed, gasping for breath but bitterly determined.

A dozen Spaniards, very roughly dressed, thin but still showing signs of strength, watched him warily. Taller than most on the Iberian Peninsula. More than one had blue eyes, while several had blond hair. A small fire burned behind them, half-hidden among the willow trees.

Hands returned to pockets, evidence they now considered him a threat rather than someone to be rescued.

Jean-Marie blinked and shook his head, clearing the water from his face. Swaying slightly, he took a chance on the language Rodrigo had taught him for very private conversations.

“Bon día, señores. ¿Comos está?”
he greeted them politely in
Gallego
.

Their faces immediately brightened, and they overwhelmed him with a flood of the same language.

He damn near collapsed in relief.

Thanks be to God, he’d found a group of migrant Galician workers returning to their homes in the northwest. They were probably delayed by dodging provincial juntas who wanted to draft them into local armies. They’d recognized him as another stranger in a strange land and welcomed him.

Strong arms helped him to the fire, while others built it higher.

“Do you know where San Leandro is?”

“Of course, grandfather,” they assured him. “We are taking the smugglers’ road to the coast, then the old pilgrims’ route to Santiago. We will pass by San Leandro and can take you there.”

Grandfather?
Nom de Dieu
, had his hair turned that gray so quickly? He laughed—and spluttered on an unexpected mouthful of water.

Someone shoved a cup of thin soup into his hand, somebody else draped a blanket over his shoulder, and two men began to strip his boots off his feet.

This should work—as long as the winter snows didn’t turn brutal before they could cross the high northern mountains to safety, the route all the armies had already deemed impossible.

SAN LEANDRO, THAT NIGHT

Rodrigo’s heart was pounding in his ears, and his breath rasped through his throat. Overhead, feet shuffled softly as nuns prepared the church for evening services, their voices a muted river of timeless customs retold.

Simple iron candelabra swung from the ceiling, illuminating the glory of vaulted stone whose beauty could make cathedrals take flight. Behind Rodrigo burned the banks of votive candles he and others had lighted to lift their prayers to heaven.

He was alone in San Rafael Arcángel’s crypt—except for the tombs of his wife and children.

Blanche, his heart’s delight. The unknown carver had honored her as a daughter of the church, placing her in an attitude of eternal prayer with her hands pressed firmly together. He’d faithfully shown her habit as a married sister of Santiago, the warrior monks whose order Rodrigo had joined as a novice five hundred years ago.

Somehow he’d also recreated her alertness and warmth, the vibrancy which had made her the light of Rodrigo’s life from the moment he first saw her.

Rodrigo almost expected her to sit up and start talking to him. Perhaps it was because he’d spent years recounting to himself every second of their few short years together, until every shining note of her laughter was as clear to him now as the day he’d first heard it. Or the wry patience behind her wise words, or the anticipatory gleam in her eyes when she waited to go upstairs with him at night…

He missed all of that and more with a bone-chilling ache the centuries had done little to ease.

For family. Someone like Inez, the daughter he’d never seen walk this earth, although her effigy lay within a few paces. Or Fernando, the son who’d been a famous warrior and beloved patron of these lands. Or Beatriz, whose beauty and compassion were legendary as far south as Toledo. All the grandchildren he’d prayed would find health and prosperity, and their children.

His gut twisted, tearing him apart worse than anything he’d experienced during his centuries of captivity.

He dropped to his knees and prayed for peace, for a new beginning. For something more than what he had. For what he couldn’t have clearly said…

Hours—or minutes—later, boots thudded on the stone, bringing him onto his feet to face the newcomer. He flushed slightly, embarrassed for having overreacted in these sacred precincts. “Señor Alvarez.”

“Please forgive me for having disturbed you,” Luis Alvarez apologized from the foot of the stairwell. He twisted his hat, straightening an already immaculate brim. “I can return later if you’d prefer.”

“No, there is no need for that,” Rodrigo spread his hands. “There is more than enough grace here for both of us.”

Alvarez nodded acceptance. “My daughter is expecting my first grandchild,” he explained, coming forward into the light. “It’s tradition to light candles and ask
Doña
Blanche to watch over her.”

Rodrigo blinked. His darling had never had an easy time in childbirth.

“It is a woman’s custom.” Alvarez shrugged, flashing his easy smile. “More men than not honor it as well—but we do it when we won’t be seen.”

“I won’t speak of it to anyone,” Rodrigo assured him, “if you’ll tell me the origins.” He joined the other, looking across the quiet space filled with his sleeping children.

“
Doña
Blanche was the matriarch of a very large family. Only three children—but thirty-one grandchildren and more than seventy great-grandchildren, every one healthy and happy. All of us here carry their blood in our veins. Who would not wish that for their children?”

“Who indeed?” Rodrigo muttered, remembering all the hours he’d spent on his knees in that stinking cell in his captor’s castle, praying his descendants be given the joy and health he was denied.
Dios
, no wonder Luis looked like him—he’d have to be some sort of great-great-grandson.

“
Doña
Blanche was a holy woman, who spent as much time doing good deeds for the people as she did for her own family.”

Rodrigo nodded, remembering how often she’d blistered his ears for paying more attention to politics than the common folk.

“Her passage into heaven was graced by the archbishop and bishop’s prayers. All of her children were there, as well as her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It is said so many priests and nuns sang, that the angels themselves wept.” Alvarez’s eyes unashamedly glimmered with tears. “Her last words were of her husband, of course. She told her children not to mourn, since he’d come again to San Leandro.”

“What?” Rodrigo croaked. He swayed and caught himself against the wall, unsteady atop knees that suddenly seemed to be made of straw.

“
Sí
,
Doña
Blanche was deeply in love with Don Rodrigo, the great knight who went away on crusade.”

“
Great
knight?”

“The battles he fought? And the tournament against the French champion? Parry left, thrust right!” Grinning, Alvarez mimed the moves exactly—to Rodrigo’s startled fascination. “The stories of his life have been passed down through the generations, exactly as
Doña
Blanche first told them. It would take an entire winter to recount all the great songs and the poetry written about him.”

Rodrigo gaped, unable to form words. Just as he’d retold himself every minute of his life with her in order to keep her alive in his heart, Blanche had ensured he’d be remembered here.

“Even now, we know Don Rodrigo is
our
knight, and he lives somewhere. The legend promises he will return when his people’s need is the greatest.”

¡Imposible!
Yet Alvarez’s expression was as steadfast as when he drove cattle across a stream and through a muddy field.

“Do you believe all of that?” Rodrigo asked, his voice fading to a whisper.

“I believe there is more than the good doctor can readily explain from his leather-bound books. I believe a good woman’s love and faith can work miracles beyond a man’s understanding. I will not turn my back on something I have not seen disproven.” Alvarez’s eyes met his, dark and quite serious.

“Alvarez,
amigo
, no mortal man can live five centuries.”

“I have told you this as one Perez to another.” The other clapped him on the shoulder, eyes boring into his from the same level. “You resemble Don Rodrigo, as many of us do—since we are descendants of his children.”

“No,” Rodrigo denied instinctively. Had he guessed Rodrigo truly was
Doña
Blanche’s husband?

“His blood runs true,
amigo
, even in distant cousins. Have faith—and trust God will answer a good woman’s prayers when He deems the time is right.”

When Rodrigo didn’t answer, Alvarez shook his head compassionately. “There’s no need to talk more about this today. I will return later to say my prayers.”

Rodrigo lifted his hand in farewell, deliberately ignoring the last unbelievable words. A prophecy saying he would return to save these people? He, the knight who’d chosen to let damsels die? Admittedly, it was while his
creador
was trying to break him during those centuries of torture. He’d given Rodrigo the brutal choice: Become an assassin, murdering anyone and everyone ordered to—or watch another damsel die. Rodrigo had believed it the lesser of two evils to watch the ladies pass into the next life, rather than become a killer for all eternity.

Even so, their blood still stained his hands, no matter how often he prayed for their souls or had masses said for them. He was not worthy of saving anyone, since he’d failed the basic oath to protect women and virgins!

No, he could not be the one whose return was foretold.

Far, far better to ponder the incredible gift his beloved darling had given him.

“Blanche,”
Rodrigo whispered. He dropped to his knees before his lady’s tomb.
You gave me a family. A small town full of people, carrying my blood, many of them bearing my likeness. Because of you—and the stories you left behind—they welcome me as one of their own.

Family.

Giddiness welled up deep inside him, as when his darling had first told him she was carrying their child.

He threw back his head and flung out his arms, embracing his wife and children—and the family beyond.

His, by the grace of God and his wife’s love.

ALONG THE RIVER ESLA IN LEÓN, THE SAME NIGHT

The squalid Spanish village dozed uneasily under the midnight sky, too full of French boots and muskets to openly fret. Couriers trotted briskly up and down the steps of the largest house, saddlebags slung over their shoulders. French cavalrymen from the Imperial Guard, the Emperor’s “Favored Children,” stood watch in the plaza. Their cynical eyes and well-oiled weapons announced they’d earned their gorgeous uniforms by being the best in battle.