Bond of Fire (5 page)

How many more
vampiros
were there? Hordes—or just a few, each more deadly than the last?
Nom de dieu
, which alternative was worse?

“Very well—but only if that
vampiro
first speaks of
vampiros
to her.” Monsieur Perez glanced at his sister. “Are you ready to leave, Sara?”

“She’d look better in her grave—”

“Sara…” warned
Monsieur
Perez.

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course, I’m ready—but you’ll both regret this day’s work.”

“Is that it?” Hélène choked. “Don’t you have to do something more…” She waved her hands, at a loss for words. Tears welled up in her eyes again, surely due only to exhaustion.

“Visible? Emphatic?” He lifted an arrogant eyebrow. “No. As your escort said, I have the skill to do whatever I wish inside your skull. You’ve already been limited, madame, and may only discuss tonight with the three of us.”

Hélène turned and buried her face in St. Just’s chest, shuddering, her knees buckling under her. More than anything else in the world, she never wanted to think about this afternoon’s events again.

He choked, wrapped his arm around her waist, and half-carried, half-walked her out of the labyrinth.

By following the hedges of the labyrinth, the herb garden, and finally the rose garden, they managed to reach the château unseen by any guests. The only servants they saw immediately behaved as if a fainting woman upheld by a man was so normal as to cause no notice, thus bearing out the demesne’s licentious reputation.

He stopped at the guest wing and shifted his grip, preparing to free her. God knows holding her like this was dangerous to his heart, as well as damned improper.

Her grip instantly tightened on him ferociously. “
Non!
Do not release me! You are my only defender!”

His chest swelled with pride and something more personal, something he dared not look at too closely. He was sworn to protect Sara, and he could not live without her. While he hadn’t warmed Sara’s bed once he’d learned how cruelly she’d tricked him, he also hadn’t been a monk. But he’d never dared let himself dream of the softer emotions with a woman, of doting fondness, soft glances, and passion that could last beyond the loved one’s presence. Doing so would doom him—and possibly the lady—to hell on earth.

He glanced down at her. The tears on her face and her quivering lip sent a pang shooting through his heart. Poor darling, she was trying so hard to be brave. She’d had far too much to endure tonight—a
vampiro mayor
ready to kill her?

Jean-Marie shook his head, wondering if he’d ever completely understand his friend. Rodrigo’s first instincts were always to protect women, but equally ferocious was the need to defend those under his care.

“Would you like me to carry you to your room?”

She nodded quickly, her green eyes enormous, and laid her head back against his shoulder. Trustingly, dammit.

“Left,” she murmured at the top of the broad marble staircase, her flowered silk skirts floating over his arms.

He would be a gentleman and not think about her exquisitely embroidered white petticoat framed so enchantingly—and fashionably—in front. Most importantly, he would not look down to see if her fragile white fichu, transparent enough to display her dress’s bright flowers, also permitted a glimpse of her bosom.

He spun on his heel, cursing himself as ten times an idiot. He was committed elsewhere, mind and body. Hélène d’Agelet deserved far better than a man like him.

Her delicate fingers brushed the nape of his neck, under his hair, and her breath brushed his cheek.

His heart slammed against his ribs, sending shards of something stronger and sweeter than lust lancing through his flesh. Its force made his lungs seize, and he broke stride. “Madame…” he muttered, scarcely able to think.

“Turn left again. My room is at the end of the hall.”

Merde
, she was caressing his neck, even though her ribs were still shaking from withheld sobs. His chest was tight, his blood running hotter and faster.

“Madame.” He tried to restore some decorum to their situation.

“Call me Hélène,
s’il vous plait
,” she murmured. “Surely we can move beyond formality to friendship, after surviving this afternoon’s disturbances together.”

Her great eyes lifted to his, full of sincerity and—need. Possibly hunger, or even lust, two emotions he knew very well. He could not allow himself to believe it was anything more, even though they’d known each other for almost five months.

Even so, words leapt out of his throat to answer her, without consulting his brain. “If you will call me Jean-Marie.”

“My pleasure, Jean-Marie.” She lingered over his simple name, like a delectable bonbon. A brilliant smile lit her face.

He shouldered open the door to her room, cursing his cock for swelling in response. He needed to leave before he leapt on her like a wild animal.

Sunlight flowed over everything within, bringing it to life.

Hélène’s boudoir was a miracle of feminine simplicity, like the marquise herself. Bas-reliefs of goddesses and flowers swept around the walls. Great alcoves, where rich green silk flowed from gilded rods, marked the multiple windows of the corner room. A great cabinet, taller than a man, carved and painted to match the bas-reliefs, stood ready in one corner to yield her beautiful wardrobe. A small, elegant desk, its tambour lid neatly shut to preserve her privacy, and a matching bench, waited to serve her, as did a pair of fragile chairs. Beautifully inlaid parquet floors and scattered soft rugs were silent testimony to feminine delight in elegance.

But Jean-Marie paid little attention to any of that fashionable nonsense. The bed drew his entire attention, nestled as it was in an alcove with silk draperies sweeping from the ceiling to veil it. The embroidered dark green coverlet had been turned back to invitingly offer pristine white pillows and sheets.

Ah, to see Hélène stretched out across the silk, her hair as golden as the willingness in her eyes…

His mouth dried, and a heavy pulse began to beat slowly, demandingly through his veins.

“Hélène,” he rumbled, his voice as deep and harsh as his emotions, the need to use the bed, remove her clothes, find pleasure for them both…

A single finger tapped his cheek, then a second.

He glanced down.

Naked desperation and yearning gleamed in her eyes.

“Do not let me think too much,
je vous en prie
.”

Everything masculine within him roared its demand to protect her. Nothing and no one should be allowed to make a proud lady like Hélène d’Agelet beg.

“Hélène—” he began.

She caught his face in her hands, pulled it down, and kissed him full on the mouth. It was the move of an experienced woman who knew what she wanted and how to take it.

He met her more than halfway, pouring his own hunger into the kiss—a night’s pleasure with a beautiful, willing woman. But surely not for someone who cared more about him, than what they needed.

She moaned softly, sweetly, into his mouth, her fingers caressing his head. She turned in his arms to face him, pressing herself against him. The busk, that damned stiff strip of ivory running up the center of her stays to support her breasts, tugged at one of his coat’s buttons. It forcibly reminded that the delights of undressing were yet to come and should be undertaken soon, lest he start tearing impatiently at the fabric like a beast.

He set her on the bed, following her to kiss her again—to adore her face, her throat, her fingers with his mouth. To whisper sweet words of her beauty and grace and charm. But not love words, like
mon coeur
or
mon ange
, my heart or my angel. Not those, never those, not in this lifetime.

She purred under him, threading her fingers through his hair and teasing the long strands free. Her legs rippled against him between the layers of cloth, whispering of her eagerness.

Jean-Marie leaned up on one elbow, dropping kisses on her forehead, her eyelids, the top of her head. She chuckled and closed her eyes, exactly the response he’d wanted.

He slipped his free hand inside her fichu, resting it across her breast. Ah,
mon Dieu
, her skin was soft as the finest silk.

She moaned and twisted closer.

His thumb brushed her nipple, modestly hiding just below the top of her rigidly boned stays.

“Ah, mais oui!”
She arched up to meet him, tossing her head back. “Ah, Jean-Marie!”

Hot fumes of lust, rich and spicy, rose into his brain.

He rumbled approval of her hunger and kissed her again, fondling her, rubbing her nipple again and again until it stood tall and stiff and aching, continually teased by either him or her stays through the silk. He shifted and adored her other breast the same way, rousing her until she was a writhing, sobbing woman under him.

But it wasn’t enough. Oh no, even though he, too, was breathing hard and fast, his skin flushed as if they stood in the Sahara desert.

He lifted her waist up and untied her fichu in the back, drawing the long, pretty streamers forward. It was the work of a moment to tug it free from her neck and toss it aside. Its mate, which had been tucked into her bodice, was already so disarrayed and dislodged that it gaped prettily for him, offering a superb frame for her delights.

While most men certainly enjoyed breasts, they were not the inspiration for poets or the subject of much conversation. But he’d swear Hélène was lovely enough to make even the most blind beg for a chance to worship her. Hélène, who was even more beautiful than a goddess of old.

“Jean-Marie…” Her hands moved convulsively and fell back.

“You’re so lovely, you take my breath away.”

“Ah,
mon bébé
,” she crooned approvingly—and he caught the last syllable with his mouth. Her affection was delightful beyond belief, especially a silly endearment like “baby” since it didn’t threaten his commitments elsewhere.

Mapping the perfection of her breasts’ blue veins led inexorably to the concealed seam down the front of her dress. He muttered his acclaim for her fashion sense and unhooked her dress.

“Stand up, please.”

“If you will take off your coat?” She kneaded his shoulders gently, emphasizing the layers of fabric. “And maybe more?”

“Of course, Hélène.” He kissed her fingertips and nodded.

He drew her dress off and set it aside. He turned back and stopped dead, savage lust racking his bones.

Her blonde curls were tumbling from her once precise coiffure, yet she still wore a
marquise
’s eye-catching earrings, the three pearls stroking her neck like a lover. Her gold silk corset was another jewel enhancing her skin’s creamy beauty, while her embroidered white petticoat floated over her legs and ankles from her hoops. Beautifully embroidered silk stockings led to a pair of delicate shoes offering her feet for worship.

Her green eyes were dark with lust under heavy lids, her mouth swollen and hungry. His
concubino compañero
sense of smell told him clearly she was melting with lust, her sweet petals unfolding and cream flowing in welcome.

His lover, dammit, hot and willing. His for tonight, if no longer than that.

She took a step toward him and another—and snatched his lapels. Their lips met, passion running between them like the finest cognac. His cock was hard-pressed against his breeches, wildness thrumming in it.

He could toss her across the bed, flip her skirts out of the way, and be in her within moments.

No. He’d promised her something. But what was worth delaying their mutual delight?

“Jean-Marie,
mon bébé
.” She sighed into his mouth, their tongues dancing together more enticingly than any
contredanse
. She kneaded his shoulders, her nails pricking him through the silk.

Clothes. His clothes, to be precise.

“Chérie,”
he muttered against her cheek.
Merde
, but he sounded hoarse and out of control. He tried again. “
Chère
Hélène, I too need to disrobe—as you asked.”

She blinked up at him and ran her tongue over her lips.

Passion ripped through him, firing white-hot darts from his lungs through his heart and cock. He jerked himself up short before he could slam her up against a wall.

“Stand back,
chérie
, please.”
Before I act like a rutting boar…

She did so, her bosom heaving above her stays. Her hand crept up to her mouth when he yanked off his coat. Her eyes grew enormous when he started to tear off his waistcoat. She murmured something about his poor buttons but his glare silenced her.

He tugged hard on his cravat. She squeaked, he lifted an eyebrow, and she nipped her finger. A total disregard for his valet’s sensibilities brought the rest of it quickly off his neck.

She was flushed, restless, her legs twisting against each other. She glanced down, back up to the bulge of his cock against his breeches, and down again. Shy and hungry? Lord help them both, feasting on each other visually had fired them both up for the banquet that was to come.

He unbuttoned his shirt as fast as possible and pulled it over his head.

Her gasp echoed across the room.

“Ah,
oui
,” she sighed, her eyes roaming over him. “You are very finely made.”

He could not stop himself from strutting but he did keep it to only a step or two.

“
Ma chère
Hélène.” He kissed her shoulder, licking and nibbling her collarbone until she moaned his name and her head fell sideways, allowing him free access. “You are a bonbon
extraordinaire
, made to tempt a man into madness.”

“Hmm.” A single emerald eye considered him before her golden lashes veiled it again.

He kissed the nape of her neck.

He untied her petticoat, pushed it off her hoops, and let it fall to the floor, never pausing in his attentions to her throat and shoulders.

She moaned something about the mountaintop being higher when it took longer to reach. He smiled privately, his body throbbing with both agreement and impatience, and moved to explore the best way to tease her delectable spine, to delight her back, to lift her breasts from their cocoon in her stays and plump them in his hands.

All of which demanded that he unlace her stays, of course. Which gave his hands access to her waist and ribs, from underneath her hoops. More pleasure for her hidden areas, those restricted places that had been shut away from the world since early childhood, yet were so close to her center.

She writhed restlessly, her hips twisting and turning. Her head lay against his shoulder, her soft hair teasing his skin, while her expression tore his heart with her need for release. Her soft pleas rippled through the room, each one diving into his blood and flashing straight into his balls, heating his seed.

He untied her stays’ shoulder straps and lifted it over her head.
Nom de Dieu
, her silk chemise was almost transparent. He gulped, every drop of blood heading south.

Even so, he was slightly incredulous when his hands shook while they untied her hoops. How many times had he done this before? And yet…She moaned again, and he had to bite his lip until blood flowed before he could continue.