Dark Immortal (7 page)

He
caught her, rising and lifting her into his arms in the same movement. 
Carrying her to the bed, he dropped her onto the mattress and caught her legs
beneath her knees, shoving them upward until her sex was bared to his hungry
gaze.  Embarrassment filled her but before she could form a protest, he lowered
his head and covered her femininity with his mouth.  Her hips came up off the
bed seemingly of their own accord at the hard current that shot through her,
crushing the breath from her lungs, sending her mind reeling toward a dark
abyss. 

Finding
that she could not reach him, she dug fingers like claws into the bedclothes,
fighting to drag in panting breaths as he sought and found one spot of such
tenderness that nearly unbearable pleasure inundated her.  Feverish, mindless,
she babbled his name like a litany in a harsh, broken whisper, beseeching him
to stop one moment and never to stop in the next.

To
her everlasting gratitude, he did not stop.  He tugged and teased the nub of
flesh until it felt as if her heart would collapse, stroking his tongue along
her sensitive cleft from the nub to the mouth of her sex.  Feeling her body
coiling toward release, she began to beg him to stop once more, to fill her
with his flesh. He hesitated, seemed to debate the matter and finally surged
upward.  Shoving the thick rounded head of his cock into the mouth of her sex,
he caught her knees and dragged her toward the edge of the bed, toward him.

Her
flesh closed around his in a stranglehold that thwarted his entry.  Slipping an
arm beneath her hips, he grasped her arm with his other hand and hauled her
upright.  As confused as she was, Bronwyn was as desperate for his possession
as he was to thrust inside of her.  She locked her legs around his hips as he
brought her upright, looping her arms around his neck to support herself as he
caught her hips and bore down on them, sheathing himself within her by
agonizing inches.  She bit down lightly on the ropy connective tissue between
his neck and shoulder as he finally possessed her completely, grinding his hips
against her cleft as if he wanted to climb inside of her.  The abrasion of his
flesh against her sensitive flesh breached the last of her defenses.  She
emitted a low groan as exquisite pleasure burst inside of her, trembling with
the intensity of it.  The milking motions of her contractions sent him over the
edge, as well.  Clutching her tightly, he pumped his seed into her in short,
swift strokes, staggering slightly with the force of his own climax and finally
collapsing onto the bed with her still clutched tightly against him.

They
lay still, entwined, gasping for breath, unable even to move for many moments. 
Finally, still holding her to him, Nightshade struggled further onto the bed
and loosened his hold on her.

Sated,
glorying in the warm afterglow, Bronwyn made no attempt either to gather her
wits or to gather herself to move away.  Instead, once she had recovered some
presence of mind, she snuggled closer to his body, resting her hand lightly on
his massive chest.  He lifted a hand with obvious effort and dropped it to her
head, which was nestled on his shoulder, stroking her hair.  “I did not hurt
you, sweeting?” he asked gruffly after a moment.

From
out of nowhere the urge to weep swept over her, filling her eyes with tears and
overflowing.

Chapter Eight

Bronwyn
sniffed, struggling to stem the scalding tears and failed.  He had called her
sweeting!  He had just made her feel the most wonderful thing in the world,
loved her body almost worshipfully, and now he was worried that he had hurt
her?

She
made a snuffling sound as she fought the urge to break down and squall like an
infant, realizing abruptly that it was the sense of hopeless that filled her at
his words that had broken the dam.  He cared for her and she had fallen
desperately in love with him and there was no hope for them!  None!

Feeling
the hot tears seeping from her eyes, he sat up abruptly, grasping her jaw and
tilting her face up to his gaze.  “No,” she answered him finally through lips
that struggled awkwardly with the effort of forming even that word.

He
released her abruptly, surging from the bed.  She scrubbed the tears from her
eyes with her hands, but they only filled again, blurring her vision as she
tried to look at him.  The look on his face when she finally brought his image
into focus was truly terrible.  “You did not hurt me,” she said shakily.

His
face, already drained of color, went perfectly blank.  She watched his throat
work as he swallowed.  “Why do you weep, then?” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

She
didn’t want to tell him.  What would it change to tell him?  Would he even
believe her?  She scarcely believed it herself, and yet she had only to look at
him to feel, deep in her soul, that he had touched her as no other ever had. 
He cared for her.  He had thrown away his only chance of breaking the curse
upon him because he could not bear to see her hurt. He had lavished her with
his passion and given her wondrous pleasure in return. 

He
hurt. She could only begin to imagine what torment his existence had been to
him. He needed her as badly as she needed him.

“I
do not know,” she lied.

He
knew instantly that she was lying.  Pain flickered in his eyes, contorted his
features.  “I cannot help the beast I am,” he snarled, staring down at his
hands as if he hardly recognized them as his own.

Bronwyn
stared at his hands, as well, and then glanced down at herself, spying the deep
red marks from their rough lovemaking, the beginnings of bruises.  “Nay!  You
are no beast to me!”

He
shook his head.  Turning, he strode to the window and leapt upon the sill.

Bronwyn’s
heart seemed to stand still in her chest.  She couldn’t allow him to leave
believing he had hurt her!  Scrambling from the bed, she raced toward him.  “I
was weeping for us, beloved!” she cried, grasping his hand in both of hers and
demanding that he look at her.  “I love you, Nightshade,” she gasped
breathlessly when his gaze met hers.

He
snatched his hand back as if hers had burned him, stared at her wordlessly in
shock for a split second and then his face contorted as if he were in terrible
pain and he tumbled from her window.

Stunned,
Bronwyn stared blankly at the thick snow falling beyond the window for many
moments before she gathered her wits to look out.  She could see nothing but
the falling snow however and after a moment, shivering with both the cold from
the storm and the coldness that had begun to creep inside of her, she closed
the window and retreated to her bed, cursing herself for ten kinds of fool.

* * * *

Pain
tore through him, pain such as he could not recall feeling in his memory.  It
blinded him, clawed at his mind so that he could not think.  It was instinct
that guided him to try to catch the air currents with his wings as he felt
himself plummeting toward the ground below, but he had no control.  Briefly, he
felt an uplift of his body as if his wings had caught a strong updraft, felt
the slowing of his descent, and then nothing. 

He
struck the ground with stunning force, a force that punched the air from his
lungs and shut down thought for an unaccountable time.  As he lay stunned,
staring up at the white flakes fluttering down to powder his face, tangling in
his eyelashes, he began to feel as if his skin was on fire.  His teeth began to
chatter together so loudly that the sound finally penetrated his preoccupation
with the burning.

He
was cold! 

Stunned
by that realization, he struggled in the shifting drift and finally managed to
push himself upright.  His hands, he discovered when he lifted them to see why
they were stinging, were scraped and cut.  He stared in disbelief at the abrasions
as the bright red blood seeped to the surface and dripped to the snow.

Finally,
he dropped his hands and pushed himself to his feet, looking around to get his
bearings.  A frown of puzzlement knit his brows when he realized that he could
scarcely see for the dark and the pelting snow.

After
a moment, he lifted his head and stared upward.  Dimly, he could see the glow
of light from a window high above him. 

He’d
fallen.

He’d
injured himself in the fall.

He
pondered that, staring at his palms again, trying to ignore the cold that was
rattling his bones as he stood naked in the snow. 

He’d
felt the pain of transformation, and yet it was night.  There was no sign at
all that the sun would soon break the horizon.

And
the pain had been like nothing he had felt before, not like it was each morning
when his body transformed once more from flesh to stone.

Contemptuous,
spiteful laughter rose in his memory, seemed to ring in his, for he had
memorized long ago every word from Gaelzeroth’s lips that had sealed his fate
forever. 
Until the day a woman looks upon you with love in her heart, you
will guard my keep from my enemies, keep watch over me and mine like the good
little watch dog you are!

Warmth
flooded him in spite of the cold.  She loved him! 

A
tentative smile curled his lips.  His little rose, his Bronwyn loved him!

A
shaky laugh escaped him, a sound that had not emerged from him in …. He broke
off the thought, sobering. 

He
was going to freeze to death.  “Beloved,” he muttered wryly.  “You picked a
hell of a time to free me!”

The
full impact of his predicament began to settle inside of him.  He had
nothing--no clothes, no weapon--no wealth, no estate, no chance to win his
beloved Bronwyn.

“Evil
bastard!” he snarled, looking around again and trying to formulate a plan since
his wits was all he had and the strength of his arms. 

Any
curse can be broken
,
Gaelzeroth had said. 
The trick is to formulate one so cleverly diabolical
that it is
unlikely
to ever be broken!

It
would not have been either, if not for the fact that he had become so enamored
of Bronwyn that he had not counted the cost to himself, that he had not been
able to stay away even knowing she must be revolted or, more likely, terrified
by his beastly form.  He would have been perched still on his prison ledge to
guard the knave’s keep forever.

And
he had been stripped of everything. 

Fury
began to boil inside of him as the realization sank into him fully that he was
still cursed, for he had no way to take his lady to wife.

Stalking
purposefully across the keep, his hands balled into fists, he headed straight
for the guard room.  He knew that few would be on watch on such a night as this
and those few would most likely be as drunk as the king’s man who’d been sent
to oversee them but preferred to keep his fat ass warm before the hearth in the
great room.

There
were three men-at-arms he discovered when he pushed the door open and entered. 
They looked up from the game of chance they were playing half-heartedly and their
mouths slowly slid to half-mast.  Stalking purposefully toward them, he grabbed
the nearest, hauled him from his seat and punched him squarely in the jaw. 
Pain exploded in his hand, but he ignored it as he had the cold, flinging the
unconscious man toward the others.  One sprang away from the body as it flew
toward.  The other went down beneath the weight of the unconscious man. He
slammed his fist into the second man’s belly as the soldier grabbed for his
sword.  Off balance already, the blow doubled him over, sending him further off
balance.  He sprawled in the floor.  Before he could get up, Nightshade had the
blade at his throat.  “Don’t,” he growled warningly.

The
man subsided and Nightshade turned his attention to the third man.  Seeing he
was still struggling to crawl out from under the first man, Nightshade whipped
the sword in his direction.  “Slowly, unless you’re of a mind to be spitted on
my blade.”

The
man subsided and Nightshade looked them over one by one.  “You!  Get up and tie
these two up.”

The
man stared at him blankly for a moment but rose cautiously to his feet when
Nightshade backed up a few paces.  The two men still conscious exchanged a
speaking glance as the man who’d been order to tie the other two moved slowly
to obey.  “It will cost you your life,” Nightshade growled warningly. 

The
man sent him a startled glance, tensed for a moment and finally relaxed again,
conceding defeat.  “Ye look familiar.  Who are ye, then?” he asked sullenly as
he searched the room and finally brought a coil of rope and proceeded to tie
the other two men as Nightshade directed.

“It
would mean nothing to you if I told you.”

“How’d
ye get into the keep?”

Nightshade
ignored that, watching the man through narrowed eyes until he’d tied the other
two men and then motioning him aside so that he could check the bindings.  His
lips tightened and he sent the man a menacing glare.  “Tighter--or I could
simply slit their throats and eliminate the problem.”

The
man’s face reddened with fury but he returned to his comrades and tied the rope
more securely.  “There’s only one reason I can think a man’d be running about
bare arsed in weather like this,” he muttered.  “An’ that’s on account of the
woman he was fuckin’ tossed him out--Or he got caught plowin’ some maid he ought
not.”

Uttering
a snarl of fury, Nightshade caught the man square on the jaw with the hilt of
his sword.  Grasping the man’s tunic as he fell to the floor, he dragged the
man up by the fistful of fabric until they were almost nose to nose. 
“Dangerous thoughts and a loose tongue,” he snarled.  “Should I slit your
throat, I wonder?  Or cut out your tongue?”

The
man’s eyes, still rolling about in his head from the blow, bulged.  As he
stared at the rage contorting Nightshade’s face, however, his fear deepened and
his expression became a look of purest horror.  “Nightshade,” he whispered
hoarsely.

Nightshade
shook him and released him.  “The clothes.  Take them off.”

Shaking
like a leaf blowing in a strong wind, the man nodded jerkily and began to
snatch his clothing off and toss it until he stood shivering in his chausses. 
Nightshade looked the garment over with distaste.  “Those too.”

The
man gaped at him but hastened to comply, dropping his undergarments beside the
rest. 

“Thank
you,” Nightshade said almost pleasantly and then slammed his fist into the
man’s jaw.  The soldier’s eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the
floor.

Setting
the sword aside, Nightshade pulled the clothes on, trying to ignore the stench
that clung to them.  He’d judged the man closest to his size, but the clothing
was still far too tight, the sleeves of the tunic and legs of the breeches too
short.  Muttering curses under his breath, he tugged the stockings on and
shoved his feet into the boots.

He’d
be crippled, he thought wryly, if he had to walk far in the things for he had
to curl his toes to get them on.  It still beat the hell out of frozen feet and
toes.