Darkness In The Flames (61 page)

Marcus groaned at the sensation even as Rowan sucked in a breath of delight.

Silk embraced Marcus, soft and light, cool yet heated by Marcus’ own thundering blood. They were joined in a unique way, each experiencing something new—something that bound them tighter into the relationship they had begun.

There was no tight clasp here, no slick embrace of a woman’s sex. And yet the sensation of penetration was equally as strong to Marcus. “That feels—” Words deserted him.

“Oh yes…” Rowan breathed past his fangs. “Oh
yes
.”

Gently, Marcus began to move his hand, stroking the foreskin and the encased cocks in a rhythm pleasing to him. That it pleased Rowan as well was evident from the tiny moans he could hear on the soft breaths next to his ear.

“Marcus, this is—
extraordinary
.”

“Isn’t it?” Marcus kept up his movements, unhurried and gentle, simply surrendering to the sensual delight of such a unique embrace.

For long minutes they remained linked, man to man, cock to cock, sealed by Rowan’s body and driven by Marcus’ desire.

Such exquisite sensations, however, were having a predictable effect on Marcus. He had not come in his dreams like Rowan. He had awoken filled with a need to release his come, a need that was even now rising to its peak once more.

“I cannot hold back, sweet Rowan. I near my limits…”

“Let go, Marcus.
Please
. I would feel you come like this. I want to know your heat, the pulse of your cock against mine. Give me your fire…”

Rowan’s gaze burned as Marcus stared at him. Flickers of desire lit the black eyes and Marcus was humbled at the passion he saw reflected there. “I cannot refuse you. Or myself.”

His strokes grew bolder, caresses designed to drive him to his peak. Yet always he was sensitive of Rowan’s body and the delicate flesh he was plundering in his need to explore such ecstasy with this man.

Marcus’ muscles tensed as his orgasm flowered at the base of his spine. “Kiss me. Kiss me while I come…”

He exploded as Rowan’s mouth claimed his and the sensation of long fangs crushed to his lips sent Marcus’ body into overload. Great spasms racked his balls and he spurted long jets of come against Rowan’s cock, bathing him in life’s essence, soaking him with the liquid evidence of his desire.

Rowan took it all willingly, delving deeply with his tongue into Marcus’ mouth, drinking his groans of delight, shuddering with him and holding him as he trembled through his orgasm.

Finally Marcus eased and Rowan pulled away, hands delicately soothing and calming the sweaty flesh, settling the tremors and stilling the heartbeat that Marcus knew still thundered in his chest.

After a few moments, Rowan spoke. “Thank you.”

“For what? ‘Twas I who derived all the pleasure.” Marcus blinked.

“Not true. I may not have come, but you accomplished something else. Something I thought was impossible.”

“I did?”

“Yes.” Rowan’s voice was steady. “You have lifted the shadows from my soul.”

*~*~*~*

“Are you all right?”

Rowan lifted his head at the question and looked at Marcus. They sat comfortably together in Marcus’ study where he had just finished a light repast. After bathing and dressing, they’d settled by mutual consent in this little sanctuary, each enjoying the other’s company and the many quiet moments where no words were necessary.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“You are very pale. Paler than usual.” Marcus’ voice betrayed some concern. “Might I guess you will need to feed soon?”

Rowan sighed. “Probably. At the moment I seem well enough, but yes. It has been some time.” He was struck by a thought. “You know, usually I feed from Thérèse in my visions. But this time—I awoke before I could complete the act. She fed from me, but…”

Marcus looked interested. “Really. Hmm.” He reached for a newspaper beside his chair. “Which reminds me. Does the name Sidney Chesswell sound familiar at all?”

Rowan thought. “I can’t place it. Seems I’ve heard it somewhere before, but damned if I can remember where. Why?”

“Well, there’s an article in here…” He rattled and folded pages, looking for the piece. “Yes, I’ve found it. Sidney Chesswell is a scientist of sorts.”

Rowan gazed at Marcus. “And this is news because…?”

Marcus studied the paper. “Apparently he gave a lecture to the Academy recently. He has quite the reputation, does our Sir Sidney. This particular piece implies he’s rather a crackpot, although does make mention of his distinguished scientific background in a variety of subjects.”

Rowan waited. There had to be more, or Marcus wouldn’t have mentioned it at all.

“However…” Marcus lifted his gaze over the paper and stared at Rowan. “There’s something here you might find interesting. A quote from his lecture.” He settled the sheets once more and began to read.

“Sir Sidney apparently addressed the issue of strange blood diseases. His son, it seems, contracted an ailment in Europe some time ago.” Brown eyes glanced up briefly at Rowan. “He goes on to say…
I have
,
as yet
,
been unable to determine the root cause of this ailment
,
but I continue my researches
.
My home in Hampshire is the ideal place to pursue my work
,
since it is quiet and I can work long nights undisturbed
.
Even by the local legends of red
-
haired temptresses with which my staff entertains me at St
.
Chesswell
’
s on a regular basis
.”

Rowan sat bolt upright. “You jest.”

Marcus shook his head. “I do not. This is a direct quote. And there is more.” He read on. “
Such legends are often based on fact
,
although the facts themselves are doubtless distorted by time and the telling
.
How much are creations of fertile imaginations and how much are true stories based on actual occurrences
,
I cannot
,
of course
,
discern
.
But I will add that I believe many such myths to have arisen from some reality
—
some event which occurred long ago
.
When I
’
m not busy with my experiments
,
I find much to interest me in the scholarly and scientific pursuit of these legends
.
My doors are always open to others who might be fascinated by the notion that demons do exist
,
whether red
-
haired or not
.”

Rowan’s brain whirled as Marcus laid the paper aside. “My God.”

“Quite.” Marcus stood. “It would seem that you, my friend, are not alone in your nightmares with Thérèse.” He moved to Rowan’s side and rested a hand on his shoulder. “There are others, here in England. Perhaps at Sidney Chesswell’s estate.”

Rowan looked up. “Do you believe that?”

Marcus nodded. “It makes sense. This…this
lecture
of Sir Sidney’s…it would mean little or nothing to anybody who had not run into her. But for those of you who
have
—” He paused for a moment. “Well, in my opinion, it’s a message. Clearly a message.”

Rowan frowned. “But a message for whom? To what end?”

Marcus shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out.” He moved to the bellpull and tugged on it. “How do you feel about a trip to Hampshire?”

Chapter Four

They set out on the following evening.

Both had matters to attend to, arrangements to make—and in Rowan’s case, people to notify. Not that it was of any great import since he was seldom involved in family business. But a trip of this nature and one that had no set duration…well, it was best he at least inform his business manager he’d be out of town for some time.

How long that time would be—neither man knew.

Marcus had no pressing calls on his time at all. He’d deliberately arranged his affairs to give him whatever freedom he could claim, whether it was spent at the gaming tables, in the arms of the latest courtesan or simply riding through the countryside near London.

Whatever it pleased him to do, he did. And now it pleased him to travel south with Rowan to Hampshire—and discover if anything existed at St. Chesswell’s that was of interest to them both.

They decided to ride alone—something which Marcus’ valet objected to in the strongest possible terms. But Marcus was adamant. This journey was for him and for Rowan. He was looking forward to the companionship and also their arrival in Hampshire and he knew Rowan needed to travel at night.

None of these things would be easily explained to a servant, no matter how faithful a retainer he was.

Thus the two men set off on their own, sedately walking their horses through the shadowed streets of London until they were free of the city and able to canter comfortably along moonlit roads heading south.

Bundles wrapped and stowed behind their saddles carried their worldly goods, along with a pair of dueling pistols for each man.

Marcus had chuckled a little at that. Rowan would prove to be a far more effective weapon than a pistol should danger threaten them, but he hoped that Rowan’s talents would also protect them both. His night vision was superb, his hearing acute and Marcus had no hesitation whatsoever in following where Rowan led without question.

Some things—well, one had to trust one’s instinct.

They would journey in easy stages, since there was no immediate hurry to reach their eventual destination. There were inns along the way, several of which Marcus had stayed at before. It was decided that they’d attempt to reach the Woking area on their first night—a long hard ride, but one that would give them an excellent head start and a comfortable inn at a small village just outside the town.

Focused on their journey, the conversation stayed at a minimum until Marcus reined in his horse and stretched in the saddle. “I believe we must make a turn at the crossroads ahead.”

Rowan pulled up. “The inn?”

“Yes. About a mile that way, if memory serves me.”

Rowan nodded. “Very well.” He glanced at Marcus. “Are you tired?”

Marcus chuckled. “I will admit that my arse is starting to feel every single inch of my saddle. It’s been some time since I rode for such a length of time without pause.”

“I’m sorry. ‘Tis my fault. I’m—excited about this, Marcus. Something seems to be drawing me south. You were right to suggest traveling to St. Chesswell’s. I can’t say why, but I know it’s right.”

The other man nodded. “Good. It feels right to me too.” Marcus glanced at the sky. “Dawn approaches. We must find ourselves rooms.” He spurred his horse onward once more, the tired beast seeming to sense that this journey was nearly ended.

Side by side, Rowan and Marcus followed the road and were greeted shortly thereafter by the welcome sight of a small inn, smoke curling up into the still-dark sky from several chimneys.

Unruffled by the early arrivals of guests, the innkeeper made them welcome and before too much time had passed, both men were settled into rooms where they could rest their weary bodies.

Marcus made sure Rowan’s was secured by a strong lock and heavy drapes—both of which were, thankfully, present. There was no need to scare a maid with the sight of Rowan’s “dead” body in his bed.

By mutual assent they’d decided to travel as befits gentlemen—separate rooms, paid for without comment. They received suitable treatment, a little bowing and scraping along with offers for refreshment, which both men courteously refused.

As he slipped into his own bed, Marcus knew that one thing was going to require attention very shortly. He’d observed the shadows darkening beneath his friend’s eyes and the pallor increasing in his already-pale skin.

Rowan absolutely
had
to feed. And
soon
.

*~*~*~*

Rowan himself knew the truth as he dragged himself from the inn the following evening. He was lethargic, fatigued and ached to his very bones.

“We must find you a meal this night.” Marcus was firm in his statement. “I will not have you suffer on my account, out of some courteous desire to spare me the details.”

Rowan opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but shut it again. Marcus was right. He had not wanted to give such an obvious demonstration of his nature even though his friend knew only too well what he was.

He simply nodded. “Yes. I know.” He was silent for a moment, then continued. “I have to confess that I hunger. But I would not want you to—I don’t wish for you to see—”

“Oh stop it, Rowan.” Marcus cut him off. “I know who and what you are. I have spent time with Thérèse, remember? There’s little I haven’t seen or done, some of which I’m not proud of either. So please put these missish concerns aside and let’s concentrate on finding you a source of food.”

“
Missish
?” Rowan raised an eyebrow, grinning at Marcus. “I’d hardly describe them as missish. Last I heard, there weren’t too many misses sinking fangs into the necks of unsuspecting victims and drinking their blood.”

Marcus laughed back. “Point taken.”

They rode on in companionable silence, their route taking them deep into the forests of northern Hampshire. They bypassed villages and any signs of obvious habitation—the less attention their journey attracted, the better, as far as Rowan was concerned.

There were few people abroad on this particular night, one or two coaches lumbered past the riders with a shout of warning, a few cheerful farmers bid them good evening as they made their way to their homes.

But as the hours drew on, it was as if they were alone in the night, just the two men and their mounts.

Then Rowan tilted his head to one side. “I hear something.”

Marcus halted his horse and listened too. “What?”

“A carriage. Small, just one horse perhaps. Speeding away from us. Over that way.” He pointed with his whip along the direction they traveled. “And—I
think
I hear footsteps now. Somebody walking.”