Night's Mistress (Children of the Night) (13 page)

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Authors: Amanda Ashley

BOOK: Night's Mistress (Children of the Night)
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Heaven, he thought as her hands moved over him. Or at least as close to it as he was likely to get. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to her touch.
Mara glanced at the water, which was turning bright pink with blood. She should have run the shower for him instead, she thought, but it was too late now. She washed him as gently as she could. So many bites and scratches, some of which would have been fatal if he had been a mortal man, while others would have taken weeks to heal. Yet even as she watched, the bruises and less serious gashes he had sustained were knitting together, fading, disappearing.
Logan opened one eye. “Why don’t you join me?”
“I don’t think so.” She grimaced at the water, which was now an even darker shade of pink. “You’ll need a shower when you get out of there.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”
She ran the soapy rag over his broad shoulders and down his arms, over his flat belly and his long, muscular legs, and all the while, she tried to ignore the growing evidence of his desire and the rush of heat that pooled low in the pit of her stomach.
She wondered how many women had shared his bed. She wanted to hate them, all of the nameless females who had made love to him in the past, but it was impossible. How could she fault them for wanting him when she was aching for his touch, hungry for the taste of his kisses? When she yearned to feel the weight of his body on hers, to hear his voice whispering sweet love words in her ear?
She frowned when she met his knowing gaze.
“Aching for my touch, are you?” he asked with a roguish grin.
“Oh!” She threw the washcloth in his face. “Stop reading my mind!”
“Hungry for my kisses?” Laughing softly, he grabbed her wrist when she would have retreated. Rising to his knees, he drew her closer to whisper,
“Ti amo, il mio angelo, il mio cuore, la mia vita.”
I love you, my angel, my heart, my life.
And then he kissed her.
Her eyelids fluttered down, all thought of resistance melting away as his mouth covered hers in a hot hungry kiss. His hand slid under her hair to cup her nape as he deepened the kiss, his tongue mating slowly, sensuously, with hers in an erotic dance older than time itself.
“Mara.” His breath fanned the curve of her throat. “You make me weak.”
She smiled inwardly, thinking that, in spite of his wounds, he was anything but weak.
In a single, fluid movement, he rose from the tub. Lifting her with him, he carried her into the bedroom. She didn’t protest when, using his preternatural power, he bared her body to his gaze and then, murmuring her name, he lowered her to the bed and stretched out beside her.
“You’re all wet,” she murmured. “The bed . . .”
“Will dry.” He nibbled on her earlobe, raked his fangs, ever so lightly, along the side of her neck. “Let me.”
She had no thought to refuse. Whether he wanted to taste her or make love to her or drain her dry, she didn’t care, so long as he eased the need burning deep inside of her.
He was the warrior, victorious in battle, and she was the prize. He claimed her boldly, his hands worshiping her beauty as he stoked the flame of her desire and then, feeling her shudder beneath him, he uttered a wild cry reminiscent of men going to battle as he thrust deep within her, felt her silky heat surround him, carrying him to victory yet again.
 
 
Some time later, Logan rained kisses along her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the point of her chin. “So, how’s that ache?”
Mara punched him on the shoulder. “As if you didn’t know.”
He laughed softly. “I’ve got to say, this night ended up a lot better than it started.” He placed his hand on her belly. “How many other enemies do you suppose you’ve got out there?”
“I don’t know,” she said, smothering a yawn, and then, as a new thought occurred to her, she sat up, her arms folded over her belly. What if she ran into others she had turned against their will? Or if some mortal man attacked her? In her current state, she was helpless to protect her baby.
“What’s wrong now?” Logan asked, tugging her back down beside him.
“Maybe I’m making a mistake in keeping the baby.”
Logan blew out a sigh. She was as changeable as the wind. “What brought that up . . . ? Oh, never mind. Meeting Rogen. Right?”
“If you hadn’t been here . . .” She didn’t want to think of what might have happened if she had been alone.
“Stop worrying, darlin’,” he said, running his knuckles down her cheek. “I’ll always be here.”
Chapter Eighteen
 
Logan and Mara returned to the house in Tyler the following night. After seeing Mara safely inside, Logan kissed her on the cheek, then left to go hunting.
Mara curled up on the sofa. She was glad to be home again, away from the crowds and the lights. On her last visit to the doctor, Ramsden had advised her that he intended to induce her on the eighteenth of October. When she had asked why he thought it necessary to induce the baby, Ramsden had reminded her that he was a vampire and as such, he would have to deliver the baby at night, in his office.
“Don’t worry,” he had said, “I have a complete hospital room set up downstairs. And if there should be complications . . .” He made a vague gesture with his hand. “I think it would be better for all concerned that no one else be aware of it. It wouldn’t be wise to have blood samples fall into the wrong hands, or for people to ask questions we’d rather not answer.”
She wondered why he hadn’t mentioned inducing her before, and why the idea of having the baby in his office filled her with such trepidation.
Four more weeks until she held her baby in her arms. She could hardly wait. She just hoped the next four went by faster than the last.
The sound of laughter drew her to the window. Across the street, a handful of teenage boys were playing basketball in the driveway. A couple of fathers sat on the front porch, watching. Her neighbors were friendly, nodding and waving whenever they saw her.
Soon after she and Logan had moved in, their next-door neighbor, Louise, had invited Mara over for coffee and donuts. Mara had been hesitant to go at first. Making small talk with human females was something she had rarely done. She was even more diffident when Louise invited her inside. In the big family kitchen, Louise introduced her to three other women who lived in the neighborhood. The women had welcomed Mara like an old friend as they introduced themselves. Sally Blankman had nine-year-old twin boys and lived across the street. Her husband, Terry, was a dentist. Judy Michaels lived next door to Sally. Judy had a three-month-old daughter. Her husband was an airline pilot. Monica Sorenson lived next to Mara. Monica had three teenage daughters. Her husband was a Marine.
As soon as Mara had settled at the table with a cup of hot coffee and a chocolate donut, the ladies asked about the baby. Was this her first? How far along was she? Did she know if it was a boy or a girl? Once she had answered all their questions about her pregnancy, they had shared their stories of childbirth with her, stories of eighteen-hour labors and emergency C-sections that had given Mara nightmares and made her wonder why any woman, having gone through childbirth once, would willingly do it again.
 
Now pressing a hand to her aching back, Mara went into the kitchen for a glass of milk, which led to a couple of cookies and another glass of milk. She thought about trying to write more on the story of her life, but she just didn’t have the energy. Maybe it had been a silly idea. Who would believe it, anyway?
With a sigh, she put the glass in the sink, then waddled into the living room to watch TV. She had gained so much weight, she would probably never be thin again. Logan told her repeatedly that she wasn’t fat, she was pregnant. Easy for him to say. She had weighed a hundred and ten pounds for as long as she could remember. Well, those days were long gone. The last time the doctor had weighed her, she had gained almost forty pounds. When she was standing up, she couldn’t even see her feet anymore, which was just as well, because they were all fat and swollen, too.
Of course, she couldn’t blame it all on the baby. Ever since she had discovered that mortal food didn’t make her sick, she had devoured practically everything in sight, but after over two thousand years on a warm liquid diet, who could blame her?
Because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she went into the bedroom and booted up the computer, then called up her life story. She read it from the beginning, adding a few paragraphs here, rearranging a few sentences there, reliving each chapter as she read. It needed a lot of work, she thought, but then, she wasn’t a writer, and if she decided to keep the baby, there would be no reason to hurry. She would have the next eighteen years or so to finish it.
If
she decided to keep the baby. Logan had said he would always be there. But would he? And if he left, how would she manage without him?
She tapped her fingers on the desktop as she gathered her thoughts, and then she began to write . . .
I moved to Georgia just before the start of the Civil War. It was an era I dearly loved, a time of quiet elegance and Southern charm, of chaperones and nannies. With its rigid rules about propriety and its quaint customs, it was like a make-believe world, so different from anything I had ever known before.
I bought a plantation, complete with a few servants who were warned of dire consequences if they intruded on my rest during the day. I knew they gossiped about my peculiar ways, about the fact that I didn’t eat in their presence, but it was of no consequence. I treated them well and they had no reason to rise against me.
It was an elegant time. I loved playing the part of a Southern belle, adored the clothes of the period, the long dresses and longer courtships, the dainty hats and gloves, the enormous petticoats, the balls and cotillions, the country barbeques. And, most of all, the handsome young men clad in Confederate gray. What dashing creatures they were. Innately polite, they treated their women like porcelain dolls, to be displayed and treasured but never taken too seriously.
Life changed with the coming of the Civil War, a war the South embraced, but had little chance of winning. In spite of the War, the South clung to the old ways.
I especially remember Lieutenant Captain Jeffrey Dunston. Ah, Jeffrey, with his hair like burnished gold and his blue, blue eyes. Clad in his uniform and plumed hat, he cut quite a gallant figure the evening he rode up to the plantation astride a big black horse.
Dismounting, he climbed the stairs, one hand on the saber at his side, his bright blue eyes twinkling when he saw me standing in the doorway. Of course, it was considered quite scandalous for him to come calling when I didn’t have a proper chaperone, and even moreso to visit a lone female after dark. I was of the opinion that one of the reasons he enjoyed my company was my open disdain for propriety.
He bowed over my hand. “Miss Mara.”
“Lieutenant, this is a surprise.”
“A pleasant one, I hope.”
“But of course. Please, come in.”
After removing his hat, he followed me into the front parlor and, at my invitation, took a seat on the lovely, high-backed sofa.
“I’m afraid I have come to deliver bad news.” His thick Southern drawl poured over me, warm and sweet, like summer molasses.
“Bad news?” I sat beside him, my hands folded primly in my lap. “Whatever do you mean?”
“The Yankees are coming. It isn’t safe for you to stay here, with no chaperone and no one to protect you.”
“You’re very sweet to worry about me so, but I’m not afraid.”
“I know you’re not, Miss Mara, but I’m afraid for you. Promise me you will leave tomorrow, while there’s still time.”
I placed my hand on his and batted my eyelashes. “I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, but I assure you I’ll be all right.” I smiled inwardly. It was the Yankees who should be afraid.
“You are far too brave.” Dunston sighed as he covered my hand with his own. “I’m afraid I have more bad news.”
“Oh, no.”
“My regiment is leaving tomorrow. I don’t know when we’ll be back.”
“That is bad news,” I said, and meant it. I had hoped to amuse myself with him for another few weeks. He was such a gentle, easygoing young man, it was hard to believe he was fit for battle. I couldn’t imagine him riding off to war, enduring hardship. Taking a life.
“Will you . . . ?” He cleared his throat. “Is there any chance that you’d . . .”
“That I’d what ?”
“Write to me.” A blush reddened his cheeks. “Wait for me. I know we haven’t known each other very long,” he said, his words tumbling over each other, “but we’ll whip those dirty Yankees in no time, and . . .”
“Don’t go, Jeffrey.”
“What?” He blinked at me. “I don’t understand.”
“Why don’t you stay here, with me, instead of going off to war?”
“Are you . . . are you asking me to desert my regiment?”
It was exactly what I was asking. I looked up at him through the veil of my lashes. “It sounds so awful, when you say it like that.”
“But that’s what you’re asking?”
“Wouldn’t you rather be here, with me?”
He sat up straighter. “Yes,” he replied stiffly, “but I cannot bring shame to my family, or to myself. And I cannot help being disappointed that you would suggest such a thing.”
“I’m sorry, Jeffrey,” I murmured contritely. “But I simply can’t abide the thought of you going off to war where you might be . . .” I sniffed loudly as I pulled a white lace hankie from my skirt pocket and dabbed at my eyes.
His expression immediately softened at my repentant look. “It’s all right, Miss Mara. And I’m . . . I’m deeply touched by your concern for my welfare. Truly, I am. But I must go.”
“Of course you must.” I gazed up at him. “Kiss me, Jeffrey. Kiss me once, before you go.”
“Miss Mara!” He looked as shocked as he sounded. Shocked and eager.
I seduced Jeffrey Dunston that night, promised him a new life if he would stay with me. Caught up in the throes of passion, bewitched by my preternatural power, he begged me to turn him so we could be together forever. It was a glorious night. I had seduced only a few virgins in my life. Their blood is the sweetest of all.
Jeffrey’s friends came looking for him the next day, quite frantic because he hadn’t slept in his bed the night before.
“Captain Cahill’s furious,” exclaimed a towheaded young man. “Iffen Jeffrey don’t show up right quick, he’s gonna be in mighty big trouble.”
The other two men nodded in agreement, their expressions somber.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, one hand pressed to my heart, “but I have no idea where Lieutenant Dunston might be.”
“He wasn’t here?” queried the towheaded young man. “He said he was a’ coming here to say his good-byes.”
“He did, indeed, come to bid me farewell, but he left soon after. He didn’t say where he was going, but I assumed he would be returning to his regiment. I do hope no harm has befallen him.”
“Obliged for your time and trouble, ma’am.”
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
I stood on the porch, my hand shading my eyes as I watched the trio mount and ride away. When they were out of sight, I went into the house, locked the door, and dismissed the servants for the night.
Humming
“Rose of Alabamy,”
I glanced upstairs. Come sundown, Lieutenant Jeffrey Dunston would rise, a newly made vampire. And like all of the newly Undead, he would be ravenous . . .

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