One With the Night (7 page)

*   *   *

His eyes opened on darkness. He tried to get his breath. His body was bathed in sweat and tears ran down his temples. He had been dreaming of
her
again. He swallowed, trying to moisten his dry mouth. Could he not have resisted her? Was there not some way to go back in time and find a way to save even a small portion of his soul?

*   *   *

Marrakech, August 1819

Callan came to himself slowly, trying to remember what had happened. He blinked. He’d been captured trying to fight his way to the gates of the city. The invading army had red eyes. Had that been his imagination? Now he seemed to be lying on the floor of the Dey’s audience room. Once it had been crowded with supplicants when he’d been here before as part of the Irish legation looking for support from Morocco in their quest for independence from England.

He pushed himself up on one elbow. His head spun until he shook it and his vision cleared. Now the vast room was empty. The hangings on the walls could not make it comfortable. It was lit dimly, with smoking wall sconces around the perimeter and candles in tall holders standing around a carpeted dais at one end. He lay in front of the dais, naked. The marble was cool on his bare flanks. On the dais, draped on a kind of low, pillowed sofa lounged a woman, her head thrown back over the pillows to bare her graceful throat. She had a classic profile and perfect skin. Her kohl-lined eyes were closed, one arm flung up over her forehead. She was hardly dressed. A diaphanous red gown was slit to her waist and held there by an intricate golden girdle. He could clearly see her nipples and the dark triangle of hair below the girdle. It was rumored that the leader of the army that had captured Marrakech was a woman. Was this her? He could hardly credit it. But who else would occupy the Dey’s palace?

She turned her head slowly. Her eyes opened. They glowed red like smoldering coals. Not human! Callan wanted to struggle, but he did not. The eyes examined him. She smiled. Fear trembled down his spine. “Your blue eyes saved you,” she said, in Arabic. “My servants knew you would please me.”

He didn’t have blue eyes. They were gray-green. But no one ever looked closely enough to notice that. The woman had no bodyguard. Callan was a big man who had fought against her invading army. Yet she thought herself secure alone with him. He must get out of here!

But he made no move to escape.

“Kneel up,” she said. Or maybe she had not said it at all. Her voice was inside his head. His skin crawled. He wouldn’t kneel to her! But the impulse to obey gnawed at him. He clenched his muscles in resistance. She smiled and her eyes went redder still. He gasped and doubled over. Pain burst in his brain. But he couldn’t look away. Slowly, jaw clenched, he got to his knees. She wanted his knees spread wider. His chest heaved with effort, but still, God help him, he spread them. His balls grew heavy and his cock swelled. How could he get an erection now, full in her view? The scent of cinnamon filled his senses.

“You are well enough,” she said, surveying him. “Es tu Anglais ou Français?”

He could not refuse to answer, but he hardly knew what to say. Scots by upbringing, Irish by birth. The last thing he would say was British. “Scots-Irish.” Close enough.

She switched to English. “You have the Celt in you. You remind me of Robert Le Bois.” Her eyes darkened to burgundy. Callan’s loins pulsed. The audience room was hot. Sweat trickled down his back. Wasn’t Le Bois the Frenchman who had taken Jerusalem in the First Crusade? Yet she talked as though she knew him personally. “He taught me that cruelty could be pleasurable by taking pleasure in his cruelty to me.” She beckoned Callan with one long, gilt-painted nail. He crawled up to the dais and knelt beside her. He was fully erect now, his balls almost bursting. “I may be developing a taste for British men.” Her voice was a seductive whisper in his ear. Her breath on his neck made his right side erupt in gooseflesh. He raised his chin, baring his throat, because she wanted that.

“The first taste,” she whispered, “is always the sweetest.” Her eyes went carmine. Her lips caressed his throat. Something sharp scraped there. Fear washed over him. Two sharp points of pain just under his jaw made him want to cry out in revulsion. She had bitten him! But he did not cry out. She held him by the nape of the neck as she sucked at the great artery in his throat. How could sucking his blood be sexual? Yet his cock throbbed in unison with the pull of her lips. He moaned, not sure whether it was in pleasure or in pain.

When she withdrew, blood smeared her mouth. She licked her lips, smiling over canines that were longer than human teeth could be. “I like blood salty with a man’s sweat.”

In his mind she bid him come to her. With revulsion in his heart he pulled himself up beside her and moved aside the diaphanous red fabric over her breast. Her nipple was tight in anticipation. He licked it softly as she let out a little moan. That was what she wanted. She tasted of salt and smelled of cinnamon. He moved to the other breast. She ran her fingers through his hair. He sucked at the nipple. She wanted him to suck harder and he did, rolling the tip between his lips. She allowed his hands on her body, cupping the other breast, moving over her belly and hip. Damp skin slid over damp skin. She wanted his cock now. She spread her knees. He parted the panels of her skirts and lay between her golden thighs. She pulled his buttocks down with both hands and he pressed into her as she lifted her hips to grind against him. She controlled the pace of his thrusting, dictated the arch of his back, the kisses he lavished on her neck and breasts. He thought he would burst, but he didn’t. His erection became nearly painful. With horror he realized she could somehow make him hard but keep him from coming, just as her will could creep inside his mind. He thrust again and again, until she moaned with her release. Her womb grasped at his cock as it contracted. At any other time he would have been spurting in unison with his partner. But this was not a partnership, and she did not allow that.

When she was done with him, it was she who rolled him to the side. She was too strong for a woman. His mind fluttered in disbelief at what had just happened. His cock still throbbed with need against her thigh.

After a while, she raised herself against the pillows and poured some wine. “You’ll do nicely,” she remarked. “A good, strong cock, straight and thick, bigger than most.” She took his shaft in one hand, examining it as she sipped. “Your sac is tight and high. It presents your stones well.” She glanced up at his face. “You look so horrified.” She smiled that smile again, secret with satisfaction. “Broad shoulders, a tight belly, powerful thighs and buttocks. And blue eyes into the bargain. Excellent. You’re strong. I’ll wager you last a long time.”

She could make him do
anything.
The realization went beyond horror into a spiritual numbness that might be despair. He couldn’t afford despair. He shook himself mentally. He must escape, bide his time until her attention was not on him, and escape.

She opened her eyes. “You respond nicely as well.” She tossed him a cloth that had been tied about a jug of wine and he wiped his mouth. “But there is the matter of punishment.”

Had he not just abased himself beyond belief at her command?

“Ah, but you did not submit without an effort on my part. That is not acceptable.”

His mouth was dry. If what she had just done to him was not punishment, what was?

*   *   *

Callan flung an arm over his forehead and turned his head, trying to suppress the sound in his throat. Slowly he got his breath. He wiped his face, ashamed of his tears, ashamed of far more than that. He wouldn’t think about that time. He wouldn’t let thoughts of Asharti into his life at the very moment he might have a chance to become human again. He was not like her. He was
not
 … like … her …

That had not been the worst of it, of course. But he had escaped Asharti. He had hope of a cure for his condition.

His stomach turned. What a fool! He would never escape what he had done in the desert, for her, and in her name. The doctor might cure him. But he was afraid there was no cure for the damage he had done to his soul.

CHAPTER
Five

The bed was hot. She was sweating as though it were July in Siena, where her father took her when she was twenty. But she was naked. The heat was inside as well as outside. She ran her hands through her hair and felt the dampness. And then she smelled it; cinnamon and something else she could not name, a sweet undertone, and underneath that, the smell of a man, sweating. He came out of the darkness and he was naked too, his muscles heavy even in quiescence, his hair curling round his shoulders. The gray-green of his eyes should have been cool, but it wasn’t. She should have been modest or embarrassed, but she wasn’t, God help her. She arched her back to lift her hips from the tangle of sheets, feeling her nipples peak on swollen breasts. Her eyes strayed to his loins. His member swelled and straightened. The throbbing at the place between her legs grew almost painful. She stretched out a hand, inviting, though adding his heat to hers might well cause spontaneous combustion. He touched her outstretched hand …

And his eyes went red.

Jane gasped and sat straight up in her bed. Her heart was pounding. She could hardly draw breath. Fear sat in the dim room, palpable. Her gaze darted from corner to corner. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tightly across the windows. Just her room. No eyes either—gray-green or red. The dream faded, leaving only the throbbing wet between her thighs.

Dear God! What is happening to me? Have I lost all control over my body, that I have such a reaction to a man in the house? One whom I’ve seen naked? And erect …

Just a dream. She swallowed and shook her head. It seemed to pound.

No, that wasn’t her head. It was the sound of boot heels on a wooden floor. The events of the night before came rushing back. Mr. Kilkenny was moving about in his room only a few feet from where she lay in her thin night rail. She was trapped in the house by the daylight with a man who had been a red-eyed monster last night and who made her have dreams mixed equally of lust and fear. She hugged her body.
You are just like him,
she admonished herself,
and he knows more about your condition than you do.
She had not had the courage to ask him last night about the red eyes. Her father had never mentioned her having red eyes. Perhaps he daren’t. A flicker of fear spiraled down her spine. Was she afraid of Mr. Kilkenny or of herself?

Nonsense! She must look at this as interviewing a subject. She would take the scientific approach. Practitioners of science were not afraid. She grabbed her journal from the night table. She had been up most of the night making notes about her observations. And she had kept them perfectly scientific. The only mention of the strange effect Mr. Kilkenny seemed to have upon her was … She flipped some pages … “The subject is a fine specimen of a male in his prime.” She hadn’t said male what. She couldn’t decide between “man” and “vampire.” Had his disease brought him beyond being human at all?

She needed information. She must gather the courage to ask for it. And if he was reluctant, she must pry it out of him.

She threw back her tangled, damp bedclothes and hopped out of bed. She pulled open her wardrobe. Hmmm. All her dresses were shades of gray and black, severe in style as befitted a serious student of scientific method, even if she was only a midwife and not a doctor. A tendril of regret wound through her thoughts. It didn’t matter. After all, she had no desire to impress Mr. Kilkenny except with her professionalism. She chose a dress at random. She pulled on her half-corset and her skirt, then the sleeves and bodice. She had added some ingenious buttons that allowed her to dress herself. She brushed out her hair. It was thick enough, and shiny. If only it were guinea-gold instead of all those different, streaky colors. Well, he wouldn’t be able to tell much about the color anyway with it all tied up in a knot. She twisted ruthlessly, pinned, and then pulled out some curls at the side. There.

Jane marched out of her room and down the hall. She gave herself no time to think but knocked on the door behind which the pacing had suddenly stopped. “Mr. Kilkenny?”

No sound.

“Mr. Kilkenny?” She put her hands on her hips. She knew very well he was awake. “I am not going away.” There were two abrupt strides inside and the door jerked open.

Jane took a step back. He looked fierce. His hair was tousled. His three-day growth of beard was now four. His eyes were red rimmed and there were circles under his eyes. He wore only a shirt and breeches with the boots she’d cleaned and the shirt was open at the throat, revealing the dark hair of his chest.

“What d’ye want?” he growled.

Well! “To … to ask how you did!” she sputtered. “Though I see my solicitude was quite misplaced!” She made a half-turn to stalk down the stairs, not sure whether she was more offended or frightened.

Before she could go, she heard him mutter, “Get hold o’ yerself, man,” under his breath.

She frowned and turned. He had dipped his head and now ran one hand through his dark curls, his other palm braced on the edge of the open door. And … and now that she looked more closely, he was breathing hard. A sheen of sweat slicked his neck and chest. The scars she’d seen last night stood out whitely. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

He straightened. “Nothin’. I … I need ta go out for a bit is all.” He reached for his coat.

“It’s still light.”

He chewed his lip. “An hour. I’ll go in an hour.” He looked around as if wondering what he could possibly do with himself for an hour. His hands definitely shook. He looked down at them and clasped them forcibly together.

Everything became clear.

“You need blood, don’t you?”