Blood Fire (14 page)
10
Seduced to Death
O
ctavia.
ctavia.
Just thinking of her name made Matthew hard and made him ache with desire. He and De Wynter were riding down a dark and quiet stretch of road, and Matthew fought to stay awake. But despite the fact that he had to remain alert, his wayward thoughts went to their wedding night. And to the very first time they had made love, when she had seduced him while masked.
He shifted in the saddle, but it was impossible to find a comfortable position. Riding with an erection was proving to be torture. He spurred his mount, trying to cover more ground faster, but his horse was also tired.
“You are right,” he called to De Wynter, who was riding a few feet ahead of him. “I have to stop for the night. Neither my poor horse nor I can go forever without rest. I saw a signpost for a village. We should be able to reach it within the hour.”
“A good plan,” De Wynter answered. “You need sleep.”
But if he slept, Octavia would come to him.
Every night he had vivid dreams about her, the most erotic dreams he’d ever had. Dreams of sweet sensual pleasures, filled with laughter. Every night had been a different enticing act, and each one came as a delicious surprise. Even when he had spent his day developing a specific fantasy, his dreams took him somewhere else.
And they felt so real.
One night, in the dream, he had lain on a blanket in a sun-drenched field, and Octavia had planted her bare pussy on his face while she deeply sucked his cock. He’d loved the sensation of lying in the hot sun with her hot, creamy quim against his mouth. Roses had dangled around her, the perfect backdrop to her sensual beauty.
The next night, they had been at a house party. Every detail had been astoundingly realistic. Octavia had been there, a gleaming angel in an ivory silk gown. First they’d danced. . . . Then they had escaped to the library and made love on the carpet in front of the fire. It had been sweet, laughing with her, kissing her as he plunged deeply inside her. The risk of discovery had obviously lent spice to the lovemaking for her.
De Wynter had told him the dreams felt real because in essence they were. But Matthew couldn’t understand it. How could she come to him, yet not actually be there? How could something that felt so good be killing him?
After reaching London from the Continent, and seeing to Gregory’s burial in his family’s crypt, he had left town and chased for more than two weeks across the countryside to find his wife, only to learn she had gone back to London. At the last inn, he and De Wynter had learned that a woman who matched his description of Octavia had been traveling to London with a beautiful dark-haired woman, who had used the name Mrs. Smith . . .
“Wake up, Sutcliffe. You almost fell off your horse.”
Matthew opened his eyes and found his horse had stopped and that De Wynter had caught him by the shoulder and stopped him falling to the ground. Ahead, lights twinkled.
“There’s the village. Can you stay awake for a few more minutes, or”—De Wynter gave a cocky grin—“or do you want to ride on my horse in front of me, and I’ll lead yours by the reins.”
“I can stay awake. And I want you to tell me who that dark-haired woman is. I saw the expression on your face when we got her description at the last inn. You recognized her.”
De Wynter shook his head. “I thought I did—I made an assumption and I was wrong. I thought she was one of the vampire queens. They like to meddle in the affairs of preternatural creatures. I thought one of them might have decided to help Lady Sutcliffe. But I should be able to sense the presence of a queen, and I don’t. This dark-haired woman does have some kind of power, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Wonderful,” Matthew growled. “My wife has been captured by some woman with unknown powers. She will be hidden from me in town. Finding her in teeming London will be next to impossible.”
“I don’t think she is being held captive.” De Wynter eased his horse into a rhythm at Matthew’s side. “I suspect this woman is protecting Lady Sutcliffe from the satyr.”
“Why is a blasted satyr pursuing her?” he barked. Matthew couldn’t let himself imagine the satyr’s capturing Octavia—otherwise he would go mad. He had to believe she was safe. If this mysterious woman was providing safety, he had to admit he was relieved—but he was furious Octavia was hiding from him.
“One of two reasons,” De Wynter answered. “The satyr could be attracted to her—succubi are extremely alluring, and satyrs are known for their lusty tendencies—”
He glowered at De Wynter.
“Or the satyr has been sent to destroy her.”
“Christ, why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“It was sufficient for me to know about the danger. I’ve sensed the presence of the satyr along the road, but he obviously did not attack your wife. I assume this means her companion knows how to keep a satyr at bay.”
They had reached the edge of the village’s green. Even though it was the middle of the night, light spilled from the local public house. Matthew urged his horse to trot toward it. Exhaustion made his head swim.
“Damnation,” he muttered. “I don’t understand why she ran away. Who is this mysterious woman she has accepted help from? Where in blazes is she going in London? Her father is sick with worry about her, and I’m going mad. She’s in danger, and I could have kept her safe. Why did she run when I vowed to protect her? She vanished the night she received my letter.”
“One might assume the letter influenced her decision,” De Wynter remarked. Despite having been awake for several nights, he looked bright and alert. “What did your letter say?”
The obvious question. De Wynter was right—obviously his letter had driven her to run. “I promised to look after her. I insisted I would.”
De Wynter nodded as though it was an expected answer. “Of course. The very thing that makes a woman run.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” He was itching to work off anger and would be happy to stop his horse in the middle of the village and fight De Wynter.
“How did you intend to look after her?”
“I can’t let her go to men at night in her dreams,” he said hoarsely. “I can’t let her be accused of witchcraft because she has magical powers. I told her I would take her to my most remote estate. That way she could stay away from people. I would keep on just a few loyal servants to look after her—”
“So you proposed that your married life would be an imprisonment for her? No wonder she ran.”
“She must know I’m trying to keep her safe.”
“I would guess she read possessiveness in your words, not protection.”
“There’s no difference. She is my wife.”
“There is a world of difference, Sutcliffe. Come, let’s turn into the inn and get some rest.”
“You never look like you need any. You’re usually fresh as a daisy at night.”
De Wynter slid him a glance. “Noted these things, have you?”
“I’ve noticed you behave like a vampire. But since you are a vampire slayer, I assume that hunting vampires has taught you to work at night and sleep in the day.”
“It’s rare that I hunt vampires now—only the truly dangerous ones like Esmeralda.”
He must be groggy from tiredness. “There are harmless vampires?”
“There are those who try to live in peace with mortals and who do not treat the living like dinner. I mostly do research now, trying to learn about them. In that, I am like you. You travel, observe, learn.”
He suspected De Wynter was reminding him to have an open mind. Matthew moved with the gentle trot of his horse, his thighs flexing. But his leg muscles throbbed, his neck ached, his arms felt like lead. “If vampires can live without attacking mortals, does that mean Octavia doesn’t have to have sex and take souls? Doesn’t it mean her demonic nature can be overcome?”
“I don’t know,” De Wynter said. “But you can’t imprison her out of fear. You have to believe in her. You have to love her no matter what, and accept her for what she is.”
“What kind of advice is that?” Matthew growled. “You told me that sleeping with her would eventually kill me.”
“No relationship is perfect.”
After that, Matthew was too tired for more conversation. He managed to stay awake long enough to give their horses to grooms, buy two rooms, and stumble upstairs to his bed. He fell on it, fully dressed. He shut his eyes. With an exhausted body and worried, ravaged soul, he felt himself slide into sleep quickly. He was groggy, but still slightly aware.
Suddenly, he was aware of something sliding around his wrist, and his hands were jerked together. Scratchy softness tightened around his wrists, locking them together. His lids flew open.
He was naked in bed, and Octavia was straddling his chest. Her blond hair tumbled loose down her back. Her full breasts swayed, and her tummy was a taut, lush curve, rounded with his baby.
Humming softly, she was tying his arms to his headboard.
Octavia could not believe what she was doing, but in her dream she felt naughty and confident. And wanton. Very wanton.
She wrapped a silky cord around her husband’s wrists, and her cunny ached as she did. She should not be doing such a thing. Yet she was soaking wet between her thighs and throbbing with desire. Why did the sight of a cord around his wrists excite her like this?
But it did. He had elegant, masculine hands, with strong wrists and big, hard forearms. Veins showed on his forearms, and the fact that she had this strong, powerful man under her control was thrilling.
She was astonished he was not angry. But in the dream, he was smiling at her. That special smile he gave when he desired her.
Feeling utterly devilish, she looped the rope through the carved curlicues on his headboard, so he was trapped. He gave a tug on the rope, but she felt it was more to prove he was captured, than to escape.
Why was he not enraged? Instead, he winked at her. “Now that I’m your prisoner,” he asked huskily, “what do you plan to do to me?”
“I—uh.”
“What do you want to do to me?”
Heavens, all kinds of naughty things.
“Since you are in command,” Sutcliffe said, “you should climb on top of me and fuck my brains right out of my head.”
She gasped in astonishment. But he lifted his hips hopefully, and she gathered her courage. Swinging her leg over, she straddled his hips. She had never even ridden a horse astride, never mind a husband.
“You’ll have to hold my cock up,” he suggested.
Awkwardly, she did. She grasped it and held it upright. She touched the head to her nether lips. Then she sank down on him.
What did she do now? She tried rocking up and down.
“Perfect.” He grinned. “You are perfect. And your bouncing breasts are beautiful.”
She looked down and saw her rounded bosom lurching up and down as she bounced on him. It felt pleasurable. She bounced harder. She loved letting her quim come down hard, loved the feeling of her bottom striking his legs.
“Touch yourself,” he rasped.
She slid her fingers down and with each bounce, she stroked her aching clit. Oh heavens, yes, it was perfect. This was why he liked to thrust hard and fast—it felt so good.
She rubbed hard . . . harder . . . then fireworks burst in her head, and pleasure took her, and she rocked madly on him.
She shut her eyes, feeling her muscles pulse and twitch, sobbing with delight as each wave of pleasure took her. He was close to coming too, his face contorted with the agony of sheer pleasure. Harsh lines ringed his mouth as he gave restrained moans. He jerked his hands, wildly rattling the headboard as he lifted his hips hard and fast to drive his cock into her climaxing quim.
It was stunning to watch him fiercely working toward orgasm. Beautiful to behold. Why did he have to be so cruel, wanting to imprison her?
Octavia wanted to take him to ecstasy. She ached for this to be real. Yearned for it. She wanted to be with him—
“Why are you here? What is your special magical power?”
Somewhere a woman was speaking to her . . . but Octavia did not know where. She was half asleep and dreaming of something naughty . . . of tying Sutcliffe’s hands together.
Octavia jerked groggily back to reality and saw white bed curtains tied with lavender ribbons and her now familiar vanity table and painted white wardrobe. She wasn’t with her husband; she was in her bedroom in Mrs. Darkwell’s house. Banked coals glowed in the grate across the room, and they threw a soft, reddish-gold light on the pale face of the ghost who stood in her room—the apparition who had spoken to her.
She sat up, and her sheets tumbled away. She was ready to fight, to run, when the figure stepped back swiftly and squeaked with pain when she bumped the door.
Octavia held up her hand. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. You startled me.”
It wasn’t a ghost. One of the other girls had sneaked into her room. The young woman had pale blond hair and wore a white nightgown. Her face was terribly white; her eyes were a dark blue and ringed with thick black lashes.
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