Blood Fire (16 page)

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Authors: Sharon Page

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Blood Fire
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Several matrons eyed him, no doubt wondering why he was here and his wife was not.
Scanning the crowd, he searched for Miss Compton. The instant he spotted her, he stalked over.
She turned white and stammered as he bowed to her. But after fifteen minutes talking to her, he had to admit defeat.
Miss Compton didn’t know where Octavia was. Damn it—it was his last hope. The crowd was a loud roar around him. Heat built up under his shirt and coat, making his back sweat. It was as if the room was filled with steam and he was being boiled alive. The endless chatter and artificial laughter grated on his nerves.
He had to escape.
He felt like he had on the night he’d lost his brother—when he had realized Gregory had left their rooms and had walked into the forest alone, bewitched by the vampire Esmeralda’s call.
Raw panic seeped through his veins.
Get out. Get out. Get the hell out.
Turning on his heel, he stalked away. He couldn’t run—he’d look like a lunatic—but it was a fight not to break out into a mad dash.
What in hell was happening to him? He had the sense of a presence. Of something following him. But when he jerked around to look, there was nothing there. Just the crowd—all watching him with eager eyes, intrigued by his actions, sniffing a scandal.
Storming into the corridor, he wound through the large house, passing suits of armor, elegant Italian paintings, gilt-trimmed details, until he reached the library. Dark and empty, it was a sanctuary.
Entering the library, Matthew closed the door behind him. The fire was still blazing. The air felt soaked with heat, making him yawn.
A settee of embroidered dark blue silk sat invitingly near the fire. Matthew stretched out on it, boots hanging off the edge.
Could Octavia come to him here? Was having her in his dreams the only way he could have her?
He closed his eyes.
In the next instant, soft, slender hands ran over his body. Many hands caressed his chest and shoulder, his jaw, his arms, and his legs.
Matthew jerked up from the couch. Candles burned everywhere, and pretty young ladies in dresses squirmed around him, trying to touch him.
Where was Octavia? Why would this be what they were going to dream?
Musicians struck up a dance. Several girls grasped his arms, trying to lead him out to dance. Now he could see that his sofa had been placed near the doors to the ballroom. He was dragged inside. The room was crowded. All of them were talking about his wife.
Then the crowd parted, and he could see Octavia standing there, in the sudden opening. It was as if she had parted the sea. The crowd silenced at once. The room instantly became bright, as though all the candles had just been lit.
“I am here,” she said softly. “I wish to dance with my husband.”
She was beautiful. Her gown clung to her figure—she looked as she had when he had left for the Carpathians. The swells of her breasts rose from the scooped neckline of her gown. Her skin looked like silk and shone like pearl. Her hair was pinned up in a style that looked uncontrolled and tousled, yet so sexually appealing it made his knees weak. Her lips curved in a cat-like smile that made him want to howl up to the heavens.
The young women who had been clamoring for him faded away. He stepped forward, hand outstretched to claim his wife.
He wanted her, and as he pulled her into his arms to waltz with her, he had to fight not to fuck her in the middle of the dance floor.
She rested her gloved hand on his shoulder, fingers curled into his neck.
As he twirled her, Matthew saw the women were still there, watching them together, some looking breathlessly enthralled, others disappointed. They hadn’t disappeared; he had just been unable to see them. All he had been able to see was Octavia.
Under the chandeliers, she gleamed like a jewel, and she moved like a dream. Her eyes were luminous and blue, her lips glossy and soft as she smiled.
“Love, let us go somewhere private,” he began.
“No, I want to dance with you.”
But he was finding it hard to dance with a fierce erection. He wanted their dream to move onward, to the pleasure. She only shook her head, and wore a mischievous smile.
“It’s Lady Sutcliffe.” The drawl belonged to Viscount Brant. “It is said she is looking for a lover, to keep her pleasured while Sutcliffe travels. They were barely married a few days before he went to the Carpathians.”
“Indeed.” The group of gentlemen with Brant said the word together. Each one was blatantly appraising his wife’s charms.
Damn. He twirled her away, watching her cheeks turn pink. She knew men were looking at her. She did not meet any of their eyes, but she must know the power she possessed. Her figure was lush and curvaceous, and her skin tempted a man to touch. She looked like sex in a gown, and he would wager no man could resist her.
He would prove to them all that Octavia was not going to stray from him. She was not going to take other lovers because he would keep her so well pleasured she would barely be able to walk.
He would prove it.
In front of the
haute ton,
he stopped dancing and drew his wife into his arms. He coaxed her low bodice to drop a few inches lower, and her breasts popped up and fell out of her bodice. The soft, pale globes rested on the lace neckline like it was a shelf. Her pink nipples went hard; her cheeks flushed from a pale peach to deep scarlet.
Then he hiked up her skirts.
She wrapped one leg around him. It made it hard to get his trousers open, but he managed to do it. Rigid as a doorknocker, his cock jolted forward as soon as he got the placket open. The head grazed the soft, sweet, wet place between her thighs.
He held her thigh and lifted her. His cock was so hard and she was so wet, it slid readily inside her. The entire crowd was transfixed. He heard the sharp breaths exhaled by other gentlemen as his long prick disappeared entirely inside her. She kept her arms around his neck, her leg around his hip. She wrapped her other leg around him, so her thighs gripped him tight. He held her lush bottom to support her.
Then he thrust hard into her. The orchestra continued to play, and he and Octavia fucked to the music. His legs shook with the exertion, but the pleasure of being inside her, of having his shaft stroked and squeezed in her heat was so good, he couldn’t stop.
Women gasped. Gloved hands clapped to mouths. Matthew took Octavia so fiercely her hair fell out of its pins and poured down her back.
“Yes,” she moaned to him. “Yes, yes. Please don’t
ever
stop.”
Sweat ran down his back, under his shirt. He fought to hang on, but then she came. In the middle of the ballroom. In front of hundreds of awestruck guests.
She screamed with the power of her orgasm. Her nails scratched his back through his coat and shirt. Her wails filled the room. Even the orchestra stopped, their bows skipping sharply over violin strings, and watched her in her lovely climax.
He lost control. His legs shook hard enough to fall apart as he came. He felt the powerful surge of his seed shooting up inside her and almost collapsed.
“Mine,” he growled aloud. “Always mine. No one else but me is going to have you, Lady Sutcliffe. Ever.” His cock was softening and slid out of her. She let her legs slide down, and as soon as her pretty slippers reached the floor, she pushed away from him. Her skirts tumbled back down.
“You’ve proved I love you,” Octavia said softly. “You’ve shown how much I desire you. But I refuse to be yours if you intend to make me a prisoner.”
She lifted her hems, stuck her chin in the air, and swept out of the ballroom.
He tried to run after her. But he lost his vision—suddenly Matthew couldn’t see anything around him but darkness. Sound faded away. He felt softness beneath him. Groping with his fingers, he realized he was on the couch in the library.
She’d run away from him in the dream. Did it mean she wouldn’t come to him again? He had to get up. Once again, he had no clue as to where she was. He had nothing.
He tried to push off the sofa, but his arm wouldn’t obey his command. . . .
God, he couldn’t lift his arms or legs. He couldn’t draw breath. De Wynter had warned him she would drain his soul. Apparently, she had done it.
He was dying.
11
Birth
S
omething cracked him hard across his cheek, knocking his teeth together.
“Wake up, Sutcliffe,” growled a masculine voice. “Wake up.”
The voice belonged to De Wynter. Matthew had opened his mouth to protest the blow to his cheek when cold water splashed in his face.
“Christ Jesus!” Matthew opened his eyes. Icy water dripped off his lashes. Levering up on his arms, he glared at Sebastien de Wynter. “What in hell was that for?”
“You were unconscious, with very little pulse. But before I assumed you were dying, I thought I would try to rouse you.”
Matthew wiped the back of his hand along his brow, aware of rivulets of sweat. “What were you planning to do if you couldn’t rouse me?”
“I don’t know. You might have been rewarded with eternal life.”
Moving his shoulders beneath his damp shirt, Matthew jerked his cravat open and glared at the vampire slayer. “What in Hades are you talking about?” It was hard to speak—his voice was raspy and it was as if he couldn’t bring in enough air to talk. His chest ached as if his heart had been torn out of it.
De Wynter grinned. “I’m a vampire.”
That stunned him. “You’re a vampire
slayer
—”
Resting his boot on the arm of the chair, De Wynter cocked his head. Firelight touched his bright gold hair, making him look angelic. But his smile was anything but sweet. “It’s true that I’ve hunted vampires—evil ones who refused to try to live with mortals without hurting them. But I was a vampire first.”
Matthew shook his head. He had to be dreaming still. Or going mad.
“If you were close to death, I could have rescued you by turning you—”
“You can’t be a vampire.”
“Why can’t I?” De Wynter asked. “You know the creatures exist. Give me one reason why it’s impossible.”
He struggled to find one. It would explain De Wynter’s penchant for sleeping in the day and being awake at night. He had seen De Wynter go outside during the day, but admittedly the slayer did wear a heavy greatcoat and keep his hat low to shade his face. But—“I’ve never seen you drink blood.”
“I’m careful about how I do it. I never attack an unwilling victim.”
Matthew stared in disbelief. “There are willing victims?”
“There are always those who will service you for money. There are many women—and men—willing to bare their throats for money, if they are guaranteed to live at the end of it. But most of the time I take my blood from a glass.”
“What of the Royal Society? Do they know?”
“They do. It would be impossible to hide.”
“And they let you hunt vampires?”
De Wynter shrugged. “What is the first thing you do when you explore, Sutcliffe? You find a native guide.”
It was true, and thinking about it that way, it was logical. If the Royal Society wanted to hunt vampires and demons, shouldn’t it take advice from one of the brethren?
Matthew glanced to the door, straining to hear sounds of laughter and music. There was quiet, but not the tomb-like silence of a house where everyone had gone to bed. “Is the party still going on?”
“Yes, otherwise you might have been found by some poor, hapless servant.”
It meant they had to be careful in their conversation. Matthew tried to stand. He could will his limbs to move, but they were weak. De Wynter grasped his forearm and hauled him to his feet. Once upright, Matthew found he was feeling stronger, but he leveled a glare at De Wynter. “You would really have changed me into a vampire?”
“Yes.”
He scowled. “I wouldn’t have wanted that.”
A wry smile quirked the vampire’s lips. “You’re a friend. It would be hard to just stand by and watch you die.”
“De Wynter, that would be what I would want. I would never want to be transformed into . . .” He lowered his voice to a mere grunt. “The undead.”
Broad shoulders shrugged, then De Wynter perched his hip against the arm of the sofa. “I can personally attest that it is better than death, but I now know your wishes, and I respect them. So tell me what happened to you. Since you were asleep, I assume it was another visit from Lady Sutcliffe, one that came close to killing you?”
Ruefully, Matthew nodded.
“I can teach you how to keep your soul closed to her. She would not be able to get to you—she couldn’t reach you through dreams.”
“No. Hell, even if our dream sex kills me, I don’t want that—I couldn’t drive her away.”
“So you’re willing to die for love?”
“I’m not in love. That’s impossible for a blackguard like me.”
“You are an idiot, Sutcliffe,” De Wynter said cheerfully. “So was I when I fell in love. But now, we’ve got to find out where your wife is. Was there any clue in the dream?”
“Nothing. It took place . . . here. She came to me here, and we made love in the middle of the ballroom.”
De Wynter gave a grim smile. “Then you’re going to have to go home, go back to sleep, and hope that her succubus nature drives her to you again. And this time, get some answers before it kills you.”
 
Matthew flopped back onto his bed, naked on top of the covers, and closed his eyes. He stretched his arms above his head. In their last dream, she had flounced away from him—this was him crawling back to her.
“Let me come to you, Octavia,” he muttered softly aloud. “Wherever you are, let me come to you. Let me make love to you in your bed. Let me know that you are safe.”
Nothing.
The one thing Octavia had done on his terms was marry him. Now it appeared he was out of luck. Anger rose—she was carrying his child, she was his wife, and he was tired of this game. He fought the anger. De Wynter had told him she wouldn’t come to him for a confrontation; she was coming for passion.
All right. He would take her terms. He would take
any
terms.
“Would you truly? Why don’t I believe you?”
He opened his eyes and she was there. She stood at the foot of his bed, completely naked. Her hair was loose and spilled over her shoulders. Her arm was wrapped around the bedpost, the curve of her full, lusciously naked breast pressing against it. She looked like Eve personified: natural, beautiful, tempting.
Her belly was large, tight, and well rounded. Matthew swallowed hard. He’d traveled all over the world, studying every type of wild animal, but he knew almost nothing about the childbearing of humans. She was much larger than he’d expected. Her breasts were heavy and sat almost upon her rounded tummy. Her navel jutted outward.
Mentally he counted months, and he swallowed again. She was very close to giving birth.
He slid out of the bed and held out his hand to her. “All I wanted to do, Octavia, was keep you safe. You have powers—powers that have put you in grave danger. What is wrong with a man wanting to protect his wife?” He approached her, because she did not move. She had a pained look on her face, and she was breathing hard. Then she met his gaze, and there was a confused look in her cornflower blue eyes.
Finally they were going to talk. He never usually bothered with words—words were for his books and his lectures. They were for expressing discoveries, describing journeys, documenting scientific principles; words could change the world, he’d discovered. But with women, he usually only used a few words before using his mouth in different ways to convince them to get into bed. With his brother, he had rarely talked. There was no talking to his father. And his mother had always been too upset and hysterical over his father’s betrayal, then his suicide, to speak to her son.
“Why did you run before I returned, before I even had a chance to explain what I was trying to do?”
“I—Oh, it’s so hard to explain. I didn’t want to be a prisoner, but I’ve learned that I am one anyway. I ran away from you, and now there are monsters who want to kill me. So I let a woman give me sanctuary. It gave me safety, but I am still a prisoner. I can’t leave there. I’ll never be able to leave. I was furious with you, but now I’ve realized I don’t want us to be apart.”
“Then tell me where you are, and I’ll come for you.”
“I—” She doubled over and clutched her belly. “It’s hard. My tummy has gone so hard.” Then she jumped, and the carpet suddenly was wet. “Oh heavens, my water . . . broke. Goodness, it’s time—”
Matthew ran to her, but as he reached the end of the bed, she disappeared. So did the water on the rug.
No. No, damnation,
no
.
He spun in a circle, fists clenched. But of course his room was empty now, except for him. “Octavia, where are you?” he shouted. “Tell me. Let me come to you. I want to be with you.”
“I can’t. I’m not allowed to tell you. It’s too much of a risk—”
“I want to be with you for the birth of my child. I want to protect you.” What did she mean it was too much of a risk? She had to tell him where she was. He needed to be with her. What if something went wrong? And what happened after the baby was born, if she would not tell him how to find her? “Damn, Octavia, do not take my child from me—”
But there was nothing but silence. She was gone, and she was not going to come back.
 
He had to find her.
Matthew ignored the carefully expressionless look on De Wynter’s face. If De Wynter told him that this mad dash was proof of love one more time, he’d stake the vampire—
Hell, he wouldn’t. Yes, he cared about Octavia, but he could not love her. Every time he thought about love, he remembered Gregory, who had been cheated of love, happiness, and life. He thought about his father, who had wasted away over an impossible love and had finally taken his own life.
Even if he did love Octavia, he still had to do what she didn’t want. He had to keep her safe against her will.
“Where are we going? I thought your wife gave you no clues.”
“She refused to tell me. She said it would be too great a risk to tell me. What did she mean? Is she afraid of me?”
“I think it must be that she feared some other being might sense what she told you. It might mean that she was warned that some of the beings searching for her could read her thoughts if she tried to project them to you.”
“What about when we’ve made love in dreams? Would some of these creatures read our thoughts then?”
“Of course,” the vampire said. “And demons and satyrs are the worst voyeurs.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Matthew snapped. His heart burned with anger. He hated to think of demons watching his wife make love.
“What else were you going to do? She needed you. So where are we going now?’
“I’m going to break into Miss Compton’s bedchamber. If Octavia wrote her letters, she’ll have them there, and hopefully they will give me a clue to where Octavia is.”
“I thought you said Miss Compton was no help.”
“She’s a vapid young woman. There might be clues she completely overlooked. I’m not certain if the girl would even have the wit to look at the postmark of the letter.”
He had to do something. De Wynter had told him that laboring could take a long time. He was wild with the need to find Octavia. What if something went wrong? What if she were in pain or in danger? He needed to be there.
When they reached the street on which Miss Compton lived, he got out of the carriage and slipped down the mews. The November air was cold, the ground hard with frost. Silently, De Wynter followed. The vampire helped him climb over the back stone wall, then De Wynter easily jumped over it.
Stunned, Matthew followed him to the house. A bare-branched tree grew beside the house. He climbed it and jumped over to a terrace, then broke in. It didn’t take long to find Miss Compton’s room, conveniently empty as the family was out at social events. Nor did it take more than a few moments to find a bundle of letters stashed in her writing desk.
His heart lurched at the sight of his wife’s signature. There were no postmarks on the letters, but he read them quickly. When Octavia spoke of watching nurses pushing perambulators in the park, and when she mentioned a certain fountain in the square outside the house, he knew where she was.
“Come on, De Wynter.” He retied the bundle of letters and pushed them back in the desk. “We’ve got to hurry.”
He wasn’t going to give up. This was his child. If Octavia truly thought he would walk away and abandon her, and ignore his child, she was mistaken.
 
If she had told Sutcliffe where she was, she could be screaming at him right now.
With each contraction, Octavia found she was shouting and groaning at everyone else. Maids rushed in with heated water and towels, but she had no idea what they were to be used for.
Guided by the physician, Mrs. Darkwell was admonishing her again. “You must not push now, Lady Octavia.” Mrs. Darkwell held her hand and had told her to squeeze as hard as she needed.

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