Burning Up (14 page)

The oldest of the four, a grizzled warrior with his long beard in braids, curled a scarred lip at her and made no move to obey. She met his gaze and lifted an icy brow, letting power leap in her eyes like a flame. Realizing how close he was to suffering a painful magical jolt for his contempt, he hurried to unbolt the door and give her a carefully respectful bow. Satisfied, she sailed past.

If she could make the guards fear her, they might hesitate at a crucial moment. She could construct an escape from such small strategies.

“I wondered when they’d send you.” The vampire spoke from the firelit dimness, his voice rumbling and deep, almost touchable, a velvet seduction that seemed to stroke her skin.

The door swung closed behind Amaris with a bang. The iron bolt scraped home as the guard locked it. She managed not to jump at the harsh sound and lifted her chin. “Perhaps I come of my own accord.”

“Do you?”

“Oh, aye.” Forcing a smile, Amaris moved toward him, giving her hips the gentle sway she’d been taught. The pressure of her slippers sent a rich, green scent into the air. She’d ordered fresh herbs scattered among the rushes.

As Lady Taria said,
You must seduce a man’s senses before you touch his body.

Moving with deliberate grace, Amaris picked up the golden goblet on the wooden bedside table and filled it with honey mead. “Do you thirst?”

Dark eyes dropped to her throat. “Oh, aye.” His purr made it clear he craved something other than the contents of her pitcher.

Not likely, vampire.
Drinking her magical blood would strengthen him, perhaps enough to break his enchanted chains.

She took a slow and deliberate sip from the goblet, by way of demonstrating the drink had not been poisoned. As she swallowed the mead with its rich traces of lemon and berry, she let her gaze rest on his face.

Studying him through lowered lids, she had to admit Korban was right. The vampire was a handsome man. The firelight played over sculpted features: cheekbones carved high enough to leave hollows beneath, a stubbornly jutting warrior’s chin, a straight and arrogant nose. His upper lip curved over a plump lower lip that seemed to invite a woman’s bite. He wore no beard, though a night’s growth shadowed the planes of his cheeks. His hair was dark, shoulder-length, as gleaming and thick as a woman’s.

Half unwilling, she let her gaze drift down his body. He wore nothing but breeches so tight, he might as well have been naked. Muscle lay across his broad, bare torso in thick swordsman’s slabs, rippling and bunching as he pulled at his chains. His legs were long and brawny, as befit a man who sat a horse so well. She could see his sex bulking heavy beneath the breeches.

It stirred under her gaze.

Fighting the urge to jerk her eyes away, she raised her chin and met his stare. He lifted a thick black brow, his eyes hot and narrow. And deeply cynical. He was no fool, this agent of the wizard king. An ally, then?

His lips parted, and she glimpsed the white gleam of a fang.

No, she’d trust no vampire. If it were only her own life, she might take the risk, but not with Marin’s soul at hazard.

Amaris dropped her lashes and met his gaze under their thick fringe. “Would you have mead?”

His lips quirked. “Only if that’s all you offer.”

“It is.” She let her own mouth curl. “For the moment.”

There it was again, that cynical curve of the lip. “Mead it is, then.”

Amaris stepped closer and bent over him. He lifted his head and let her press the goblet to his lips. She tipped it, and he swallowed with obvious thirst. The strong cords of his throat rippled up and down. His lids lowered, and for a moment sensual pleasure lay stark on his face. She watched, half bespelled, as he drained the cup.

“You
were
thirsty.” Her voice sounded so hoarse, she silently cursed the desire it revealed.

He lay back, rolling brawny shoulders on his pillow. “A prisoner never knows when his needs will be met. Best to take advantage of any”—his lids dropped again—“opportunities.”

“Far be it for me to leave you wanting.” Despite the sophisticated quip, she could feel heat blooming across her face.

Blood Roses do not blush like virgins, curse it.

Raniero again drained the goblet the Blood Rose held to his lips. Even as he drank, he cursed himself. Her scent flooded his head, far more intoxicating than the mead. Ambergris, woman, magic—and blood. His fangs ached savagely.

Damn her to the six hells. If he could but drink from her—not much more than a goblet’s worth—the magic of her blood would strengthen him enough to shatter the enchantment that held him. He could take care of the guards in the hall and be gone before his foes knew what he was about.

Which was why she’d never allow him to taste that long white throat.

Unless . . .

Raniero considered her through narrowed eyes as he drank in her scent. There was more than a little desire wafting from that long, elegant body. And other emotions too: fear, rage . . . And was that despair?

No, surely not. Why would she fear him, when he was so thoroughly bound and drained by his chains?

Unless it was someone else she feared . . .

FOUR

T
he idea of her fear was enraging. Even knowing Amaris was a traitor to her own people, Raniero could feel the tugging need to protect her. That compulsion was part of a Blood Rose’s seductive magic, and he could no more fight it than he could refuse to breathe.

To most vampires, the hand of a Rose was a much desired prize, since her blood would strengthen both one’s magic and one’s might. Many were the drunken dreams he’d heard vampire courtiers spew of “A Rose and a fief.”

Raniero wanted only the fief. He’d get his sons on mortals, thank you. Lusty peasant wenches spun far simpler schemes.

His stepmother had been one of those scheming Roses. She’d wanted her own son to inherit, so she’d told his father Raniero had tried to force himself on her. Raniero, who’d been all of sixteen, protested his innocence, but Fulk had believed Eiriene. He’d beaten his son near to death and left him outside the castle walls. Luckily, Raniero had been able to find shelter with the neighboring lord who’d fostered him when he’d been a boy. Landless, homeless, he’d fought to earn a place at King Ferran’s court.

But he’d never forgotten the way a Rose could twist a man’s mind.

That this Rose was scheming, he did not doubt. But what, and why?

In any case, it appeared Ferran’s suspicions about Korban were confirmed. Why else would Raniero’s party be attacked the moment they crossed onto Korban’s land? And by a vampire and two Varil raiders, yet.

Why had his captors allowed Raniero to live, while slaying his men? Korban apparently thought he could buy Raniero’s cooperation. And he thought he could do it with the bribe of a Blood Rose.

Whatever spies Korban obviously had at Ferran’s palace—and he had at least one, if he’d known Raniero was coming—they weren’t as good as he thought. Raniero’s wariness of Roses was well-known.

But if Korban and his Rose knew it not, perhaps Raniero could pretend to yield to her wiles. Discover the wizard’s plans, and find a way to foil them. It was certain outright struggle would do him no good, not in these chains.

“More?” the Rose asked, candlelight painting dancing gold highlights over the tattoo blooming on her cheek.

“Actually, there’s something else I crave,” he said, deliberately staring at the plump and tempting curve of her lips. “A taste of you.”

Green eyes widened, and that luscious mouth parted. “Oh.” A pretty blush brightened her high cheeks.

Red God’s Balls, she did flustered innocence better than any sheltered virgin he’d ever met.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, she leaned down. He watched the hesitant movement. Ridiculously, his heart began to hammer. The scent of mingled fear and desire strengthened.

Why does she fear me?

The Rose’s lips touched his, only the merest brush at first, warm breath tasting of honey mead and a hint of lemon. She kept her eyes open, almost as though she didn’t trust him enough to close them. He forced relaxation into every hungry muscle and let her lead the way, keeping his mouth soft beneath hers.

She brushed her lips across his, once, then again. Hesitated like something small and wild eating from his hand. At last she deepened the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth, a shy, soft stroke. When she drew in a breath, he felt the tips of her breasts touch his chest. She sighed, and slowly, oh so slowly, her eyes closed as she leaned deeper into the kiss.

It took him a moment to realize he’d closed his own as well, the better to concentrate on the delicate sensations of her swirling tongue, her gently moving mouth. He could feel her heartbeat in her breast, a rapid thump that seemed to echo his own pulse.

One soft, slender hand came to rest on his chest, cool against his heating skin. She used it to push herself upright. They stared at each other in the candlelit darkness.

Again, he watched that curious fear leap in her eyes. For a moment, he expected her to whirl and run away.

Instead she squared her delicate shoulders. Her hands went to the laces of her white gown, began to pluck at them until they fell untied. He caught his breath as she drew it off over her head and dropped it in a silken pile on the floor. Her body gleamed in the candlelight, elegant and slim, breasts pale, perfect handfuls, nipples tight and pink. She had the legs of a horsewoman, long and strong, and her arms had a kind of delicate strength, as though she did more than needlework. Her green gaze had gone bright with defiance now, as if daring him to make some cutting comment.

But speech was beyond him. He felt his cock rise, hot and hard against his breeches, balls heavy with the weight of desire.

Her gaze dipped to the broad length against his belly, and her lips parted. As he watched, her eyes dilated into a shadowed forest green, dark and wild.

“Free me,” he managed at last, his eyes on the tight pink tips of her breasts. “Let me touch you.”

She shot him a wary look, then seemed to remember herself and added a seductive smile. “Wouldn’t you rather I touch
you
?”

He laughed in a harsh bark. “At this moment, I would have you any way I can get you.”

The Rose stepped closer to the bed and balanced on one long leg as she slid a thigh across his belly. He caught his breath in lust at the sensation of soft skin sliding over his in a wave of silken warmth. Slowly, so slowly, she sank down to straddle him. To his raging frustration, he could feel the cloth-covered head of his cock brushing the curve of her bare bottom.

“Ahhh.” Her lids dipped and lifted, revealing the green of her eyes. The pink tip of her tongue crept out to wet her lips, and she swallowed. A very faint smile curved that tempting mouth. “You make a solid mount, my lord.”

“And you make a lovely rider,” Raniero rasped, though the courtly words were almost beyond him as lust stormed his brain. His eyes dipped down to the soft delta of her sex, the lips full and pouting behind raven curls. He wanted to see those lips close around his cock. He could imagine how they’d feel, swollen and wet, gripping him deliciously.

The Rose considered him, her head tilting. Her slender hands came to rest on his chest, long fingers stroking. Her nails were short and serviceable, and her palms were just slightly rough with calluses.

Raniero frowned in momentary puzzlement. Her hands were slim as a maid’s, but rough as a swordsman’s. No stranger to battle, this one.

Then the thought flew out of his head as she bent, green eyes locked on his. The tip of her tongue peeked out at him, and he stiffened in helpless anticipation.

She licked him. A quick little flick over the tight ridges of his torso, wet, impossibly tempting, a maddening promise of more. Her head lifted, and a smile flashed, quicksilver mockery.

God, he wished his hands were free. He’d show her need. He’d make her writhe.

But his hands were bound, and she was the one with the freedom to inflict delicious torment. She bent again, and he inhaled sharply, helplessly.

Raniero’s nipples were her target this time. He’d never considered them particularly sensitive before—certainly not like a woman’s—yet the rake of her teeth made his cock jerk like a rearing warhorse. She settled down to lick, gently, sweet teasing circles with the occasional application of a nibble or two. As if those desperate little points were candy.

Red God’s Balls, he wished she’d do that to his cock.

As the Rose nibbled, she stroked her hands over his torso, traced each ridge of muscle with tapered fingers that suddenly curled into blunt little claws. The teasing rake of nails over ribs made him want to writhe.

Green eyes watched him, shadowed by thick lashes, dwelling on his face as if fascinated. Her nostrils flared, scenting him like a cat.

His cock jerked again, brushing the velvet skin of her bottom. Raniero couldn’t quite suppress his moan.

A
maris was beginning to understand why poets spilled rivers of ink in praise of passion. The vampire lay spread under her like a feast, all frustrated power, arms bunching as he fought his chains. Yet he seemed scarcely aware of them, so utterly was he focused on her, on every tiny thing she did.

His face fascinated her. There was a muscle in his jaw that leaped and bunched each time she flicked her tongue over his nipples. He really was a handsome man, his face all jutting bone, deep hollows and uncompromising angles. It was a warrior’s face, one that could have been sculpted by the Red God himself for the battlefield—designed to lead men and bellow orders and snarl as he swung a sword in lethal arcs.

And he had a warrior’s body as well. His bunched upper arms were round as melons and near the size of her head. Each of his thighs appeared the width of her waist. Given the vampire strength within all that muscle, he’d be a formidable force on the battlefield.

A killer.

What if she could make him
her
killer? Amaris eyed him, considering the thick strength surging under her body, the wild black heat in his eyes.