MIDNIGHT CAPTIVE: Book 2 of the Bonded By Blood Vampire Chronicles (9 page)

Wrapping her legs around his hips, she dug her heels into his backside, pulling him into her. She groaned as his hands cupped her bottom, angling her entrance up to bury himself to the hilt. Every stroke pushed her higher and she shivered as his long, iron shaft pumped into the depth of her being. His mouth licked, suckled and kissed from her lips, across her jaw line and down to her throat. Her eyes flicked open and she clutched Broderick to her as she gazed with unseeing eyes over his shoulder. A dancing fire of fear and excitement flickered in her belly. She opened her heart, letting the love and arousal coursing through her body swirl around her so Broderick could absorb her soul.

Her orgasm came as swiftly as the piercing of his fangs, but lingered with the sweet euphoria of his feeding, driving her climax to a height of unknown territory. Her head dropping back, she closed her eyes and fell into an ecstasy that rippled throughout her limbs and focused on two throbbing points of her body—her throat and the hot, wet center between her legs where Broderick pumped his own orgasm.

After what seemed like hours, the shuddering waves of both their bodies subsided. Davina opened her eyes to find herself straddling Broderick’s powerful thighs as he knelt in the center of their bed. Disoriented and delirious—even drunk from the experience—she heaved thirsty breaths as Broderick licked her blood from his lips. The silver, glowing core faded from his eyes hooded with passion. A tear slipped down his cheek and he buried his face in her hair, hiding from her…and she knew why. Through the impressions on Davina’s blood, Broderick saw—for the first time—the true extent of the abuse she had suffered at the hands of her dead husband Ian, and she winced from the old wound. So much time had passed since she allowed herself to recall the memories, she did not think about them resurfacing in the act of Broderick’s feeding.

“I tried to keep you from seeing and experiencing what transferred through your blood,” he rasped, grief abrading his voice.

“You
did
, my love.” She stroked his hair and hugged him tight for reassurance. “I just now allowed myself to remember the past, but that was my doing.” She pulled back to gaze into his eyes. “You have given me so much joy over the years, I am happy to say I had forgotten the past.” She smiled. “Thank you for such a gift.”

“’Tis your gift I hold in sharing your blood. The gift of your life, your sweet childhood memories, and understanding the true depth of the love you hold for me in your heart.”

The corner of Davina’s mouth tugged as she resisted smiling at her beloved, and she pushed a rebellious strand of hair from his cheek. “Are you aware that you wax very poetic when you are melancholy?”

Broderick grinned and smacked her bare bottom, causing his wife to yelp and giggle. “Do I, now?” His delicious rumble of laughter vibrated between them and Davina squealed as they fell backward onto the bed.

Her husband slanted his mouth over hers, chuckling, and Davina tingled at the coppery taste of her blood, her face flushing with the forbidden pleasure. Broderick swelled inside her and rocked his hips to another rhythmic dance of lovemaking that carried them into the night.

* * * * *

After a solid night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast in the castle kitchens, James set off with Ranald and Will to the house in Leith. He halted as he opened the door to the cottage. Alistair sat by the hearth—head down, as if sleeping. “Wait outside for me, lads,” James instructed Will and Ranald. They both eyed Alistair, hesitating, only doing as James asked when he nodded, indicating all was well. They settled outside and he closed the front door.

Alistair started in the chair, cast weary eyes around the room and stumbled to his feet when his eyes landed on his son. “Well, ’tis right friendly of you to finally come home,” he slurred, hands fumbling about his person to seemingly make his appearance presentable.

“The same can be said of you.” James avoided his father’s gaze, clenching his jaw as he picked around the cottage, gathering his belongings. Since his return, he had not spent much time unpacking or getting settled in…and he was glad for it.

Alistair stood in the center of the front living area, blocking James from taking his saddlebags to the door. “You only just arrived.”

“And now I’m leaving.” James stepped around his father. Placing his bags along the wall, he navigated past Alistair to his room to fill his satchel with the last of his clothing.

Alistair waited in the doorway to the small chamber. “Where are you going?”

Not taking his eyes from packing, James said, “Staying with the MacDougals. Broderick will be out of town for a few days, so I will be looking after his family.”

The silence from his father unnerved him, so he chanced a glance in Alistair’s direction. Eyes blood-shot and glassy with unshed tears, he regarded James with a trace of joy…perhaps even hope. “How have you been, lad?”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You ask me this now. After you disappeared for almost eight years. Only now do you finally care about my wellbeing.” He faced his father and curled his hands into fists to quell his anger.

Alistair stuck his chest out and gripped the door frame. “I have been a good father to you and if you’ll let me explain myself, you’ll understand why I left and why I’m back here to help you. I—”

James stood nose-to-nose with Alistair. “A good father? You left without a word. You drowned yourself in drink and then disappeared! How is that being a good father? You felt sorry for yourself instead of seeing to the family you had left.”

“She was my life, James!” Alistair protested. “I felt I could not—”

“I miss her, too! I wanted to grieve with you as well, but you shut me out and walked away! You cannot expect to come back into my life, now that you’ve accepted her death and are ready to move on.”

“I haven’t accepted her death, lad. I’m here to avenge it! You don’t—”

Grabbing his now-filled satchel, James pushed past his father. “Nay, father,” he growled. “Those men who killed her are long gone.”

Shuffling after James into the main room again, Alistair pleaded, “Nay, James. You don’t understand the truth behind what those men did, what they wanted.”

James whirled and pointed a rigid finger into his father’s chest. “Enough! It’s taken me years to recover from her death, from you walking out of my life. And now you want to dig up graves and reopen old wounds. I’ve made a new life for myself and it doesn’t include you.”

For a long moment, they both stared at each other, James’s breath ragged and his hands shaking. Pulling a small bottle out of his coat pocket, Alistair popped the cork and took a swig. He followed James’s glare down to the bottle, then raised it and said in a gravelly voice, “I thank
you
for this, lad. Helps with the pain, among other benefits. You should try it. I gained it from a physician in Germania after I went to see you at school. A new elixir he created.”

James grabbed the bottle and sniffed its contents, detecting the scent of brandy, spices and some other familiar essence. He searched his memories. What
was
that smell? He knew it. “Laud…laudanum,” he recalled. Two of his fencing mates used it frequently after matches for pain. One had died from consuming too much.

Alistair snatched it back and gulped another swig, a sadness dragging his face into a frown. “Even then, you wouldn’t listen to the truth about your mother.”

James closed his eyes, willing the long-forgotten ache to recede. He had been glad to see his father, thinking he had traveled all that way to Germania to apologize for leaving, to tell James how proud he was he was going to school. Instead, Alistair did what he always did best—made James feel he didn’t deserve any good fortune that came his way, made sure James knew anything good was because of him. Alistair felt inferior to his own son and the only way to make himself feel better or accomplished was to browbeat him. Yet in spite of this, while it was happening, James allowed Alistair to feed him the poison against Broderick. It took him years to filter out the doubt and suspicion Alistair had planted in his mind.

James shoved his father away, sloshing the bottle in Alistair’s hand. “’Tis nothing but a liar you are! No truth ever comes out of your mouth. You blame Broderick for being the father you never could be. You blame me for being the man you wish you were.”

His father clenched his jaw, his body trembling and his mouth distorting into a grimace. Tears welled in Alistair’s eyes before his obvious anger ebbed and he nodded with resignation. “’Tis undeserving I am of your forgiveness, James.” He tentatively stepped forward. “But I hope to make it up to you. I’m making efforts to free myself from the past and finally put this all behind me, and I want you to be part of a better life I have planned.”

Humility wasn’t a character trait his father had ever exemplified, a man who never seemed to be pleased with anything James did. Who was this stranger standing before him, ill in appearance and contrite, such a contrast to the judgmental taskmaster of his youth? In light of this “plan” to avenge Fiona’s death, James had the answer. Alistair had gone mad. Or he was up to his usual lies and false appearances.

He shook his head and turned to the entrance. “Godspeed, father. Enjoy this
better
life you have planned. I want no part of it.” Grabbing his satchel and saddlebags, he left and closed the door to his past.

* * * * *

“Ouch!” Cailin sat in an armchair before the hearth, her embroidery in her lap, sucking on her fingertip…for at least the hundredth time since she had hurried to the parlor to wait for James.

He had come back to the castle and sequestered himself away in his chamber for the last several hours. A few of the servants reported him in a black mood, so everyone had allowed him to be alone. This gave Cailin the opportunity to ensure she had tucked away her daggers—strapped to her hips out of habit—and fumble through her needle projects to find one that seemed far enough along to show
some
evidence she did wifely duties. That proved to be more difficult than anticipated. She’d been sure she had spent hours embroidering many projects only to find one or two no more than a third finished. Hurrying to the parlor, she had made haste to stoke the fire and sat with her skirts arranged in what she hoped was a pleasing manner. And then she waited. And waited.

And waited.

Her nerves were frazzled, her fingers sore from the many times she’d stuck herself, and little spots of blood dotted her fabric. She dropped her hands to her lap, leaned against the back of the chair and closed her eyes with a sigh. After a moment’s peace, she resumed working on the embroidery.

A familiar, but almost forgotten, chirping twittered off the stone walls of the parlor and she resisted the urge to grin. She struggled to keep her eyes on her needlepoint and not look at James, who surely stood at the parlor door to her left, out of her direct line of sight. He twittered again and Cailin responded…licking her lips and sucking in just enough air at the corner of her mouth to make the sound that so resembled the squeak of a mouse or squirrel.

James swaggered into the room, crossing his arms, and Cailin’s stomach quivered.

“Still my little mouse,” he drawled. “You remembered.”

She let her full smile emerge. “Of course I remember. That little noise always let me know you were on to my hiding place. It said you were close and coming for me.”

“I did it to give you the chance to run and find a new place to hide.” He chuckled. “You were always so easy to find, my little mouse. Mayhap you wanted me to find you.”

Cailin giggled. “You never failed to give me a sweet sucket when you caught up with me.” She still enjoyed the candied citrus peels, though now she used them more to sweeten her breath than as a treat. “Of course I wanted you to find me.” Rising from her chair, she placed her embroidery on the cushion and faced him.

James considered the pile of cloth and raised a brow. She glanced at her seat and caught her breath when she saw the spots of blood. As casually as her shaking hands could muster, she bent over and bundled the fabric into her basket on the floor, ignoring the embarrassment heating her cheeks, and pushed the project under the side table.

Upon hearing James emit what could only be described as a growl, she straightened and whirled to face him, but collided with his solid frame. He caught her in his arms. Clutching his shirt, she swooned as the hard muscles of his chest flexed under her fingers and her breath quickened. She regarded his face and her heart stopped at the desire storming in the depths of his eyes.

“Hrmmm. As I said, I could fast get accustomed to you being in my arms. Tell me, Mouse,” he whispered, “how do you think you have changed so much that I no longer wish to have you as my wife?”

Cailin opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed. Her tongue seemed frozen and the room lacked the air to breathe.

James touched his lips to her forehead for a lingering caress and she sighed, the tension melting from her body. His warm breath on her skin sent tingles across her scalp. He feathered his mouth to her temple for another kiss, to her cheek for another, and his lips sought hers…hovering, his half-hooded eyes gazing into hers before he pressed in, fusing their mouths together. Wet, warm and desperate, the kiss deepened, coaxing a moan from her throat. She inhaled deep, loving the scent of him, so indescribably him. His teeth nibbled at her lower lip, teasing her mouth open to enjoy the sensation of his feasting and allowing his tongue to sweep in for a taste. Following instinct, she mimicked his actions, their tongues dueling as they parried back and forth, in and out.