The Companion (18 page)

She tapped the bed again and he lay beside her. Her breasts, the nipples prominent under the liquid chartreuse silk, brushed against his chest. Her black hair cascaded over him as she leaned over. She whispered to him in French, “It is a special night, slave. Can you not feel it?” Her long nails trailed over his shoulder, touching the slashing wound she had made there, leaking once again. “Power trembles in the air.” Her full lips touched his forehead, even as she pushed his chin up. “I will sip first.” She drew back, surveying him. “Where shall I open you?”

He sighed, deep in his soul, and bared his throat, her favorite place to suck. But she did not bend to his suggestion. Instead she ran her fingers over the bloody furrows on his chest, his belly. She touched the twin marks of her sucking at the big veins in his groin, the cut on his thighs, then over his hips, around to his buttocks where she had made incisions. She cupped his elbow, presenting the vein she had opened on the tender inside. His chest rose convulsively with anxiety. Her lips brushed his cheekbone. He could feel her hot breath. He took her lip between his teeth and sucked. She always liked that. Her tongue ran under his lips, promising her own fulfillment, if not his. He felt the familiar tightness in his loins. She pressed her body against him, ran her hand around to the nape of his neck. His head lolled against her grip, baring his throat. Her lips strayed down over the stubble at his chin and she licked the twin wounds in the artery there. He could feel himself pulsing with it as it beat in his neck
.

The piercing pain was expected. She molded her body to his as she pulled at his neck, suckling. Their bodies moved in time to the throb of his blood and the rhythm of her urgency. But she withdrew quickly with a little moan. He opened his eyes. She licked his blood from her fulsome lips and pressed herself rhythmically against him. Her hand moved to his cock, caressing its full length. “You obey, slave, to perfection,” she murmured. She moved aside the chartreuse silk, baring her breasts. She did not command him to suck them but instead brushed them against his nipples, provoking a groan as she tugged more firmly at his cock. For some time, she did no more than stroke his cock, his buttocks, press her hips and her naked breasts against him, and occasionally lick at his neck and the wound on his shoulder he had opened at the pool. The need in his loins became a torment in itself
.

“Finish with me,” he muttered. He had not begged her, as she liked him to do
.

“At your command,” she whispered
.

She pushed him to his back, hiked up her silks, and sat astride him, her hot slit greasing his cock with slick juices as it lay erect across his belly. He arched under her as she bent to his right breast. She licked at the half-healed gash there and opened it with her canines, dragging the furrow down toward his nipple. Her tongue was soft, moist, amid the pain. She lapped the welling blood, making small sounds of satisfaction. Then, taking his hands above his head, she made a fresh gash in his right biceps, moving her body along his as she sucked at the wound
.

Ian groaned his submission, unable to stop hating that he did it. Why could he not simply give in to her? She sat up, raised herself, and placed his erect member inside her, then rocked against him for several strokes before she bent to the other side of his throat. His hands stole to her waist as she moved faster. His own need rose inside him, and he wondered that she did not contain it by the force of will that had stoppered him so many times before. She usually did not allow him to ejaculate so early in the night, if she allowed it at all. He careened down a narrowing tunnel to the blinding light that always frightened and enticed him
.

Still she did not prevent his rising urgency but increased her pace, grunting in her need as she sucked, first at his throat, then at his breast, and then again at the biceps torn by her teeth. His release overtook him in a shudder, the light engulfing him even as he felt her wrenching cry
.

He almost swooned, he felt so empty. She hung above him, satisfaction in her eyes, still straddling his hips. “So, slave, is your submission complete?”

He took his hands from her waist. What did she mean? His submission was complete the first time her eyes went red. A nasty smile curved her lips. “You do not even know.”

“Know what?” he growled. Should he even be able to speak to her so coarsely?

“You think I used my powers on you? Not tonight, my most submissive slave. I drew the power only to produce my teeth, the better to open you.”

A feeling of sinking horror suffused him. “What? What do you mean?”

“You serviced me all on your own.” Again the chortling satisfaction
.

Ian stared at her. It was not true! He would never pleasure her willingly. He searched her face, its amusement and triumph a torment. Had he not felt her compulsion? He was not sure. He had been able to tell her to finish it. That had never happened before. And she had made no attempt to control his release
.

Oh, God
.

He pushed her off him. “Bitch,” he hissed, and struggled to his knees
.
“
Bitch!
I should . . .”

Her eyes blinked crimson. He felt the compulsion shower over him, beating him back against the cushions, almost preventing breath. “Should what?” she said, rising upon her elbows, her face furious. “I should tear you limb from limb!”

Kill me,
he thought
. Kill me now.
He had submitted to her willingly. The thought was almost soul-destroying. But did that not mean that she would finally finish with him and release him from his torment? Fedeyah thought so
.

She mastered herself. Her eyes dimmed and he could breathe again. Her fury dissolved into that throaty laughter. When she could speak, it was in French. “How delicious that you still rebel! And how very, very satisfying that you hate yourself for servicing me. There is much yet to savor about you. And we have not yet progressed to an affection for the phalluses, the submission, even the whip.” She chuckled, low in her throat
.

Ian could not speak. He gasped for breath, chest heaving. He saw the whole. If he had mastered his anger, she might have killed him and moved on to another. He might be free even now. His shoulders sagged
.

She sat up, in control again, and arranged her silks around her. “No, I would not have killed you,” she said, answering his unspoken thought. “You are an important part of my offering.” She studied him, head cocked for a moment. “But I might not find you so attractive, or need your services so often.” Her eyes bored through to Ian’s soul. “Let me feel your rebellion again.” She beckoned with one golden-nailed finger. “Kneel, slave, with your knees wide.”

Ian’s remaining spirit fluttered inside him. He tried to suppress any struggle against the will that showered over him. He labored to his knees. But as he felt his cock swell again and his thin blood throb, it was against his will. Blackness trembled around the edges of his vision, but he knew from experience that she could rouse him even from a swoon
.

“Knees wider. Now, rub your fine English cock. I wish its service yet this night.”

He could not help but obey, but it raked his soul to do it. That was what pleased her most
.

Nine

Beth swam up through layers of cotton that clogged her brain. She was warm. The sun was bright against her closed eyelids, but it seemed much too much effort to open them. She had been dreaming. The dream had been intense and . . . sensual. It dissipated like fog, even as she tried to make her way back into its world.

A pounding on the door shook her senses. That was what had wakened her.

“Miss Rochewell!” Jenny called. “Are you up yet?”

“Miss Rochewell!” Mrs. Pargutter’s shrill voice called. “We are late. The shops await.”

Beth opened her eyes and looked around, confused. Where was she? She pushed herself up to sit, but blackness at the edge of her vision threatened to overwhelm her. She hung her head to gather her senses. “Go . . . go on without me, Mrs. Pargutter. I have . . . the headache.”

Much whispering outside the door. “Well, if you’re sure, my dear. We shall return in time to take you up before we go out to the ship.” More muttering between Mrs. Pargutter and Jenny and the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Beth collapsed to her pillows. What was wrong with her?

The night came back to her in a rush: following Mr. Rufford,
seeing him drink the Spanish harlot’s blood, the look of pain and shame on his face, the fear when he discovered her, the feel of his body against hers, the press of his lips at her throat.

Her hands felt under her collar for the wounds he had made. Yes, there were the twin bumps. Was it loss of blood that made her so weak? She remembered Rufford carrying her into the inn. How had she gotten into bed? Who had changed her clothes? Jenny? Mrs. Pargutter?

Rufford!

The little blood she had left went careening around her body. He must have seen her naked. He must have rifled through her things. And then, even more tenuous in her memory, was the feeling of him bending over her, a brush of lips that made her throb, and then . . . Had she offered herself to him? She felt her face flush, and then the dark, floating circles spread around her field of vision. This time they would not be denied.

Ian peered out between his shutters into the bright morning using the blue spectacles he had ordered made in Tripoli. His eyes had grown a little more tolerant of sunshine. Fedeyah said that, as the years passed, he had lost his sensitivity to the sun. The Arab had taken sextant readings in the daylight. Perhaps there was hope that Ian would not always be a creature of the night.

He surveyed the quay for the hundredth time this morning through slitted eyes, waiting for Miss Rochewell to make her way to the
Beltrane
. The docks were a veritable hive. Sailors from all lands loaded boats with cargo for the ships whose forest of spars rocked in the harbor. A woman’s garb could not be missed in that sea of masculinity. He thought for certain that Mrs. Pargutter would support her in her trek back to the ship, but Mrs. Pargutter and her maid had sallied off into the town, chattering like jaybirds, several hours ago. That meant Miss Rochewell had not confided in them. That was good, in some ways.

But where was Miss Rochewell? True, the ship did not sail until the evening, but would she not want to go back, even if she wasn’t feeling well, so the doctor could look to her?

Perhaps she was too ill to go by herself. Mrs. Pargutter had abandoned her, at least for the day. That woman had not a shred of common sense. Or Miss Rochewell was afraid to go back to the ship because she imagined he would be there. That thought was sobering. He would not inflict his presence on her. He would make the long overland trek through Spain, over the Alps, and across the Channel to England. But she did not know that.

With a growl of displeasure, he slung a cape about his shoulders and pulled its collar up around his ears. He had no wish to see the chit again. She might well ply her wiles on him. He was more than capable of resisting this morning. Lord knew what had come over him last night. But her condition was his responsibility. He shoved on a hat and settled his blue glasses on the bridge of his nose. He took an extra stock and muffled the bottom of his face and reached for his gloves. It was two blocks from The Bells to the Fruit of the Vine. The left side of the street would still be in shade. He’d have to dash across the square, of course. He would look a strange sight in the warmth of a Gibraltar October, muffled up like a bandit in colder climes, but he might just make it to her room.

It was the landlady who greeted him in the taproom as he unwound his stock. “Sit down, sir,” she cried, in accented English, “and let me bring you some refreshment. You look flushed.”

Ian panted as he took off his hat and gloves. “If you will show me to room eight . . .”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she answered, bobbing. “That room is taken by a young lady.”

“A young lady who, I have it on authority, is ill.” He turned and took the stairs two at a time, not waiting for his hostess. A perfunctory knock, an infinitesimal pause for decency, and he pushed into the room, dreading what he would see.

She lay there, tiny in the bed, just where he had left her,
her hair a dark cloud against the white pillows and her dusky lashes brushing her cheeks. She did not move at his abrupt entrance or open her eyes. Her countenance was pale, the creamy coffee color having acquired a gray undertone. Under her eyes, bluish half circles hung. Guilt and panic warred in his breast. With two strides he was at her side. He checked the pulse at her neck and found it fluttering there, stronger than last night but hardly hearty. It throbbed against his fingers.

She opened her eyes. As they registered his identity a soft look came into them; then they widened in a fear that cut him deeply.

“Good morning, Miss Rochewell,” he said, as prosaically as he could, pressing down his guilt. “I am sorry to find you out of trim.” He half-turned his head and took in the gaggle of heads behind his hostess in the doorway. That lady was sputtering into protest at his unseemly behavior. “Send for a doctor,” he commanded. When chaos ensued in the doorway, he only raised his brows and frowned. “Now?”

One of the maids at the rear squeaked, “I’ll go, mum,” in Spanish and disappeared.

“You may make yourself useful, good lady, by providing some sustaining broth and a glass of porter,” he said to his hostess, as calmly as he could. “At your
earliest
convenience?” He spared a moment to see her depart indignantly and the maids scatter, and then turned to Miss Rochewell.

He hardly knew what to say. What was proper when one had sucked another’s blood? How could he allay her fear? And then there was the fact that his thigh was laid along her hip with only the coverlet between them. The feelings that stirred inside him only reminded him of the shameful thoughts he had entertained last night. She was right to be afraid of him.