Books by Maggie Shayne (98 page)

"I, um… I'm glad you came back."

"I am only here because of Tamara.
 
She is frightened for Jamey and she asked me to stay, and help protect him."

He nodded.
 
She opened the drawer of an empty dresser.
 
"They might be rather stale-smelling.
 
Haven't been used in a while," he said.

She drew a small package from her case.
 
"I brought some cedar chips."
 
She sprinkled some of them into the drawer.
 
"You haven't said anything about the drapes.
 
How much do you hate them?"

He drew a deep breath.
 
"Actually, I'm beginning to feel glad you convinced me to allow it.
 
The entire place feels... warmer."

"Then you won't mind that I bought a bedspread and some throw pillows to match."

He shook his head slowly.
 
"No.
 
I don't mind."
 
He felt his eyelids growing heavy, his body slowing gradually.
 
He reached inside his jacket and removed a vial of Eric's revivifying potion.

Rhiannon frowned.
 
"Perhaps you shouldn't.
 
You look tired."

He only shook his head, "Rhiannon, do you feel as if you need to prove something to me?"

Her gaze lowered all at once.
 
"No, Roland.
 
Not anymore."

There was a finality in her tone that hit him with staggering force.
 
Was she giving up on her relentless pursuit of him, then?
 
Why on earth should that make him feel so utterly miserable?

He shook off the feeling of desolation, and downed the potion.
 
"Good.
 
Because you never did, you know."
 
She said nothing, only continued piling clothes into drawers.
 
"I've never doubted your abilities, Rhiannon.
 
Your strength, your courage, your utter boldness in facing danger."

She stopped in the act of sorting nightgowns, holding a sheer black peignoir out before her.
 
She frowned over it.
 
"For a woman, you mean?"

"That is not what I mean.
 
I wouldn't have wished to face you in battle as a human.
 
I still wouldn't."

She draped the gown over the back of a chair, and Roland's mouth went dry when he realized she probably intended to wear it.
 
He couldn't help envisioning her pale, smooth limbs beneath the translucent gauze.
 
She scooped up a handful of clothing and moved toward the wardrobe, to begin hanging them.

Standing with her back to him, she shook her head.
 
"I don't understand you at all, Roland.
 
If you don't think of me as inferior, then why do you dislike me so?"

"I do not dislike you.
 
I dislike the things you do."

She finished hanging clothes, and turned, tilting her head.
 
"Which things?"

"Outrageous things, Rhiannon.
 
Things that put you at risk.
 
Like... like singing in that tavern, for example."

She smiled fully, and her eyes sparkled.
 
"Ah, but Roland, it was such great fun.
 
And you have to admit, I'm not bad."
 
She frowned then.
 
"Was that it, you think I sing horribly?"

He closed his eyes.
 
Truly, she was exasperating.
 
"You have the voice of an angel."

She seemed to glow with his praise.
 
"Really?"

He nodded.
 
"It's that you were drawing so much attention to yourself.
 
I only want you to be careful."

"The only attention I wished to draw was yours."

"Then you ought to have come here, and sung to me in private."
 
She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued speaking.
 
"It's not only the singing.
 
It's all the other risks you take.
 
Flirting with Rogers that first night.
 
Slipping into his hotel room tonight."
 
He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.
 
"Can't you see that my anger at you was because I was afraid for you?"

She studied him so intently that he had a brief surge of hope she might actually be listening.
 
Then, "If I had come to the castle, to sing to you in private, would you really have listened?"

He clapped a hand to his forehead.
 
"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

She waved a hand.
 
"Of course, I have.
 
You dislike my risky adventures.
 
You dislike my every behavior.
 
No doubt, you dislike the way I dress, as well."

"In public, Rhiannon, it wouldn't hurt to try a bit harder to blend in, for your own protection."

"I knew it.
 
Well, Roland, where shall I begin?
 
Shall I fashion a dress from a feed sack?"
 
Her voice grew louder, her words tumbling out in a rush of anger.
 
"Would that please you?
 
Shall I slouch when I walk, so my height isn't so noticeable?
 
Or maybe I should begin by hacking off my hair.
 
It's probably my most conspicuous feature, wouldn't you say?"
 
She strode away from him, and began a frantic search of the chambers, opening every drawer and cupboard and chest.

Roland gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him.
 
"Stop it."

"No.
 
There are scissors here, somewhere.
 
I know there are.
 
I'll even let you do the honors, Roland.
 
Just--"

He shook her.
 
"Stop it!
 
You know that isn't what I meant."

"No, I don't.
 
I don't understand you at all.
 
If I dress and behave as a widow in mourning, will that make you want me, Roland?
 
If I suddenly become a blushing wallflower, will you find me desirable then?"

"You want to know how desirable I find you?"
 
He glared at her, his rage blending with his passion to overwhelm his common sense.
 
He knew he should release her, leave the chamber this instant before she drove him too far.
 
The beast within, taunted to wakefulness by his anger, his fear for her, and his desire, was on the rampage.

But her scent twined through his brain, eliciting the memory of her the previous day, lying all but naked before him.
 
The taste of her seemed to come to life upon his lips.
 
The way her breasts had looked, and how they'd responded to his touch.
 
His lips had been so close to them.
 
His hunger for her whipped the beast to a frenzy and he shuddered with the force of it.

"You want to know how much I desire you?" he repeated.
 
He looked down into her blazing eyes, and knew it was too late to battle the beast inside.

There was something in his eyes, something that should have warned her.
 
But she couldn't curb her anger.
 
"I already know.
 
You don't desire me at all.
 
You want someone who looks like me, but who is timid and quiet and withdrawn.
 
You touched me while I rested, Roland.
 
While my body could respond but my mind could not."
 
She shook her head in frustration.
 
"It isn't me you want."

Roland's grip on her shoulders eased, and his hands slipped slowly down her arms.
 
His gaze stabbing into her eyes, he reached her wrists, encircled them and drew her hands forward.
 
Then he pressed her palms flat to his groin, and moved them slowly up and down over the solid, throbbing length of him.
 
"You're wrong."
 
His words were nearly a growl.

Rhiannon felt a shudder of absolute longing move through her.
 
She closed her eyes at the force of it.
 
Then his mouth was crushing hers, his arms were around her, pinning hers immobile.
 
He pressed her lips open and thrust his tongue into her mouth, licking its roof, and her teeth and her tongue.

She wanted to put her arms around him, but his crushing embrace prevented that.
 
Her hands worked, all the same, at the button of his trousers.
 
In moments, she was able to close them around the silken, rigid evidence of how very much he did want her.
 
She squeezed, and stroked, and ran the pad of her thumb over the tip.

He moaned into her mouth, and suddenly gripped the front of her blouse and tore it open.
 
He was frantic, a man possessed, she thought, as he ripped the bra away, and bent her backward, bowing to suckle her breast.
 
Ruthlessly he tugged and bit, ravaging her sensitive nipple until her knees quivered and her hands buried in his hair to urge him on.

He fell to his knees then, and yanked the skirt until its seam gave way.
 
He pressed his lips to the front of her panties, hands gripping her buttocks, and she felt his breath and the moistness of his kiss right through them.
 
A second later he ripped them aside, and kissed her there again.

She couldn't stand up much longer.
 
Her legs were jelly.
 
Her knees had dissolved.

Then his tongue parted her folds, and lapped a hot path inside.
 
She fell to the floor, but he came right with her.
 
Growling deep in his throat, he pressed his palms to her inner thighs, and shoved them apart.
 
He buried his face between them.

It was torture, sweet, succulent torture, and he applied it like an attack.
 
His mouth devoured, his tongue assaulted.
 
His hands fought to widen the gate of her fortress, and he mercilessly deepened his invasion.

She screamed aloud when his conquest was complete, and still the siege continued, rendering her no more than a quivering, panting captive.
 
When her hands tried to push his head away, he caught her wrists in a grip of iron, and plundered on, until every bastion of sanity had been rendered useless.

Then he was moving upward, over her body.
 
Her newly freed, trembling hands shoved his trousers lower, and he plunged himself inside her without a second's hesitation.

His size and the force of his thrusts made her gasp.
 
His mouth covered hers again, and the sweep of his tongue into her throat matched the rhythm of his body, pounding into hers.
 
She pressed at his shoulders once, as a signal he should slow down.
 
This wasn't as she had envisioned it.
 
This wasn't the lovemaking she craved from him.
 
But his hands only caught hers, and pinned them to the floor at her sides.
 
His pace, if anything, became more demanding.

And in moments, her hips arched in response to that demand, and her tongue swirled around his in a savory dance.
 
Harder and harder he rode her, until his lips left her mouth to slide down to her throat.
 
She tipped her head back as he drew her skin into his mouth.
 
She was approaching a second, shattering climax, and she reached for it, eagerly.

She knew he was there as well when he reared inside her, and she felt the hot pulse of his seed.
 
Then his teeth sank into her throat, and he growled once again.
 
She moaned in a hoarse voice as the climax held her endlessly in its grip, then shook all over as it released her.

Her muscles slowly untwined and relaxed.
 
His mouth was still fastened to her throat.
 
She felt the movements of his lips and knew he still drank.
 
Her essence flowed into him, and her body began to weaken.
 
The lethargy that crept around her senses was tempting her, calling her to embrace it.
 
But it would be brief, she knew.
 
He would stop at any moment, and her head would clear.

But he didn't.
 
On and on, he took from her, and the ecstasy she felt became tinged with fear.

She pushed at his shoulders.
 
"Roland..."

He lifted his head with some reluctance.
 
His eyes still glowing with passion, he stared into hers.
 
"You're delicious," he whispered.
 
"All of you."

She felt a sudden confusion inside her.
 
She thought she ought to smile up at him, but instead she felt like crying.
 
Why?
 
For God's sake, why?
 
Wasn't this what she'd wanted?

He rolled off her, stood and righted his trousers.
 
He reached a hand down to her.
 
"Come, it's nearly dawn.
 
You're feeling it already, aren't you?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat.
 
He hadn't even taken off his clothes.
 
His eyes were hot with lust, but devoid of feeling.

"Yes, I suppose I am."
 
She allowed him to take her hand, and pull her to her feet.
 
But her knees refused to support her, and she swayed away from him.
 
She caught herself on the arm of the set tee leaning over it like a drunkard.
 
Her head fell forward.
 
Her hair veiled her face like a dark curtain, through which she could not see.
 
Rather, she heard his ragged breathing slowly take on a normal rhythm.
 
She felt the gradual ebb of his mindless lust.

Roland caught her shoulders, tugging her upright, turning her to face him.
 
"What is it?"

She lifted her chin to see confusion in his expression.
 
My God, he wasn't even aware…

His eyes narrowed, then focused on the fresh wound at her throat.
 
The heightened color left his face all at once.
 
She heard him curse roughly, and that was all.
 
She felt herself falling, but oddly, there was no sense of landing at his feet.
 
Instead, it was as if she simply continued a downward spiral into utter blackness.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

The knowledge of what he'd done was like a blade thrust through the mists of passion to plunge into his heart as he caught her in his arms, and lifted her.
 
Her head fell backward, her endless satin hair trailing down his legs as he carried her to the bedroom, and laid her down.
 
He smoothed the ebony locks away from her face and pulled the covers over her pale body.
 
He had to close his eyes tightly for the burning that assailed them.
 
Certainly not tears.
 
He had none.
 
Hadn't had for centuries.
 
What use were tears to a beast?

God, that he'd thought he might someday conquer the bloodthirsty demon within him was a joke.
 
But to have found the proof of it like this...

Mentally, he called to Eric.
 
She wouldn't die.
 
As he recalled the way he'd ravaged her, second by second, he knew he hadn't taken enough to kill her.
 
But he might have, had she not stopped him when she had.
 
There'd been no logic in his brain at that moment.
 
Only sensation.
 
The feel of his body possessing hers, of her climax milking the seed from him, of her blood filling him, had chased every vestige of morality from his mind, and given free rein to the monster that lurked inside.

He heard the door creak open, but didn't turn.
 
Instead he clasped her limp, slender hand in both of his, and brought it to his lips.
 
"I'm sorry, Rhiannon.
 
God, I'm sorry."

"Roland, what..."
 
Eric's steps approached from behind, then stopped.
 
Roland released her hand and turned to face his friend.
 
Eric wasn't looking at him, however.
 
His gaze fixed upon Rhiannon's white face, and then upon the two tiny wounds at her throat.
 
"What the hell have you done?"

Roland parted his lips but found himself unable to speak.
 
Then he was shoved roughly aside as Eric went to the bed, leaned over it and touched Rhiannon's face.
 
Roland turned his back.
 
Shame engulfed him.
 
Remorse filled his every pore.
 
"I didn't mean--I lost control, Eric.
 
I nearly--"

Eric gripped Roland's arm and drew him from the room.
 
He closed the bedroom door.
 
His anger struck like a fist, and Roland couldn't blame him for it.
 
"What the hell were you thinking?
 
How could you allow yourself to--"

"I don't know, dammit!"
 
Roland lowered his head, pressing a palm to his forehead.
 
"Is she all right?"

Eric sighed hard.
 
"She'll be weak when she wakes, and more than likely, she'll feel like hell.
 
She'll need to feed right away.
 
All in all, I'd say she's in better shape than you right now."
 
He shook his head.
 
"Tell me what happened, Roland.
 
This is so unlike you."

"Oh, but it isn't.
 
It's exactly like me."

"That's ridiculous.
 
You're the most controlled man I know."

"Am I?"
 
Roland paced away, toward the fire.
 
He stared into the glowing coals, inhaled the pungent aroma of the smoldering wood.
 
"Have you ever wondered why I remain such a staid, quiet individual?
 
Have you ever once considered what fiendish qualities I might be holding in check?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."
 
Eric came nearer.

Roland faced him, pointing one outstretched finger toward the bedroom.
 
"That is what happens when I ease the reins of control, Eric.
 
The lust for blood, be it in battle or in passion, takes over.
 
It's time you knew your dearest friend is no more than evil given form and substance."

Eric frowned.
 
He touched Roland's shoulder, then gripped it hard.
 
"I've never seen you like this."

"What you've seen of me is a veneer, my friend.
 
Today, you've met me for the first time.
 
Perhaps it would be best if you took your fledgling and the boy, and went as far from me as possible, before I contaminate all of you."

"Don't be ridiculous."
 
Eric let his hand fall away.
 
"We'll talk more tonight.
 
The sun is already cresting the horizon.
 
You ought to go below."

Roland shook his head.
 
"No need.
 
I availed myself of your potion."

Eric's frown deepened.
 
"When?"

Roland shrugged.

"An hour ago.
 
Perhaps less.
 
What does it matter?"

"Why didn't I realize... Roland, sit down.
 
Crawl out of this well of self-loathing and listen to me."
 
Without waiting for Roland's compliance, Eric shoved him toward a chair.

Roland sat, but he wasn't concerned with what Eric had to say.
 
No words could alter the truth.

"It wasn't you, you fool," Eric all but shouted.
 
"It was the drug.
 
If anyone is to blame for this debacle, it's me."
 
He pulled a chair close to Roland's and sat down.
 
"The drug has a tendency to increase aggressive behavior.
 
At least it did in the animals I initially tested it on.
 
When the same symptoms didn't occur in me, I assumed immortals were immune to that side effect.
 
That was a grave error, obviously."

Roland shook his head slowly.
 
"What a genuine friend you are to try to accept blame for my true nature.
 
It wasn't the drug, Eric.
 
It was me."