Dawn Thompson
Authors: The Brotherhood
BLOOD MOON
“Thompson’s new trilogy kicks off with a chilling, mesmerizing vampire novel whose fast pace and adventures are guaranteed to keep your blood pounding. Thompson’s tale catches your attention and will have you spellbound from beginning to end.”
—RT BOOKreviews
“Dawn Thompson’s
Blood Moon
is a spectacular tale which is sure to thrill paranormal readers everywhere. . . . Ms.Thompson brings this story to life in vivid details with characters that will live on in your memory long after you’ve reached the last page.”
—Romance Junkies
“Ms.Thompson has reinvented vampirism in a most creative way.”
—Eternal Night
“Dawn Thompson’s exquisite prose brought to life the lush Moldavian surroundings.
Blood Moon
was a frightening, enthralling, and stirringly erotic novel. I thoroughly recommend it to anyone who is not looking for a typical vampire novel. . . .”
—Mystic Castle
“Thompson’s intriguing time travel intelligently blends 17th-century Irish legend with Regency sensibilities, passion, mystery and a wondrous love story of two engaging characters—the stuff of myth and magic.”
—RT BOOK reviews
“Dawn Thompson is . . . a force to be reckoned with. . . . This was an absolutely spellbinding effort. . . . [A] riveting and unforgettable read! I highly recommend this book!”
—Marilyn Rondeau, Reviewers International Organization
“Those looking for passion and escape will be pleased.”
—Publishers Weekly
THE WATERLORD
“Original, intriguing, and captivating,
The Waterlord
blends paranormal fantasy and historical romance with panache. [Ms.Thompson] puts a fresh spin on a delightful plotline.”
—RT BOOK reviews
“It is a pleasure to read an author who can make her fictional world come to life.
The Waterlord
and Ms.Thompson earn a perfect 10.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“With its delicious Gothic overtones, haunting suspense and thrilling climax, Thompson’s tale sends just the right amount of chills down your spine. . . . Thompson creates such appealing characters that you’ll be hooked. . . . A novel that will entertain and give you chills.”
—RT BOOK reviews
“A seductive brooding tale of dark love. Victoria Holt, move over!”
—Bertrice Small, Author of
The Last Heiress
“For a novel that will entertain and give you chills, grab a copy of
The Ravencliff Bride
; it is guaranteed to appeal to fans of Gothic and paranormal romances.”
—Romance Reviews Today
The man made no reply, advancing. His eyes were like live coals burning into Cora, holding her gaze relentlessly. She couldn’t tear herself away from the mesmerizing look in them. They were transporting her to a place far away—a dark place crimsoned with blood; he was covered with it. The room swam as he approached, and she groped for the foot of the sleigh bed for support. This didn’t seem real, yet there was no question.
Screaming at the top of her voice, she tore the yards of gauze curtain draped over the sleigh bed, and threw it over the advancing man. Then screaming again in multiple spasms, she raced through the door she’d left flung wide—right into the cold, wet arms of Joss Hyde-White.
How safe she felt in those arms. That struck her at once, and it shocked her given the circumstances. Perhaps it was the suddenness of the impact that took her guard down. He was soaking wet, his fine woolen greatcoat spongy where she gripped it. He wore no hat, and his dark hair was scattered across his brow, combed by the wind. He smelled of the clean, fresh North Country air. She inhaled deeply, but the indulgence was short-lived. Screams from below funneling up the staircase called her back to the urgency of the moment, and she strained against his grip.
“No!” he said, holding her at arm’s distance.“Do not go down there. Do not move from this spot!”
Other
Love Spell
books by Dawn Thompson:
BLOOD MOON
THE FALCON’S BRIDE
THE WATERLORD
THE RAVENCLIFF BRIDE
D
AWN
T
HOMPSON
B
ROTHERHOOD
For DeborahAnne MacGillivray, in heartfelt appreciation. For all of her unending help and support, I am eternally grateful.
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2007 by Dawn Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1766-0
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-0153-9
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: August 2007
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at
www.dorchesterpub.com
.
THE
B
ROTHERHOOD
ROLOGUE
Whitebriar Abbey, Cumberland, England
May, 1812
Jon paced the Oriental carpet runners outside his wife’s bedchamber like a caged lion until he tripped on the mess he’d made of them. Did all babies take this long in coming? Cassandra had been closeted in that chamber for hours—nearly all day, with Dr. Fenimore from Carlisle, and Grace Bates, the housekeeper at Whitebriar Abbey.
Jon plopped himself down on the hard wooden settle beside the door and dropped his head in his hands. A blood-chilling scream came again from inside—then another. He vaulted off the settle and kicked the wrinkled carpet runners out of the way against the wall. Whose idea was it to lay down runners in the first place? What colossal dunce dictated that? Why wasn’t there regular carpet on the floor in the corridors? Good God, the Hyde-Whites certainly had enough blunt to afford carpet. The halls were more frequently traveled
than any chamber in the Abbey. He was surely going mad.
Another scream pierced the quiet, and Jon groaned. Raking his hair back ruthlessly, he began pacing again. The heels of his top boots rang on the bare wood underfoot. The runners he’d kicked aside had absorbed some of the noise; now, between Cassandra’s screams and the racket he was making, he thought his brain would burst. There was nothing for it; if something didn’t happen soon, he was going to barge straight into that chamber like a juggernaut and see for himself what was taking so bloody long.
This was no ordinary baby being born. They had both agonized for seven long months over this birth. The child would either be normal . . . or like they were, infected with the unspeakable
condition
. Jon hadn’t spoken its true name—not even in his mind—since he and Cassandra returned from Moldovia. She had put up a brave front, trying not to worry him with her fears, but he saw through her thinly veiled attempts just as clearly as he saw through the leaded panes in the window at the end of the corridor. No light passed through that window now; night had fallen—dark, bleak, moonless night. The blood moon had saved them, but no moon would shine upon the birth of this child. Was it an omen of ill-boding that it be born during the dark of the moon? Cold chills snaked their way up and down Jon’s spine at the thought. What else could it be? The baby was coming nearly a month early.
Hours passed. Grace came and went, bearing soiled bedding and clean linens. Bates, her husband, the butler at Whitebriar Abbey, carried kettle after kettle of water up from the kitchen, but neither would let Jon into Cassandra’s chamber.
“Bear up, sir, ’tis almost over,” Bates had said the last
time he barred him in the doorway. That was over an hour ago, and save Cassandra’s screams, which seemed closer together—and growing weaker, God help her—there hadn’t been a sound in the Abbey since.
Just when he feared he could bear no more, a lusty cry from inside ran Jon through like a knife blade. Was it born? Was it finally born? He pounded upon the door with both fists. There was a moment before it came open. Grace’s plump face was flushed, and beaded with sweat. Her apron and hands were streaked with blood. There was a time when the sight and smell of blood—especially Cassandra’s—would have brought on the feeding frenzy, the accursed bloodlust. Jon scarcely gave that a moment’s thought. His eyes were riveted to the housekeeper.
“Is . . . is . . . ,” was all he could get out. It was as if his tongue were paralyzed.
“Aye, it is,” she replied. “Ya have a fine son, sir, and the mistress is restin’ easy. ’Twas a difficult birth, but she’s goin’ ta be just fine.”
She didn’t have to tell him it had been a difficult birth. Cassandra’s screams would pierce his heart and live in his mind until doomsday. But he had to see for himself.
“May I see her . . . uh,
them
. . . ?” he asked, craning his neck to see past the woman into the darkened room.
“Once we’ve cleaned them up,” Grace replied. “Now, sit you back down and give us a couple o’ minutes.”
The door shut in his face, and he did as she bade him, dropping his head into his hands again. He had a son—
a son!
It was only minutes, as the housekeeper said, but it seemed like forever before she opened the door again. This time, she beckoned. She needn’t have bothered.
The instant the door left the jamb Jon streaked past her with a crashing disregard for her bulk and knelt down on one knee beside the bed, where Cassandra lay propped with down pillows, cradling the child in her arms.
Outlining instructions for his patient’s care, the doctor took Grace’s arm and led her away. Jon studied the child in his wife’s arms. How tiny it was, and how fair complexioned for one come so recently through such an ordeal; Jon could see the tiny blue veins through the baby’s translucent skin. How dark the eyes were, like two midnight sapphires, only showing the faintest trace of blue.
Jon leaned nearer, a close eye upon Grace and the doctor behind, and spoke in a stage whisper. Neither was aware of the situation, and it wouldn’t do to have them find out what he feared they had just brought into the world.
“Is he . . . ?” he murmured.