The Mark of the Vampire Queen

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue

An author never gets to this point without tremendous help and enormous luck, so I would be remiss if I didn't offer thanks from the depths of my humble soul to all of you with whom I've had the pleasure and pain of sharing this journey: readers, critique partners, fellow authors, reviewers, editors, my agent, family, friends, the Muse and the publishers—current and past, large and small—who've given me a shot…

Thank you for helping me, guiding me, believing in me and having patience with me. My growth as an author will always be built on the foundation of your support—any stumbles will be from my own shortcomings.

In two previous lifetimes, Jacob has served you. Once as the samurai warrior who guarded you as a child. Once as the knight who saved your caravan from vampire hunter attack during the Crusades. Despite the fact it happened centuries ago and he was only with you a short time, you always remembered him so vividly…

I believe Jacob comes to you only when your life is truly, genuinely in danger.

—Brother Thomas, former human servant to Lady Lyssa, Vampire Queen of the Far East Clan

Centuries Ago…

T
HE
vampire hunters had been swift, their numbers considerable. Despite their foolish decision to launch their attack just before dusk, their commitment had bordered on fanatical, making them dangerous. The day might not have gone in Lady Lyssa's favor, but a knight had charged out of the golden desert sands still shimmering with the day's heat, his bloodcurdling battle cry reminding her of the wildness of the Irish moors. When the clash of weapons and the spilling of blood were over, he'd turned the tide against the attack.

“I wish to thank him,” she commanded her retainers. “Bring him to me.”

They'd obeyed her quickly, as they always did. The knight hadn't seen her at first when the lackey guided him just inside the flap of her tent. The first notes of his voice had curled pleasantly in her stomach like warm blood.

“I am not presentable for your Mistress. I should prepare myself first.”

“But I desire the audience now.”

He turned as she materialized out of the shadows. The servant retreated. She noted that the knight's tunic and mail still bore the blood of those he'd vanquished. So did the gauntlets he pulled off to reveal callused, capable hands. Sweat had dampened the hair on his head, but there were hints of true red in the brown. When he found her, those blue, blue eyes and the pale lashes with the same hint of auburn on the tips gave her steps a pause. The power of his gaze washed over her like a familiar embrace.

She'd thought she'd share a goblet of wine with him. Perhaps even hypnotize him into being her dinner tonight and then send him to a bed with several of her maidservants to reward him for his trouble on her behalf. Only two hundred years old, she nevertheless wasn't impetuous. But the idea of dismissing him melted away as she sent a mental compulsion to her staff to bring the precious bathwater to her tent instead of setting up a guest quarters.

He bowed. “My lady.”

“Sir Knight.” Composure reclaimed, she stepped to the carafe of wine and began to pour her best vintage into a goblet. “I find myself in your debt.”

“The chance to rescue a lady of such fair countenance suggests just the opposite.”

She turned, raised a brow. “A deft tongue. Far more appealing than my countenance.” Particularly if he was equally deft with it in other ways.

Her gaze lingered, apparently communicating her thought well enough that the first hint of desire rose in his eyes. However, something else was in his expression as well. Speculative awareness.

“It was an odd attack, my lady. These men seemed to be seeking your death specifically. Not a ransom.”

“Men fear what they do not understand.” She finished pouring the wine. “I have enemies. That is my business, not yours. I'm simply grateful you were willing to put your sword into my service.”

“Mmm.” As he made the noncommittal noise, she offered the goblet, cupping the bowl with both hands. When he reached for it, she didn't relinquish it. He studied her, then put his hands over hers, lifting the goblet to his lips, allowing her to move two steps closer, the tips of her slippers just inside the span of his boots. As he drank deeply, she watched his throat work. He was not mannerless. While he thirsted, he showed restraint. He didn't spill it on himself or the rug beneath his feet. She almost wished for one red rivulet to run from the corner of his mouth down the side of his throat to give the lust in her belly more to stir it. Though in truth, watching him drink seemed to be enough. He paused, pressing his moistened lips together, distracting her.

“When the battle was over, I'd killed many. But not as many as were lying on the ground.”

“My servants are not untrained,” she said, wondering how he would taste if she lifted on her toes and pressed her lips over his wine-stained ones. “While they are not all warriors, I would have been ashamed if they hadn't been some assistance to you.”

“They were. With pike and sword. Even your cook wields a pot well.” A light smile touched his firm mouth, but didn't reach his eyes. “As stout of heart as they all were, I didn't see any of them who looked strong enough to break the neck of a full-grown warrior, or snap his back like a rotted branch.”

When he lowered the goblet, she was aware his grip had tightened perceptibly on her hands, keeping them overlaid with his own. “One man…I pulled my sword out of his gut just as his comrade came upon my back. He would have run me through; I've no doubt of it. There was a wind like a passing spirit, on what has been a cursedly breezeless dusk. I felt a softness, much like the brush of a maiden's hair on my face.” His gaze traveled to her raven tresses, tied loosely back on her shoulders with a twisted trio of ribbons. “The man spun away from me, so violently his feet left the ground. When he landed, his back was broken, his head wrenched back.”

“I think you have been out in the sun far too long, Sir Knight.”

“Perhaps you've never been in the sun at all, my lady. Your skin, like the palest cream,” he murmured. “What manner of creature are you? Should I fear you as well?”

He looked more curious than apprehensive. Almost…amused. Disturbed, she drew her hands from beneath his and stepped away, reclaiming her haughty reserve. “
Do
you fear me?”

Her retainers slipped in, bearing a washtub and full water buckets. Rather than answering, he noted them, his brow raised. “You are preparing to bathe, my lady. I should leave you your privacy.”

“I am preparing to bathe
you
, Sir Knight.” At his surprised look, she tilted her head. “A traditional courtesy, is it not? The lady of the house attending to her guest's bath?”

She saw the significance of that flash through his expression and wondered if he could imagine it in as great detail as she could. His muscular, naked body glistening with water, the beads of it tempting her to suck on his tanned, sun-soaked skin. He shifted, swallowing.

“My lady…”

“Do you intend to insult my hospitality, Sir Knight?”

She could almost hear the snick of the trap, and from the charming amusement in his gaze, she knew he could as well. “No, my lady.”

“Then please remove your weapons and clothing and I will have my servants see to their cleaning.”

That gave him pause for different reasons. She stepped toward him. “You may certainly keep the weapons with you here, if it reassures you. Or perhaps it's just that you've been wearing them for so long you've forgotten how to remove them.”

Another step, and she was right in front of him again. The way those piercing blue eyes seemed to be contemplating her mystery roused things in her. It seemed as if he understood her fully, even as she played with him in this way. She reached out and fingered the trailing end of his sword belt, beginning to work it out of its loop, very conscious of what other delights waited under the skirt of the tunic.

While he didn't move, his expression maintained an intriguing blend of curiosity, desire warring with caution. He was obviously no fool.

Since he held the goblet, only one hand was free, but she suspected he was capable of putting up a good defense to stop her if he wished to do so. When she freed the weapon, she stepped closer to pull the belt away and bring it around to one hand, letting the tunic fall loose at his waist. She handed the sword, dagger and belt to a retainer. “Please see that the blade is properly cleaned and sharpened, and the scabbard well-oiled.”

Heaven knew, her scabbard was getting well-oiled, just from this brief touch. He stank of blood and sweat, the heavy musk of days of travel, and yet she wanted nothing more than to be the hands that scrubbed all that off his skin, as if unwrapping a gift for herself.

She took the goblet from his hands then. “If you'll remove the rest and step into the tub, we shall attend to your bath.”

Making herself turn away and cross the tent, she heard him shift, rustle, telling her he was removing the tunic and undergarments, untying the mail and handing it to the outstretched hands of her servants. She wondered at his willingness to give up his weapons, but then she realized the tent was well decorated with her own armaments. He could outfit himself if needed, and if she was telling the truth, she was saving him the time of preparing his weapons for his next battle. Even so, she suspected he was not a man who easily trusted another to do that, and that uncomfortably suggested he might be feeling some of the same strong pull toward her she was feeling toward him.

Setting aside the goblet, she heard him step into the tub and her servants quietly depart, leaving her alone with her prey. Her dinner. Her pleasure. She turned.

Holy God…
And she meant it in the most reverent sense.

Even crusted with blood and grime, it was obvious his body was God's creation. Muscled haunches, broad back, long arms, wide chest and a cock already semierect, giving her a mouthwatering idea of its size and thickness when fully aroused. It had already lengthened at her regard, even as he obviously tried to look anywhere but at her. Perhaps he was thinking he shouldn't presume she was trying to seduce him, since she'd yet to make any direct overtures that way. But oh, that was fully her intent. She was hungry on two very vital levels.

She'd sent her marked human servant ahead to make arrangements for their stay, but there was something about this man that told her even if she'd had a meal readily at her fingertips she'd have sent it from her presence in favor of this one. She wanted to bid him stand still as she poured the water over him, watch it sluice over hard muscle, taking away the dust and making his skin gleam in the candlelight.

As she approached, she cast her eyes down, ostensibly a modest maiden, but really to get a better view of that impressive organ. Despite his best efforts to be chivalrous it was still rising, particularly when she took her time raising her gaze, letting it linger on all the terrain from thigh to throat. She was close enough to reach out to graze his flat abdomen with her fingers and she did, her nails scraping him.

“My lady.” He caught her wrists. She was surprised to look up into a face that, while avid with a man's desire, was also filled with male laughter. “You are teasing me.”

She smiled. “I am. I find myself ravenous, my knight. As you have suggested, my hungers are rather unusual. I wouldn't presume upon you to fill those hungers, because you have saved my life and the lives of many of my people tonight. But I admit I tend to be a selfish creature.”

Studying her, he lifted a hand to cup her face. The sheer impact of that touch made her go still. Her eyes closed of their own accord, her mind wondering at her trembling response as he stroked along her temple. When his thumb passed over her lips, she drew it into her mouth and bit.

He started a little, but didn't draw back. She wasn't using any compulsion at all, and yet she felt him just watching her curiously, tightening his grasp on her other wrist.

“My mind tells me what you are,” he whispered. “It tells me I should have helped them end you. But my heart tells me I would give the last drop of my blood to protect you. Is it a spell? Are you using your beauty to cloud my eyes to truth?”

She kept her gaze lowered, lashes fanning her cheeks, and sampled his blood. Finding it to her liking, she drew his thumb in farther, licking the welling drops away, suckling at him in a manner suggesting how she would like to suckle other parts of him. She heard him mutter a curse. When her eyes rose at last, he was still watching her draw the tiny trickle of sustenance from him. After she let him go, he looked at his thumb, bemused, before lowering the hand to her hip, drawing her closer to him, her shins pressing against the edge of the standing tub.

“You are a mystery, my lady. I ask myself why I'm not running from the temptation of you, so great that fighting in a dozen Crusades wouldn't eradicate the sin from my soul.”

“You never answered my question. Do you fear me, Sir Knight?”

He smiled, and this time the response reached his eyes, lighting them like sapphires in the firelight. It astonished her. He sensed what she might be, and yet he truly did not fear her.

“I will die in these lands, but not by your fair hand. Though I think it would be a far better death to die with my head in your lap.”

It cast a shadow over the moment. Imagining such a thing bothered her more than it should for this man she'd just met. “I forbid you to speak of such nonsense. We'll wash such thoughts away.”

When she bent to pick up the first bucket, he touched her elbow, stopping her. “That's far too heavy, my lady. Please, let me.”

She could lift him on the flat of her palm, but the gesture sent a wave of pleasure through her. He tipped the bucket over himself, wetting his hair and letting the flow run over his body, though sparingly. Enough to dampen him, but not wasting anything. A man who'd obviously been in the desert lands awhile, if the bronzed cast of his face hadn't told her that already.

When he set the bucket down and straightened to use the sponge to spread the water over himself for the soap, it was she who stopped him. Instead of allowing him to slick back his wet hair from his head, she did it for him. Rising on her toes, she let her fingertips follow the lines of his eyelids, feathering over his lashes to collect the water so he could open his eyes again. When she drew her hands back, her thumbs caressed his lips, his throat. His clear blue eyes stared at her now, an obvious struggle going on in their depths.

“My lady…I…You know you owe me nothing, yes? I demand nothing from you, even your hospitality.”

“Deny hospitality to a traveler in the desert? Something rarely done to a mortal enemy, let alone a person who saved my retainers' lives and possibly my own?”

“It was a service I'd gladly perform a hundred times, so your beauty would grace the world another day.”

“Or night,” she murmured.