The Vampire Narcise (13 page)

But it was her gown—what there was of it, and gown was not really an accurate term—that had struck every man in the room dumb. It was unlike anything in the shops of the modistes anywhere in Paris, and Giordan couldn’t help but wonder where Moldavi had had it made. The dress was in the style of centuries ago, that of a medieval lady: a simple, high-necked frock that laced up between the breasts and along the sides, clinging to every curve of the body from shoulder to knee. From there it flared out in a train onto the floor. Her sleeves were tight from shoulder to elbow then flared in long points nearly to her feet. And though the cut of her attire was unusual and revealing, it was its very substance that caused comment—for the entire dress was made only of black lace.

The gown clung to Narcise and revealed more than any whore’s undergarments ever had. It was clear to Giordan that she wore no corset, no chemise or undergarments of any fashion. The only nod to propriety—not that such a thing existed in the world of the Dracule—was a black silk triangle at the juncture of her legs, and the triangular panels of her skirt, where it flared below the knees, were alternating black silk and black lace. Even the bodice was lace. Her breasts were uncovered, her nipples hidden by accident or design by a heavy part of the lace…but even the undercurves of her breasts were evident.

He knew without a doubt that Moldavi had forced her to wear it, and Giordan burned to kill the man. But something else bothered him, and it was the only reason he didn’t pin Narcise’s brother to the wall with a stake: the look in her eyes.

His Narcise, the one he’d come to know and respect and love, might not choose on her own to wear such a gown. But, even if forced, she would never show shame or even submission while wearing it. She would walk boldly into a chamber and ignore the openmouthed gaping of every man in the room.

There was something else.

It took him some time, mingling with the other guests, directing his vintages about, but Giordan at last made it to Narcise’s side. She’d hardly moved from where she entered the room, and he could see the drawn expression in her face, the emptiness in her eyes even more clearly as he approached.

“Find some other skirt to chase,” he told Voss flatly. “She’s mine.”

Voss’s quickly checked surprise told Giordan that he, at least, hadn’t sensed the sizzling connection between Narcise
and him. And Voss, no matter how much he enjoyed variety in the shape of women, was not at all a stupid man. He gave his host a brief salute with his glass and sauntered away, a bemused smile curving his lips. One thing about Voss: he never tired of the courting, the chase or the variety.

“What is it?” Giordan asked immediately. “By the soul of Luce, Narcise, what has he done?”

“Don’t you wish to compliment me on my gown, monsieur?” she asked in a detached voice. “It was specially chosen to help me in my task of seduction.” Her cool smile didn’t reach her eyes. They remained blank, blue circles. Her cheeks were pale; her lips were nearly colorless.

“And who are you supposed to seduce?” he replied with ice in his veins.

“Why, you, monsieur,” she said, leaning into him, placing a slender hand on the center of his chest. “I am to seduce you. Here. Tonight.”

Giordan stared down at her, his heart thumping madly, her scent and her very proximity luring him into distraction…yet he knew he couldn’t allow his brain to go to mush. It was the first time she’d touched him since the night he spent hanging from a pair of manacles. The sight of her in a gown that amounted to nothing more than a lacy glove, along with her pronouncement, set his thoughts to reeling. But…

“I cannot help but wonder,” he said carefully, resisting the need to touch her, to close his large hand over the one that rested on his shirtwaist, “why you seem to be less than eager. Is seducing me still that revolting to you, Narcise? I thought…I’d hoped…”

He stopped, aware that he sounded pathetic and desperate. If the woman hadn’t come to feel anything for him in the last weeks—which had been tortuous for him, being unable
to touch her with anything but his eyes—perhaps he was wasting his time trying to convince her otherwise.

“It’s Cezar,” she whispered, seeming hardly to be able to form the words.

But before she could continue, Narcise clamped her lips closed, her eyes focused on something behind him, which could only be the man in question. Giordan felt and scented her brother’s presence, that heavy and familiar aroma, tinged with something else he found inexplicably unappealing.

He felt the weight of the man’s attention on them, and then it lifted and moved on.

“But then, mademoiselle, perhaps we ought to commence with the seduction. I am certain you know precisely how I feel about it.” He managed to make his words sound light, despite the dark overhang of the situation. “Will you put on a good performance for your brother? And should I pretend to resist, or should I drag you eagerly from this chamber as I’ve longed to do these last weeks?”

The column of her throat, slender and elegant and so very bitable, convulsed as she swallowed hard.
What is it, Narcise?

“Be reluctant,” she whispered as if she could hardly form the words. “I believe he is testing you—or us—somehow.”

That chill came back, ice in his veins again. Then Giordan pushed it away. The man was in
his
home. He could do nothing.

Yet…he’d been in Dimitri’s place, that night in Vienna, and somehow Moldavi had caused the building to burn to the ground and resulted in the death of Dimitri’s mistress.

“Very well,” he told her, turning slightly away. “I will play the reluctant target. For now. But take note, Narcise…once you are in my bed, my chamber, you’ll never leave it. I won’t let you go back with him.”

He’d delivered these last words in an undertone for her
ears only, but she stiffened and curled her fingers into the lapel of his coat. “No,” she said. “I cannot stay. I won’t stay, Giordan.”

He stilled. Her refusal, coupled with her first ever use of his intimate name, told him much. Yet his emotion that overrode it all was that of anger. “Do you think I won’t be able to protect you from him, in my own home?”

“It’s not me. I don’t fear for me any longer. It’s…there are children. Hostages.”

So that was it. “I’ll kill him then. Now.” He turned away, already considering where the closest stake or sword would be, but she caught his arm. Her fingers felt frail and he could easily have shaken her grip away.

Her words were low and desperate. “If he doesn’t return tonight, the children are to be given to the servants to be fed on. They’ll tear them apart. There’s one in the carriage, waiting now with Belial. It’s a girl-child, a young one—no more than eight. His orders are that if he doesn’t return to them by midnight, Belial can do what he wishes.” She seemed out of breath, exhausted by this long speech. “There is no way. Not tonight. One more night…it will make little difference.”

Giordan was aware of a numbness creeping over him. “There must be a way. There is a way, Narcise. You have no idea what I’m capable of,” he said, thinking back to those days on the streets when sticking a blade in someone who crossed him was as common as sleeping in the gutters.

“Please,” she said, and she stumbled into him a bit. Her eyes were dark blue pools. “I can’t risk it. Not tonight. It must be when he isn’t expecting it, when he hasn’t planned it all. Tonight is a test. Do you not think he will have considered every possible outcome and planned for it? Whatever you might attempt…he’ll be one step ahead.”

Then she smiled, but it was tight, and it worried him—along with the fact that she seemed to underestimate
him
.

Yet, when she pressed her body against his, the warmth from her presence, her heavy, erotic scent, the feel of her curves, all set his skin to tingling and his gums to swelling. She murmured as she looked up at him with hooded eyes, “I am certain we’ll both enjoy what’s to come. Can we not leave it at that? Just for tonight?”

“Very well,” he said, yet unwilling to put the possibility of her freedom from his mind. But if she was willing and able to return with Cezar to save the children, how could he argue with her? Giordan wasn’t certain he’d be able to make the same choice, but he must respect hers.

He slid an arm around her slender waist, pulling her close to him so that her breasts pressed against his chest. Surely she could feel his cock filling out his breeches. He was already imagining pulling the pins from her heavy hair, peeling the lace from her curves, sinking his teeth into the soft side of her belly while his fingers found her swollen quim. His breathing became rough and unsteady, his fangs long and hard.

“May I succumb to your wiles now, then, Narcise? Have I been reluctant enough?”

“Yes, I believe I’ve done my duty and convinced you,” she said, and for the first time, he saw a spark of heat in her eyes.

“Will you allow me to touch you tonight,
cher?
” his voice dropped low. “Are you willing? Tell me the truth, Narcise.”

“I am more than willing.” Yet…something still lurked in her eyes. Some hesitance.

Confused and angry with whatever it was, he nevertheless offered her his arm. “Shall we? I’m certain you’d prefer all of this to happen somewhere a bit more private.”

When she hardly moved, he looked down at her again. Her eyes had that dull look, her lips were slightly parted. She was either deathly afraid or in great-
hell.

“Where the devil is it?” he demanded, taking her shoulders and turning her to face him. Fury at his stupidity, his blindness rushed over him. “Where’s the feather? You’re wearing one, aren’t you?”

She nodded slightly, relief swimming in her eyes. “Around my neck. But not…here.” Her eyes focused on him, and now he recognized the pain behind the emptiness. “He can’t see….”

“Yes, here,” he said in a low, furious voice. But he turned so that his body blocked the view of anyone watching.

Cezar would die. Slowly. Giordan would ensure that it took days. Perhaps weeks.

He found the slender golden chain at her throat in seconds, and began to pull it from her gown. It was very long, and the single feather that hung from it had been slipped down the back of her gown, between the lace and her skin. Which meant it had been burning into her for at least an hour.

No damned wonder she’d hardly moved. She couldn’t.

Giordan snapped the golden chain and pulled the feather away, already seeing the relief in her face and eyes. Color came back into her skin and life in her blue-violet irises.

“Now,” he said, “let me have you.”

Cezar Moldavi watched as Cale led Narcise from the chamber. It had been a battle between them, he noted with satisfaction. She’d had to beg and plead, to coerce.

That Cale hadn’t immediately followed her like a besotted dog from the parlor gave Cezar hope. Perhaps he was wrong.

After all, every test he’d given Cale so far had turned out
to be unnecessary. How many men would have declined the offer to “watch over” Narcise during her brother’s absence?

And even if Cale was smart enough to see that he was being set up and to refuse the offer of having—what was it they said here?
carte blanche?
—with Narcise, surely he would at least have attempted to visit her or otherwise see her during Cezar’s absence.

But, no. All of his prying eyes in the household had assured him that Giordan Cale hadn’t so much as sent a message to the Moldavis, let alone attempted to call, until the day Cezar returned.

Anticipation bubbled deep within and it was all he could do not to smile broadly. He knew nearly everything he needed to about Giordan Cale. The last would become clear tonight, and then he would determine how to proceed.

A burst of laughter from the corner drew Cezar’s attention to Lord Eddersley, the dark, gangly fop from London. He subdued the sneer that threatened his upper lip. Men like him, so open and obvious about their preferences, disgusted him.

Cezar turned away, sipping the fine vintage Cale had poured tonight. The man had excellent taste, along with his broad shoulders and thick, curling hair. He could hardly wait to taste the man himself.

Now let me have you
.

Cale’s words rang in Narcise’s head, and now that the agonizing feather had been removed from the back of her dress, she could actually
feel
. And breathe. Her strength came rushing back, the numbness deserted her.

She wanted him to have her. Her fingers shook, her belly fluttered and leaped, she wanted him so badly.

He directed her out of the parlor, the door closing behind them and shutting off the voices and revelry—and Cezar’s watchful eyes. They were walking rapidly down a corridor furnished with an occasional painting, as well as several tables with statuary, vases and other items. Cale led her past several closed doors, and she was certain he meant to take her to his bedchamber.
Once you’re in my bed, my chamber, you’ll never leave it.

Her heart slammed behind her ribs, and she nearly pushed it all away: Cezar, the worries, the children…and gave in. For she knew he was right. Once she was in his bed, safe and sated,
loved
, she would never be able to make herself leave.

So she must not go there.

She stumbled purposely and when he paused to see to her distress, Narcise wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him toward her, backing herself against one of the
doors. Before he could speak, or even react, she sank her fangs into the side of his neck.

Cale went rigid, and she felt his body jolt in a great shudder as the hot blood coursed into her mouth. He swore, in some low, dark curse that she couldn’t hear. For a moment, she nearly forgot her purpose…the pleasure was so intense, so long awaited. And they were in this together, as equals. Equals.

The realization surged through her, strong and powerful, and she dragged deep, pulling him into her mouth, all the hot, coppery flavor of him.

He groaned deep and low, the cords of his neck swelling in response beneath her mouth. She pressed herself all along his body, feeling the welcome ridge behind the crotch of his breeches, the heat and strength she desired and no longer feared.

“Narcise,” he managed to gasp, but his hands had covered her breasts, finding her tight nipples through the rough lace, and he seemed unable to finish. Molding her curves, sliding a thumb over her breasts, he had her flat against the door, his head tilted back, baring full, throbbing veins as she drank. His pulse pounded, sending little surges of his lifeblood into her mouth, and she sucked and licked, using her lips and tongue to taste him. He was rich and sweet, strong and yet comforting. Familiar.

She felt for the doorknob she knew was behind her, and uncaring what sort of room they would stumble into, managed to twist it. The door gave away behind her as she withdrew from the hot, soft skin at his neck and backed inside, pulling him by his lapels into the warm, dimly lit chamber.

“Out,” she heard him say roughly over her shoulder. As she tore at his coat, yanking it from his shoulders, she was aware of some sort of skittering movement, quick and clumsy,
and then the stirring of the air as the chamber’s previous occupants quickly vacated.

Cale muttered something unintelligible, whipping the coat to the ground as she fumbled with the tie at the throat of his shirt, aware that his rich red blood had stained the white cotton. She tore it away and there was his bare chest beneath her hands again, as warm and solid as she remembered it.

He was pulling at the pins in her hair, yanking haphazardly and dropping them to the wooden floor with little scattering sounds. “So beautiful,” he murmured, sliding his hands into her hair, lifting its weight from where it rested at the back of her neck, untangling the mass of coils and braids and twists, spreading it wide and full so that it shimmered down her back. She felt it through the thin lace, heavy and warm, and then he lifted the whole of it to one side, baring her neck.

“Narcise?” he asked, his voice rough in her ear, his other hand firmly on her arm.

“Yes—” She’d barely breathed the syllable when he slammed his fangs into her at that soft, sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder. She gave a little shriek of pain and pleasure, and he stilled for a moment, one hand cupping her shoulder, and the other curved around the back of her head, holding her steady when she would have sagged weakly.

The release of pressure inside her, fairly exploding into his hot mouth, combined with the sting of pain and the sensual tracing of his lips made Narcise weak and dizzy in the most pleasurable sort of way. Her lips moved in a smile, taut with need but real nevertheless.

It had been so long…so long since this pleasure hadn’t been taken from her,
forced
from her. So long since it had been good, pure pleasure instead of terrible and dark.

But her knees were buckling and she grasped at the
remnants of his shirt, holding on as he drank deeply. One of his hands slipped down to drag her bottom close, her torso sharply against the cock raging behind his tight breeches. She arched low, pressing against the tempting bulge, rubbing her own swollen self against him in the rhythm they both craved. Their breathing matched and mingled, hard and rough and heated, spreading over her skin where he latched on to her shoulder, his tongue caressing her behind his fangs.

There was a clink, and a jolt, and she realized they’d bumped into a table or something, and the next thing she knew, something was behind her legs. The arm of a sofa.

“Let’s do it horizontally this time,” he murmured, releasing his fangs and then sliding hot, slick lips over her wound, tenderly, gently, to close it up. She shivered at the sensation over her taut, sensitive skin, closing her eyes as her body seemed to turn to liquid, hot and pounding inside. Her breasts strained behind their lace confines, the rough material erotic and irritating to her thrusting nipples. But the pleasure rolling from belly to quim, undulating through her limbs, was delicious and unbearable, and Narcise found herself sighing and moaning in delirium, needing more.

Then he was easing her to the floor, pulling her down with him onto a thick rug. The glow of a fire spilled in a golden pool on the red wool. “The sofa…too narrow,” he murmured, pulling at the laces that bound her into the sleevelike dress, opening it along the side of her torso, pulling it with gentle hands, her skin freed from the rough lace, open to the heat of the fire, and then—

Oh
.

He bit her there, in the soft side of her belly, just above her hip, and Narcise jolted as pleasure shot to her quim in a hot, soft swell, then burst into a spiral of release. Her breathing went out of control and her world turned dark and red,
pounding and rising, her center throbbing and pulsing as warmth and release surged through her.

“So you like that?” he said, his voice deep and filled with delight.

Then he—Giordan—was over her, one hand moving up under the lace to cover the top of her breast, smoothing his palm rhythmically over the needy tip of her nipple, and the other sliding up beneath her skirt, behind the black satin triangle between her legs.

His lips moved over the soft, delicate skin of her torso’s edge, sipping and gently sucking at the new wounds there. Her belly shivered and trembled, and when his fingers found her swollen quim, slick and full, she closed her eyes and breathed long and deep. The pleasure and need rose again immediately at his touch, and she could picture his long, elegant fingers as they explored, stroking her back to a new peak.

“Yes,” she murmured, arching into his hand, but he pulled back, teasing his fingers along the inside of her thigh, then up and away to look down at her. She was aware of his weight bearing down on her, solid and comfortable, one solid leg between hers, the other alongside the outside of her thigh.

“Kiss me,” he said, his hands now covering her shoulders through the flimsy lace. “Narcise.” His eyes bored into her, penetrating the haze of her pleasure, and she recognized the need, a vulnerability there—not so very different from what hers had been.

A rush of warmth, of certainty and desire, spread through her.

She cupped his warm face, sliding her hands along his jaw, felt the faint tremors deep beneath her fingers, the beginning of stubble on the very bottom of his chin. Her thumbs crept
up along the sides of his face, her fingertips in the thick curls around his neck.

His gaze never wavered, dark and heavy on her, drilling deep into her soul. Deep into her damaged, warped, damned soul. Her heart shifted, shuddered and broke open.

He’d given her back so much: herself, her freedom, her body.

When she pulled, guiding him down, he lowered his face to hers. He murmured her name against her mouth, then their lips met gently, fusing together without hurry.

Giordan sank onto her, gathering her close as he shifted to go deeper, delved into her with soft lips and sleek tongue, still scented and flavored with the essence of her own lifeblood. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, such relief and emotion swelling strong inside her, bursting to come out from this unfamiliar intimacy.

The kiss turned from a sweet proclamation of tenderness, then to something fierce and hungry. Their tongues clashed and stroked, delved deep and furious, their lips catching on fangs and scraping tender skin. Little surges of blood mingled with the kiss, mixing with their breath, tasting sweet and thick as their bodies slid and bumped against each other. His fingers moved between them, pulling at the buttons of his breeches, the back of his hand sliding teasingly against her swollen center.

Narcise helped him, blind but efficient, and heard the soft scatter of the buttons as they flung beyond the rug to the floor. Quick and furious now, her skirt was flipped up and aside, his breeches and drawers yanked away until the heat of him lay against her thigh.

“Giordan,” she pleaded, spreading herself up and against him freely, wantonly, and she heard his great gust of relief as he found the hot, sleek place between her legs.

They both gasped when he filled her with one sharp movement, and then there was no longer time for play. He seemed to have run out of patience and teasing, for no sooner had he slid deep than he was moving again, harder and faster, bending forward to nip at her mouth, to slick up another taste of her as her hips moved to meet his rhythm.

The rug burned into her buttocks and Narcise felt her hair caught beneath her shoulders, but that discomfort was lost in the hot, driving pleasure that she suddenly reached in an explosion of pleasure, grasping it just before he did. He made a low noise, strangled and deep, and thrust deep and hard one last time, then buried his face in her hair and collapsed into her arms.

Narcise closed her eyes, her body still shuddering pleasantly, rippling from her center out to each finger and toe, remembering what it was like to feel happy, and complete after this…and not dark and damaged and used.

His lips moved against her neck, saying something she couldn’t hear, but the gentle movement sent delicious little shivers along her shoulder and she smoothed her hands all along his back.

The curling, rootlike ridges of the Devil’s Mark bumped beneath her fingertips on one side, and she felt the faint pulsing therein. She wondered if he’d done something to anger Lucifer, or if his Mark was always full and throbbing like that.

Hers rose and fell depending upon her mood and that of the demon who’d put it there, and right now, now that she was sated with pleasure, it was hardly a twinge over her shoulder blade.

Giordan—he was no longer merely Cale to her—shifted and pulled away, his hands sleek and smooth as they moved down over her throat and shoulders. “I hope you don’t mind
my saying that you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known,” he said. “But you’re also the strongest. Here.” He rested his fingers over her heart. His eyes burned dark and steady as he looked down at her, his lips, those perfect ones that she’d learned so well from her sketching, were full and glistened a bit.

She shifted and he eased back farther, helping her to sit up.

“Narcise,” he began, covering her with his eyes, determination in his jaw.

She knew what he was going to say, and she stopped him with a finger over his lips. “Don’t ask me to stay. I can’t—”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, easing away from her fingers. A note of annoyance colored his tone. “I was going to say, I think it’s important to keep this from your brother.”

“Why—and how? He ordered me to seduce you—he’ll smell you all over me,” she began, confused and yet relieved that he wasn’t going to try to convince her to stay.

Giordan was nodding. “I know. But why? To see if it would work? To see if we have an attachment?” He frowned and Narcise was surprised when a wave of affection swept her at the sight of the furrow between his brows. She wanted to touch it. She wanted to touch him again, everywhere, in fact…to lie next to him in a soft, luxurious bed, naked and sated, and to hear him talk. He must have noticed the heat in her eyes, for he paused and, eyes narrowing with desire, he bent forward to kiss her.

Another sweet brushing of lips, but then she slipped her tongue out and there was still the essence of blood on him, and the kiss became deeper and more thorough. She curved an arm around him, sliding it along the curve of his bicep as a tingle began to grow inside her again.

When he pulled away, it was with obvious reluctance. His
brown-blue eyes, ringed with black, now glowed with fire again. But then he blinked and it eased into seriousness. “I don’t trust anything about him, or anything he does,” Giordan continued. “But it seems as if he is trying to push us together. And if he wants that, then there’s a reason to benefit him. I think it would be best if you went back alone, and I’ll be along shortly. He’ll know you did what he bid, but he doesn’t need to know that we…well, that it was like this.”

His voice dipped low and sent another pang deep in her belly.

Narcise leaned forward to capture his lips again, sliding seductively against his mouth, her hand flat on his chest. “Very well,” she said, and left.

Giordan took his time returning to the parlor, partly to allow Narcise to make her appearance first, and partly because, aside of getting new clothing, he had things to attend to.