Wait (Beloved Bloody Time)
Read Wait (Beloved Bloody Time) Online
Authors: Tracy Cooper-Posey
Wait
Discover Lee and Tally’s bitter-sweet centuries-long history.
Waiting through time….
When Christian first meet
s
Natália at a bullfight in nineteenth century Spain, it is not love at first sight, although their shared and hidden identities as vampires passing through a hostile human world draws them together.
For the next 364 years they pass through time, surviving wars and more, as they valiantly battle to remain in each other’s lives, regardless of the risks that staying together will bring upon the Blood, and despite the heart-rending differences between them.
WARNING: This book contains explicit and frank sex scenes and sexual language. Do not proceed beyond this point if hot love scenes offend you.
No vampires were harmed in the making of this novel.
Wait
is Book 1.1, a Time Twist Tale, part of the
Beloved Bloody Time
series.
Book 1:
Bannockburn Binding
Book 1.1:
Wait
*
Book 2:
Byzantine Heartbreak
Book 3:
Romani Armada
(With more to come!)
*Time Twist Tales are short stories and novellas featuring characters and situations from the Beloved Bloody Time series.
Praise for The Beloved Bloody Time series
More erotic paranormal romance by Tracy Cooper-Posey
La Maestranza, Seville, Spain, 1898
She caught Christian’s eye and drew his attention, even though she was doing nothing more exotic than gently waving her fan. She wasn’t flirting behind the lace, or even smiling. She was sitting quite still upon her chair, one pale hand curled over the balustrade, the other fanning her face, as she stared down at the bull fighting below.
She was in the next box, separated from him by a waist-high wooden barrier. Her honey-blonde hair had first caught his attention. Then he noticed the green satin dress she was wearing, with its intricate black embroidery worked all over the bodice and skirt. It was not the passionate Flamenco style that every other woman here wore. Her skin was very fair, compared to the other maidens sitting in the box, with their olive complexions.
When everyone called out “Olé!” she did not.
The smell of sawdust and sand in the ring below, plus sweat and the acidic stench of bulls and blood wafted over them as a tiny breeze stirred the warm air. Christian swallowed, hiding his reaction to the blood. It was not human blood, but it was hot and thick and enticing. Humans would not notice the aromas, not this far above the arena, and they would be repelled if they did.
Then he saw the blonde close her eyes and lift her chin, as if she was sampling the air. Her fan moved vigorously. Surprised, Christian leaned across the few inches that separated them. “You can smell the bulls from this far away, madam?” His Spanish was quite fluent after a year of polishing.
She turned and her gaze swept over him. “I beg your pardon?” she said in English. Her eyes were a most intriguing brown color. But while the color spoke of softness, her gaze was direct and unwavering, which was unusual for a maid.
“There is nothing to pardon you for,” he replied smoothly, reverting to English, too. “How did you know I spoke English?”
“Your accent. It is almost British.” She turned back to watch the action below, apparently dismissing him.
In the year he had been training in Seville, Christian had not met a single non-Spanish person. That was to be expected, as he had stayed within the school’s grounds, concentrating on the work of improving his sword skills, and everyone in the school was Spanish. As the first non-European to be allowed to train in
La Verdadera Destreza
style of fencing, he had been considered to be an oddity and very much inferior to the other students. He’d had to work hard to prove this was not true.
So now it was a delight to meet someone like himself, a stranger to Seville. He leaned forward again. “I asked how it was you could smell the bulls from so far away. We are in the upper tiers, after all.”
She turned to look at him once more. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice icy. Her gaze flickered over the wooden chairs he and his fellow students sat upon, which were plain and uncomfortable compared to the padded and upholstered chairs her box held. Christian had been granted a rare day of leisure, as it was the time of
Feria de abril de Sevilla
– the Seville April Fair. Out of curiosity, he had decided to attend this day’s events at the Plaza de Toros de la Real Maestranza de Caballería de Sevilla. His chair was situated in a small box reserved for the school. Five of the students were using the other chairs.
Christian got to his feet and gave the lady a short bow. “I am—”
“You are introducing yourself?” she asked, horrified.
“There is no one else here to do the honor,” he pointed out.
“I do not speak with strangers,” she said stiffly and turned back to watch the fighting, presenting the back of her shoulder, and a view of the clear line of her jaw and a pink, delicate ear, before her hair swept up into a convoluted arrangement at the back of her head. There was a small earring dangling from her ear. Something green. It was modest compared to the large circles the Spanish women wore.
Christian sat down again, mentally winded. He had never been so firmly rebuffed in his life. The women of the South were gentler in their rejections, leaving a man with a shred of hope that if he was but a little more charming….
He sat back and mulled over the rejection for a moment, his gaze straying back to the firm-set line of her chin, which was all he could see of her except for the small waist the dress wrapped around. Then he turned to the student next to him.
“Eh, Luis,” he murmured. “The compartment next to me…who’s is it?”
Luis pulled his attention away from the fight below, which was nearing the dramatic end. He glanced at the box and smiled. “That is a fair collection of womanhood, isn’t it?” He leaned to his left and nudged the man next to him, Joachim, and murmured quietly. Joachim looked passed Christian and lifted a brow. He spoke quietly and Luis turned to Christian. “The compartment belongs to le Duke de Alcor.”
“This high up and far away from the arena?” Christian murmured back, for even he had heard of the great Grandee family and the man who led it.
“It is one of many compartments the Duke owns,” Luis said with a shrug. Then his smile turned into a leer. “Which one of the ladies has caught your attention, tall one?”
Tall One
was the name he had been endowed with almost from the moment he had stepped into the training circle. He was taller than everyone at the school, and they seemed to have trouble with his proper name. In Spanish,
Tall One
became
el alto
and didn’t seem as utilitarian as it did in English. He had grown accustomed to it.
Christian grew cautious. “I ask merely because their accommodations seem far more luxurious than ours. I was curious.”
Luis patted the leg of his chair. “These are good for discipline. They discourage softness. The Duke has more pieces of eight to spare on cushions for delicate behinds than Señor
Abascal.”
Señor
Abascal was the head of the school, and a very traditional caballero who believed in discipline and hard work, good form and obedience to the traditions of
La Destreza
. It had taken Christian a while to get used to the grinding routine but there was no denying the skill and expertise such methods imparted. His ability with a sword, which he had thought to be superior thanks to his West Point training, had grown in leaps and bounds. Now he
knew
he was an expert, for the masters had occasionally and reluctantly praised him.
But today was supposed to be a rest day and Christian wanted to forget about everything to do with fencing, and enjoy himself. The pretty lady in the next box might provide entertaining distraction.
“The Duke would have a
caseta
at the fair, yes?” he asked Luis. Every significant and noble family in Seville had at least one tent. A Grandee family like the Duke’s would likely have a very large
caseta
, and entertain dozens of people with wine and tapas for the entire two weeks of the fair.
“The Duke has one of the largest tents,” Luis confirmed. “But if you think you might stroll into that tent, you are out of your mind.”
“How does one arrange an invitation?” Christian asked.
Joachim leaned forward a little to look past Luis. “You would need to enter with someone who is already invited, or knows the family.”
It was the same tightly-circled defensive shield that the best families of the South had built around them. It was an almost impenetrable barrier. You could only be invited into their parlors if you knew someone who was already welcome in those parlors. As the families tended to socialize only among themselves, meeting someone who already was allowed entry was difficult and protracted. In that way, the old families preserved their ways and customs and a degree of comfort untroubled by new ways of thinking or the need to accommodate strangers.
Christian smiled at Luis and Joachim. They were both sons of aristocratic Spanish families, just as most of the students at the school were. “Who do you know that knows the Duke’s family?”
Both men looked surprised, then thoughtful.
“My uncle….” Luis said slowly. “His wife is second cousin to the Duchess.”
“Will your uncle be at the fair today?” Christian pressed.
Luis smiled. “After the fights are over, we shall find out. He will be at my father’s
caseta
.”
* * * * *
Natália stiffened when she saw the man who had spoken to her at La Maestranza standing at the other end of the
caseta
with a group of older men, talking. She tried to relax her body so that her sudden alertness did not alarm anyone sitting at the painted table with her. She put her untouched glass of Manzanilla next to her equally untouched plate of tapas, giving herself a moment to think.
The man was taller than she had estimated. He towered above the men in his group, and his blond hair was like a beacon, amongst all the dark and swarthy gentlemen.
So were the man’s clothes. He wore all black, including his shirt, when every man around him wore the traditional
traje corto
– the tight trousers, white shirt and short jacket, plus the flat-brimmed black hat, the
sombrero cordobés.
The man held a very wide brimmed black hat in his hand. The edge of the hat curled very slightly upwards.
Natália watched as the man with the pale hair chatted with his friends. How had he worked his way inside the
caseta
? The Duke’s family was wary of strangers to the point of ridiculousness.
“Mmmm.... Is it the tall one you watch so carefully, Natália?”
Natália glanced at the woman next to her. The Duke’s daughter was a plump, dusky-skinned woman who had passed the marriageable age some years ago without marrying, despite the significant dowry that came with her hand. She had disappointed her father and the family in general. But Francesca made up for her lack of beauty with an overwhelming kindness and concern. If only a man would look passed her appearance, Natália thought, he would fall instantly in love with her generous soul.
It was because of her forgiving nature that Francesca had impulsively befriended Natália, even though she was a widow and was defying all the tightly-held Spanish conventions and was travelling with only a single maid. In addition, Natália was not Spanish, a sin that usually brought with it complete social ostracism. However, her deceased husband’s duchy provided a chilly type of acceptance that Francesca took full advantage of to keep Natália by her side.
Francesca had her fan up to hide her face and was stealing quick glances at the blond man. “He is very handsome,” she decided. “You should speak with him. Do you know who he is?”
“Not at all. He is with that fencing school…Francesca, no!” Natália added in alarm as Francesca raised her arm and gave a graceful and imperious flicker of her fingers.
The man next to the blond man gave her a short nod, and caught at the blond man’s arm and murmured to him.
“Now you shall speak with him,” Francesca declared, with a mischievous smile on her face as the two men began to wind their way around the small green tables and chairs, heading toward their table. The other women at the table grew silent as they became aware of the approach.
Natália mentally sighed. She tried to avoid public spectacles of this nature. It drew too much attention upon her and attention, her maker had always emphasized, could be deadly.
The pair of them stopped in front of Francesca, who had turned her chair out to watch them approach. The swarthy, short one nodded his head. “Cousin Francesca,” he said. “It is very good to see you once more.”
“Cousin Diego,” she replied. “You have been attending your brother in his tent for most of the fair. Did you seek novelty by visiting us here tonight?”
The man with the blond hair was paying close attention to their conversation, which gave Natália a moment to study him without embarrassment. He had eyes that were the same green as the sea, and his hair was very pale. After a few seconds, his gaze flickered toward her, then back to Francesca and Diego.
Natália knew then that he had engineered this moment. He had asked Diego to bring him to the Duke’s tent…to meet her.
Anger touched her. Did he not understand basic safety rules?
Diego was introducing him to Francesca. “May I present Señor Hamilton? He has been training with my son at Señor Abascal’s excellent school. I thought I would show him some of the highlights of the fair, including your father’s magnificent tent.”
Francesca held out her hand toward Mr.
Hamilton, who took it and bowed over it with surprising grace for one so tall. He smiled at Francesca. “Christian Lee Beauregard Jackson Hamilton at your service, my lady.”
Francesca’s fan drooped at she studied him. “That is not a very English name,” she observed.
“No, indeed, ma’am,” Hamilton told her. “I am an American.”
That explained his odd accent, Natália realized, staring at him.
“I’ve met some Americans before,” Francesca told him. “But they did not sound like you.”
“That is probably because the Americans you met were damned Yankees.” He gave her another bow. “My apologies for my language, my lady.”
“You’re from the Confederacy,” Natália said.