Chapter
11
Verity could hardly bear to open her eyes and
acknowledge the cheerful sunlight streaming through the small
window above her bed. She huddled back under the covers and
groaned. Her dreams had been plagued by the malevolent presence of
the Vampire who smelled of death. She’d also woken up several times
thinking of what she might have done by joining her blood with
Elias.
She stared up at the
ceiling. It was becoming increasingly obvious that she was not fit
to call herself a Llewellyn, let alone a Vampire slayer. But could
she go home and leave the queen unprotected from the malevolence
that surrounded her? Verity shivered. She couldn’t leave. Too many
people were depending on her. She might not be Rosalind, but she
was the best hope the Druids had of defeating the Vampire and
saving the queen.
Another thought
wormed its way into her head. If she went home, would Rhys feel
obligated to accompany her or would he stay at court and do his
best to mitigate the damage of her loss? He didn’t want to go home
and face Sir John—but then she didn’t particularly want to do that
either. Her grandfather hadn’t sanctioned her removal to court and
had probably already written to her ordering her home. She traced
the mark of Awen on her wrist. If she told him that she bore the
sacred mark, would he let her stay? Would he even have a
choice?
A knock on the door
had Verity sitting up. “Come in.”
Olivia poked her head
around the door, her expression disgruntled. “Can you help me with
this gown? I cannot attach the sleeves properly.”
Verity beckoned
Olivia inside and closed the door behind her. “You should not be
asking me to help you. We are supposed to be enemies.”
Olivia threw her a
sideways glance. “We are
enemies.”
“Who are working
together for the good of the queen and her unborn child.” Verity
studied the knot of laces at Olivia’s shoulder. “What did you do to
this sleeve?”
“I don’t know.”
Olivia hunched her shoulder. “I hate women’s garb. It is so
constricting.”
“It certainly can
be.” Verity set about untangling the ties.
Olivia smirked. “But
it also has its uses.”
“What do you
mean?”
“Sir Rhys was very
taken by my appearance yesterday.”
“Rhys was?” Verity
forced a smile. “I didn’t notice.” She finally attached the
undersleeve and arranged the folds of the gown over it. “There, now
your sleeve is straight. Do you need me to look at the other
one?”
“Rhys said you were a
widow.”
“I am.”
“You seem too young
to have been married.”
Verity raised her
eyebrows. “Most girls marry young—you know that.”
“Not Vampires.”
Olivia shook her head. “Imagine being tied to a man that you
dislike for five hundred years or more.”
As she moved behind
Olivia, Verity fought a smile. “I hadn’t thought of
that.”
“Why have you not
remarried?”
Verity kept her gaze
on Olivia’s embroidered black sleeve. “I will only remarry for
love.”
“Oh.” Olivia pulled
up the oversleeve of her gown to allow Verity to check the ties
under it. “What about Rhys?”
“What about
him?”
Olivia turned her
head until she could meet Verity’s gaze. “Do you not love
him?”
Verity’s fingers
stilled. “I have known him almost my entire life, so of course he
holds a very special place in my heart.” That at least was the
truth—a truth that she might have to cling to for solace after Rhys
walked away from her again in his pursuit of the
unattainable.
Afraid that Olivia,
in her usual direct fashion, would start asking more questions,
Verity patted her sleeve. “All is secured now. You need not fear
anything will fall off.”
“Thank you,
Verity.”
“Now you must leave,
and remember, we are not friends and you should not be seen with
me.”
“I’ll try to
remember.” Olivia hesitated. “Lady Rochford worries me. I suspect
she is not quite sane.”
Verity glanced
sharply at Olivia. “I agree. Have you told Elias and
Rhys?”
“Should
I?”
“Of course you
should. If Lady Rochford is mad, we need to keep a close eye on
her. Goodness knows what she could do to the queen.”
Olivia nodded. “I’ll
go and tell Elias right away.” She paused with her hand on the
door. “Are you supposed to be guarding the queen
tonight?”
“I should imagine
so.” Verity smothered a yawn. “It is the feast of Lughnasadh and I
was hoping to celebrate it. But I doubt I will be able to keep my
eyes open if I have to stay up half the night with the
queen.”
“Then you will be
pleased to hear that Queen Jane intends to spend the night with the
king.” Olivia smiled. “I heard the news just before I had to come
upstairs and attend to my sleeve. All the queen’s ladies are
delighted because they will have some time to themselves for a
change.”
Olivia bobbed a
curtsy and left the room, leaving Verity in a state of indecision.
If the queen was indeed going to stay with the king, mayhap she
would get a chance to celebrate the festival with her people. She
imagined the freedom of dancing under the moonlight, her hair
loose, her movements unrestrained by the heavy garments a woman had
to wear for modesty’s sake.
Verity surveyed the
beautifully embroidered apple blossom on her underskirt and put it
on over her petticoats. It would be good to celebrate. At least at
the festival she could be herself and thrust aside the burdens of
being an inadequate Vampire slayer and a woman who cared far too
much for a man who would never really notice her.
Rhys frowned at
Elias. “Are you sure about this?”
“Almost certain. It
seems Lord Thomas Seymour is not a true Vampire but a Vampire’s
servant.”
“What does that
mean?”
Although they were
sitting by themselves in a quiet part of the king’s public
apartments, Elias lowered his voice. “In rare cases, an extremely
powerful Vampire can form a blood bond with a chosen human, who
then becomes a kind of extension of the Vampire, sharing his
thoughts.”
“As Anne Boleyn did
with George?”
“Yes, before she
turned him into a full Vampire. In this case, as I understand it,
Lord Thomas Seymour has agreed to the
bond.”
“Why would he do
that?”
Elias shrugged.
“Power, of course.”
“What kind of
power?”
“The ability to use
Vampire mind tricks on other humans and even to draw their blood
from them.”
Rhys nodded. “As
Christopher did to defeat Sir Marcus Flavian.”
“He told you about
that?” Elias’s smile was chilling. “Yes, with Olivia’s help they
bled the human to death.”
Rhys inwardly
shuddered at the mental image. “Should I assume that the Vampire
who has allied himself with Lord Thomas Seymour is the same one
Verity has felt in her mind?”
“Yes, I believe it is
the same Vampire. He calls himself Janus, although I doubt that is
his real name. Styling himself after a two-faced Roman god does
seem somewhat fitting.”
“Then we are in a
fix.”
“Aren’t we always?”
Elias looked up and over Rhys’s shoulder. “I see Lady Verity
approaching. Would you be so good as to share my news with
her?”
“I will. And you will
continue to investigate this Vampire?”
Elias’s face lost its
humanity and displayed the cold predator beneath. “Rest assured I
shall. No Vampire I created must grow
beyond my keeping.”
Elias strolled away
and Rhys readied himself for Verity’s approach. He still had no
idea how the Vampire community knew she had the mark of Awen when
the vast majority of the Druids did not.
“Lady Verity.” He
bowed and took her hand. “Are you well this fine
morning?”
She avoided his gaze
and her smile was faint. “I’m quite well, Sir Rhys. Did you wish to
talk to me?”
He tucked her hand
into the crook of his arm and led her farther along the walkway and
away from the chattering courtiers. She was looking remarkably
beautiful this morning. He realized just how much he’d begun to
look forward to seeing her and how much she brightened his mood. He
patted her fingers. “Are you still distressed about the mark of
Awen?”
“I’m not distressed.
I have to accept it for what it is.”
He glanced down at
her. “I was thinking more about the fact that the Vampire community
knows about it. Do you think it is time to tell your
grandsire?”
She glanced up at
him, her blue eyes steady. “Mayhap. Indeed, I thought to go home
today.”
Rhys stopped moving
as if he had slammed into a wall. “Go home?”
She bit her lip and
walked away from him. “My skills are not strong enough to be needed
here.”
“That isn’t true.”
Rhys strengthened his voice. “I need you to stay
here.”
“Why? You have told
me many times that I lack the ability to be a slayer.”
He met her gaze and
felt ashamed of himself. “I was wrong. You are more than capable. I
should not have compared you to Rosalind.”
Verity laughed
mirthlessly. “I have been compared to Rosalind my whole life, and
I’ve always been found wanting.”
He knew how that
felt, never to be good enough, always to be seeking approval that
never came. He took a deep breath. “Verity, I do not find you
wanting. Please stay. I want you to stay.”
“Why?”
He stared at her.
What was it about women that made them want to drag a man down into
the murky depths of emotion and say how they feel?
“Because you are a
Llewellyn. A true Vampire slayer.”
She raised her
eyebrows. “Is that all?”
“No, I . . .” He
paused to gather his scattered thoughts. “I would miss
you.”
She sniffed. “About
as much as you’d miss your horse.”
“Far more than that.
You are beautiful, and courageous, and honest to a
fault.”
“And stupid—let’s not
forget that.”
He bowed his head and
stared at her delicate slippered feet. “I do not know what you want
me to say.”
She didn’t answer, so
he had to look up at her. He slipped into Welsh. “All I know is
that if you leave me now, I will feel your loss in my heart for the
rest of my life.” He slammed his fist against his chest. “And I am
tired of losing those I care about, Verity. Please stay and give me
a chance to put things right between us.”
She studied him for a
long moment and then smiled. “All right. I didn’t truly wish to
go.”
“You didn’t? Then . .
. why?” He caught her hand and dragged her up against his chest,
eased his fingers under her chin so that he could see her face.
“Then why put me through all this?”
“Perhaps I just
wished to hear you say that you needed me.”
He bent his head and
kissed her until she kissed him back. “Oh, I need you, my lady.” He
kissed her again until she was panting. “Do you like to hear a man
beg?”
“You haven’t begged,
yet.” She pushed at his chest and, aware that others might be
watching, he reluctantly let her go. “The queen is spending the
night with the king, and Elias has agreed to watch over them both.
I doubt our Vampires will want to meet the king.”
“So?”
She swept him a deep
curtsy. “I am going to celebrate Lughnasadh. Mayhap I will see you
there.” She walked back toward the safety of the crowds, leaving
him standing alone.
How could he have
forgotten it was the first of August? He’d been so angry with his
gods for allowing Christopher to claim Rosalind at Beltane that
he’d avoided most of the Druid rituals ever since. Lughnasadh was a
celebration of the first harvest, a time to give thanks for the
abundance of nature. It was a quieter night than Beltane or
Samhain, but Rhys had always enjoyed it.
He pictured Verity
dancing around the fire and his whole body reacted with a primitive
yearning to share the ritual with her. For Rosalind’s sake he’d
willingly cut himself off from so much, but he carried the pain of
that separation deep inside him. He stared after Verity and
considered the promise of her words. Mayhap he should return to his
religion and find some solace and comfort there.
Verity wrapped her
cloak around her body and made her way through the chattering
crowds to the altar that had been set up between the pair of
standing stones. A ritual circle had been drawn in thick white
chalk around the peaceful glade and bread and cider had been placed
at several points of the sphere to signify the plenty of the
harvest. She bowed low to the two priests dressed in white robes
and then placed on the altar a handful of blackberries and
wildflowers she had picked on her way through the
fields.
“Within your circle I
offer my gift to you.”
One of the priests
bowed. “And may the gods grant your wishes true.”
Verity bowed again
and backed away. What did she wish for? She glanced up at the full
moon. She wanted to be loved, but didn’t everyone? Did that even
count as a wish? She directed her attention toward another point in
the circle where two large goblets of mead sat on a flat stone low
to the ground.
Both goblets
contained special herbs to ensure that any Druid who wished to
participate in the night’s revelries would enjoy the experience.
The goblet on the right also contained a fertility potion; the one
on the left, a potion to prevent conception. At Lughnasadh it was
common practice to offer both, unlike the fertility celebration at
Beltane, which was far more lascivious.
Verity considered the
goblets. She did not want a child, but did she want to join in the
festivities and lose herself in a night of lust? Since her first
Beltane experience she’d abstained from all the physical aspects of
the festivals. If Rhys came to worship at the fire tonight, would
she welcome him?
She clutched her
cloak more tightly around herself. She’d lived with her fear for so
long it had almost become part of her. But surely things were
different now. Hadn’t she finally broken with her past and set out
on the path to becoming the woman and Vampire slayer she had always
wanted to be? She deserved a reward. She deserved to have Rhys—in a
union sanctioned by their gods and understood by them both to be
for only one night. If she chose him, would he give her that night?
Verity took a deep breath and reached for the goblet on the
left.
Rhys walked through
the stubble of the wheat field and followed the sounds of the drums
and the sweet scent of herbs down to the hidden glade where his
people were celebrating Lughnasadh. He’d stayed long enough at the
palace to be sure that Queen Jane had indeed gone to spend the
night with the king and Elias and Olivia were watching over
them.
When he entered the
sacred oak grove, his heart sped up and echoed the driving tempo of
the drums. As he walked around the white chalk circle and felt the
heated blast from the fire, magic stirred beneath his feet. He
paused at the stone altar to offer a gift of gold to the priests
and was rewarded for his contribution with a goblet of sweet
honeyed mead, which he downed in one swallow.
The mellow taste of
honey and herbs slid down his throat and threaded quickly through
his body, warming his already aroused and wanting senses. He
prowled the perimeter of the circle, his gaze fixed on the female
dancers. To his disappointment he couldn’t see Verity among them.
Anxiety edged his anticipation and he continued to scan the grove.
Had she found someone else to share her evening with? The mere
thought of her kissing another man made him uneasy. But he had no
right to feel like that. He stared into the flames, wanting her and
yet fearing that her power over him was both contrary and cruel.
And she hadn’t promised him anything. In truth she’d just told him
she was going to the festival. Mayhap she had given up on him
entirely and had decided to find another man.
Rhys turned away from
the flames and back toward the musicians. He wished he’d brought
his harp. At least then he could have joined in the music making
and felt a part of the celebration. How was it that he felt so
alone even among his own people? Had he become so caught up in
tracking and killing Vampires that he’d forgotten how to be
human?
When someone grabbed
his arm, he jumped and almost reached for his nonexistent dagger.
Weapons weren’t allowed at the festivals, which didn’t sit well
with him. He turned to find a beautiful dark-haired woman
staggering against him. Instinctively his arms went around her, and
she pressed her scantily clad form against his chest.
“Oh thank you, sir,”
she gasped. “I thought I might fall.”
He looked into her
eyes and saw that the pupils were enormous. She was clearly under
the influence of the herbs. He tried to set her away from him, but
she clung like bindweed, her ample breasts and hard nipples
pressing against the linen of his shirt. She reached up to touch
his face and he didn’t stop her.
“You are handsome,
sir,” she whispered. “I would gladly dance for you alone all
night.”
He disengaged her
clinging hands from his shoulders and stepped back. “That is a very
generous offer, my lady, but I must decline.”
She pouted and
brushed her hand down over the front of his hose. “Are you sure?
You seem quite eager to me.”
He smiled then, and
took another two steps back. “Alack, I have another lady in
mind.”
“And she won’t
share?”
Unbidden, a most
salacious image formed in Rhys’s mind and his mouth went dry.
Whatever had been in the mead had already affected his senses. He
managed to shake his head and the woman blew him a kiss and turned
back to the dance.
Rhys raised a
trembling hand to his lips. Mayhap this hadn’t been such a good
idea after all. He should take his thwarted lust and go back to
bed.
Verity watched from
the shadows as Rhys held the dark-haired woman in his arms and
fought a most unladylike urge to rush at the woman and pull her
hair before she slapped Rhys’s face. Rhys was dressed in a simple
linen shirt that was open at the throat and a pair of soft leather
hose that clung to his muscled thighs. His hair glinted like
cinders in a burning fire and he was smiling.
She waited, her
fingers digging into her palms, until Rhys disengaged himself from
the woman and sent her on her way.
Her breath hissed out
with relief. She wanted him. There was no use pretending otherwise.
Her whole body ached for his touch. Surely it was time to vanquish
the ghosts of her past and share herself with someone she truly
desired for the first time in her life?
Verity took a
stumbling step toward Rhys, but he seemed to be staring blindly
into the fire. As she passed, she made sure to brush against him.
He started and looked down at her. She smiled and let her cloak
slip from her shoulders.
His hazel eyes
widened as she was revealed in her thinnest shift.
“Verity.”
He held out his hand,
but she kept moving until she was within the sacred circle of the
dance. The music called to her and she closed her eyes and began to
sway to the ancient rhythm. She felt the swath of her long unbound
hair slide against her back like a sheaf of silken corn and enjoyed
the raging heat of the fire on her skin. Gloriously free, she
raised her arms to the heavens and let the music flow through
her.
The tempo grew
faster, and she was no longer aware of the watchers or of the
musicians, only of the power coursing through her, connecting her
to the earth and her gods. Power that made her yearn to leap out of
her skin and just be . . .
A shadow obscured her
vision and her body slammed into a hard, unyielding
object.
“Verity . .
.”
She lifted her head
and Rhys’s face swam into view, his gaze fierce and primitive, his
strong arms caging her. She licked her lips and then his, heard him
groan as he thrust his hand into her hair and kissed her back. She
kept moving against him, the sway of her hips meeting his, her soft
belly undulating against the hardness of his arousal.
Desire flowed through
her and she pushed on his chest, driving him out of the light, and
the circle, and into the shadows of the stones. He yielded to her,
his mouth still welded to hers, his hands hard and possessive as
they roamed her body.
She used all her
strength to push him backward until he slid down one of the upright
stones and sat gazing up at her. She followed him down and ended up
on her knees between his bent thighs. With a sigh, she lowered her
head and kissed the heavy bulge in his hose, tasted the soft
leather and the hint of his arousal. His hand fisted in her hair
and she laughed, making him arch against her as though he sought
the delights of her mouth.
With greedy hands she
released him from his clothing and cupped his tight balls in the
palm of her hand. His breath hissed out as she licked a dainty path
from the root of his shaft to the top and then circled the already
wet and thrusting crown with the tip of her tongue.
“Ah . . .” His soft
groan and the kick of his shaft against her tongue was enough to
embolden her further. She sucked him into her mouth and his hand
relaxed to cradle her skull while his thumb smoothed an unsteady
path around her ear.
His scent engulfed
her senses and she breathed him in, took him even deeper until he
was groaning with each steady stroke. She grabbed his left hand and
guided it to her breast, moaned around his shaft as he plucked at
her nipple, drawing it as taut as his quivering shaft and making it
just as needy.
He palmed her
buttocks and urged her closer. His clever fingers slid lower to
play with her already wet and wanting quim, drawing from her what
she drew from him, an endless stream of pleasure.
With a gasp she
released his shaft and sat back on her heels. He made a rough sound
of denial and reached for her. Verity tugged at his shirt and he
pulled it over his head, leaving her staring at his muscled
chest.
She placed her hand
over his heated skin and felt the rapid beating of his heart. “I
want you, Rhys.”
“Then take what you
want.”
Verity knelt and
positioned herself over his lap. He bit down hard on his lip as his
cock brushed her inner thigh and then he wrapped his hand around
the base.
“Take
it.”
Verity slowly lowered
herself on him, letting her weight and their wetness do their work.
She couldn’t help but watch as he breached her. With a ragged sigh
he let go of his cock and placed his hand on her hip.
Verity took a deep,
steadying breath as she finally sank down fully over him. The heat
from his shaft throbbed inside her, making her pulse with need in
return. She felt so full she didn’t want to move ever again. She
slowly raised her head and found him gazing at her. His hazel eyes
reflected the dancing flames and his luscious mouth was a mixture
of hard and soft that she yearned to touch.
She kissed him gently
on the lips and used her tongue to outline his mouth. His hand
moved to her shoulder, but she ignored the weight of it and
concentrated on learning his mouth, what he liked, what he loved,
and what made his shaft kick and swell within her like an untamed
horse. Instinctively she squeezed back and swallowed a gasp of
pleasure as tremors of delight radiated through her
quim.
“Ah, duw, do that again.” Rhys groaned.
Verity complied,
enjoying the sensation of her hips rocking into the motion while
she locked her mouth with his and felt his rising desire. Soon it
wasn’t enough and she had to move on him harder, rising and
falling. His hands grasped her hips and his mouth locked on hers
until the wet slam and glide of her body made him release his seed
and sent her into a spasm of pleasure.
The sound of the
drums reverberated in her ears and she became aware of people
dancing and coupling around them. She didn’t want to raise her head
and look at Rhys. She wanted to stay where she was until he grew
hard inside her and she could satisfy her desire for him once
more.
One of his hands
smoothed her hair in an endless caress and the other comfortably
cupped her buttocks. Her face was pressed into the crook of his
shoulder and she could hear his steady breathing. She felt nothing
like her anxious younger self. She was a woman now, and this time
her choice felt right.
Rhys opened his eyes
and stared out over the darkened glade. The fire had died down, but
people were still dancing and the scents of mulled wine and baked
festival meats hung in the air. Verity shifted in his arms and he
fought an impulse to tighten his grip and keep her pressed against
him. He hadn’t felt so alive in years. Or so complete.
She stirred again and
this time he reluctantly let her push against his chest and sit up.
Her thin shift clung to her body, wet from his mouth, their shared
heat, and their passion. He wanted to put his mouth on her breast
and use his tongue and teeth on her nipples . . .
She moved off him and
his cock slid free of her body, the sudden coldness making him
wince. She stood and her glorious golden hair swung forward,
shielding her face and her body. Her hands were no longer touching
him but smoothing down her rumpled shift. She half turned away and
he tensed. Would she leave him like this? Still aroused and wanting
her so badly he ached?
She held out her hand
like a queen. “Dance with me.”
He struggled to his
feet, his hose still unfastened and his shirt
forgotten.
He took her hand.
“I’m no good at dancing.”
She smiled and led
him into the circle, her slender body swaying to the drums and
pipes. He could do nothing but follow her, place his hands on her
hips and allow his body to share her pleasure in yet another way.
After a while she laughed up at him and then twirled away between
the dancers.
He followed where she
led him, sometimes catching her long enough to kiss or touch her,
sometimes not, until his blood was on fire and all his hunting
instincts roared at him to capture her and hold on.
She darted behind the
altar and through the line of standing stones, her laughter urging
him on, his body on fire for her. He waited until she hid behind
one of the stones and then doubled back and came at her from
behind. She shrieked as he caught her arm and wound his fist in her
hair to reel her in.
The laughter in her
eyes turned to passion when he backed her against the stones and
brought his mouth down to ravage hers. It was his turn to take and
plunder and possess, hers to let him, to sigh and gasp as he lifted
her over his desperate prick and pounded into her. Her feet settled
over his buttocks, her heels digging in and urging him onward. He
needed no urging; the roar of his blood demanded he take his prize
and fill her with his seed.
Her fingernails dug
into his bare skin and she tightened around his prick and took her
pleasure. He resisted the urge to join her, but pushed her on,
climbing to another level of need and then another, until he could
no longer do anything but thrust into her and breathe through the
most shattering climax of his life.
When he finally
stopped shuddering and shaking, he lowered her to the ground and
wrapped his arms around her. She leaned against him as if her body
had been made for him, and they were still joined. He shook his
head to try to recover himself, but it seemed impossible. His mind
was full of only her and he felt free.
Verity stroked his
damp hair, the caress so gentle that he wanted to bury his face in
her shoulder and weep.
“Hwyl,” he
murmured.
“Home?” She touched
his cheek. “You want to go home? Or are you saying good-bye to
me?”
He stared at her
stupidly for a long moment. Did she not understand him?
Hwyl meant so much more than just a
home; it meant a homecoming. It meant
that he’d found his soul, his heart, his place of rest in
her.
Didn’t she feel the
same?
Verity took his hand.
“Let’s go back to the palace, then. It’s the closest thing to a
home either of us has at the moment.”
He let her lead him
back toward the fire, where she managed to find both her cloak and
his shirt. He numbly straightened his clothing and watched her wrap
her luscious body in the cloak, fiercely glad that no other man
would see how beautiful she was.
How could she remain
so calm when his whole world had changed? Doubt seared through his
mind. He’d finally found what he wanted in a woman. What if he
wasn’t the man that Verity wanted in return?