Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

  “Then rest well, Master, and tomorrow we will concentrate on uncovering the whereabouts of the madman.” He watched as Jeremy slipped through the door, then moved to snuff the candles and bank the fire. As he worked, a thought crossed his mind, a thing he wished he’d mentioned earlier. Would they ever return to the Contracted nine-day schedule? Or would they remain on this accelerated version? The idea sent a shiver of anticipation through him.

  “Master Holland?”

  Morgan turned at the footman’s entry, suppressing the momentary surprise. “Yes, Arthur?”

  “There is a boy at the servant’s entrance who is asking to speak with you.”

  Something about Arthur’s quiet tone raised the hackles on Morgan’s neck. “Is there something amiss?”

  “He is very frightened, Master Holland. Nearly incoherent, in fact, but he refuses to speak to anyone except you.”

  “I’ll go and see him, then. Can you finish in here?”

  “Yes, sir.” Arthur moved to the fireplace, taking up the poker and prodding at the fading fire.

  Morgan hastened to the kitchens, passing through the main room to the tradesman’s door at the side of the house. The boy in question stood on the stoop, shoulders hunched, his eyes darting and fearful. The boy was indeed quaking in his boots, shaking from head to toe. Red-stained rags swathed his neck, and his face carried the grayish tinge of blood loss.

  He grabbed the lad by the arm, practically hauling him into the kitchen to sit by the great hearth, where the fires were never allowed to die. “Sit!”

  “Are you M-Master H-H-Holland?” The boy could scarce spit out the words, so great was his terror.

  Morgan knelt in front of him, chafing the boy’s chilled fingers to bring some color to the whitened knuckles. “Yes, I am Master Holland,” he answered, hoping to soothe the young man’s fright somewhat. “What is your name?”

  “J-James, sir,” the boy whispered, casting furtive glances over his shoulder, as though he dreaded some specter appearing out of the whitewashed walls. “I have a m-message for you,” he continued, drawing a crumpled bit of paper from his breast pocket and holding it out with an unsteady hand.

  Morgan took the proffered missive, straightening its bent edges and unfolding it. The paper was blotched with maroon stains, most likely blood, given the boy’s condition. He looked up for a moment, wanting to ask the lad first. “Who sent this to me, James?”

  The boy’s shaking increased tenfold, and his eyes darted here and there, as if seeking a way out. After a moment, he swallowed hard and stared at his feet as though they belonged to a stranger. “The M-Master of R-Raavenshal, sir. M-Master Thorven.”

  The last words came out in a rush, and then Morgan could only see the whites of the boy’s eyes as he crumpled in his seat.

  With a curse, Morgan hauled at the fireside bell before he hefted the lad in his arms. He strode into the kitchen hall, hearing the commotion coming up the stairs from the housekeeper’s quarters. In moments, Mrs. Croft stood at the top with her dressing gown belted at the waist. Arthur came at a run from the direction of the main hall. The pair stared at the bundle in Morgan’s arms, though Arthur had seen the lad less than a quarter hour before.

  “This young man has just fled the nosferatu, Mrs. Croft. He’s been bitten but does not appear poisoned. Can you tend to his injuries?”

  “Yes, Master Holland,” the housekeeper answered.

  “Good. Arthur will carry him belowstairs, and I’ll leave it to you to find him a comfortable bed. I don’t think we need to wake Lord Colbourne yet, as it appears the boy is only suffering from blood loss and poorly healed fang marks. Our master is newly come from a turning, so I would prefer he rest. Are any of the estate’s nosfera here at the Manor?”

  “Yes, Master Holland,” Arthur interjected. “Mistress Ellen came visiting yesterday.”

  “I put her in the poppy room,” Mrs. Croft added.

  “Good. Once the boy is settled, have her come down and see if there is anything she can do to help. I’ll inform Lord Colbourne in the morning.” As Morgan turned to leave the kitchen hall, he added with a touch of embarrassment, “Send for me if the boy’s condition worsens. I’ll be in our master’s chambers.”

  The pair only nodded, as if his comment made perfect sense, and set off with Arthur carrying the limp figure in his arms. Morgan watched them for a moment, mild shock accompanying his realization that he had said such a thing without a thought for the consequences.

  It appeared the bond to his master had deepened even further than he had feared. Not that it mattered. Once he’d uncovered the truth inside his heart, it had been only his stubborn pride delaying the inevitable.

  He had reached the foot of the main stair when he recalled the crushed paper he held. He straightened it out, taking a night candle from the nearby table and holding it up to the paper. It took him a moment to puzzle out the erratic, spidery script through the stains.

  Holland,

  If you have accepted this letter, then I must assume you have regained your sense of honor and have chosen to return to your proper duties.

  I will forgive your betrayal, and your duplicitous agreement with Colbourne if you leave his household at once and come home to Raavenshal, where you belong.

  If you choose to remain with Colbourne, I will pursue you and take you from him by force if necessary. You are the chosen Host of the Master of Raavenshal. Your cowardly flight will not be tolerated any longer.

  Thorven

  The letter made no sense. He could recall no betrayal of Archibald Thorven. Until Jeremy had mentioned the man, Morgan had almost forgotten he existed. Nor had he ever known his grandfather had once been Thorven’s Host.

  He read the letter through once more but gained no enlightenment. He folded the paper in half, meaning to tuck it into his breast pocket, and realized the top and bottom edges bore the jagged points of a broken wax seal.

  He flipped the letter over and found what he was looking for. The small missive was addressed to Argyle Holland, Colbourne Manor, and had once been sealed with the imprint of an ornate raven circumscribed with oak leaves.

  Argyle Holland? His grandfather had been dead for more than thirty years. To Morgan’s knowledge, Argyle had never met the Baron of Colbourne. The Master of Raavenshal, it seemed, was mad in more ways than one. As Morgan pondered this, a horrifying thought insinuated itself through his shock. Thorven had directed his words at a man long dead, a man who had fled from him despite their Contract. Worse, Thorven had confused his missing Host with Morgan. Was this madness of the nosferatu the doing of the elder Holland? Had his grandfather’s flight from Raavenshal started Thorven’s descent into delirium and ultimate depravity?

  An icy chill clawed its way up Morgan’s back. If this ghastly idea had merit, nothing short of Argyle Holland’s reappearance could stop the monster. Recalling the haunted image of his grandfather’s eyes, Morgan shuddered at the memory of what he now recognized as the madness of separation.

  Somehow, Argyle Holland would need to be resurrected so the madman would be appeased.

  Yet how to do such a thing? While he bore a passing resemblance to his grandfather, no sane individual could confuse him with a man who would now be nearing ninety were he still alive.

  Perhaps, in his madness, Thorven had overlooked the passage of time. Nosferii lived for centuries, not mere decades. If the Master of Raavenshal was not in his right mind, it could be that time had stopped for him when his madness had fully taken hold. Whenever that might have been.

  As he ascended the stair, his thoughts wound in continual circles leading only to one end—he, Morgan Holland, must replace his dead grandfather. Jeremy Colbourne had dreaded the thought that Archibald Thorven was the monster they sought. Moreover, Jeremy had expressed clear doubts he would be able to master his opponent. And Laura had been bitten by their quarry. Not once but twice.

  His mind a chaotic muddle, Morgan crossed the second-floor hall, passing his own suite o
f rooms without seeing them, drawn to the comfort beyond. Hopefully his master had succumbed to sleep, knitting that raveled sleeve of care so body and mind could face the upcoming battle.

  Morgan opened the door to Jeremy’s bedchamber, standing for a moment in the blessed darkness. A most embarrassing blush covered his face; he could feel the heat crossing his cheekbones and disappearing beneath his cravat. Not two days gone from his declaration that he wouldn’t share his master’s bed, yet here he stood. His pride had decamped, banished from his heart in favor of the newfound love and unremitting craving for Jeremy.

  He reached up and yanked the knot loose, hauling the silken cloth away from his overheated neck. His master’s scent permeated the bedroom, faint but unmistakable to Morgan in his oddly changed state. What he’d heard, what little he’d read… None of it had ever implied such enhancements to the turning Host’s natural abilities.

  Had something gone wrong? These changes seemed to mimic those that occurred in the minore, but Morgan had not been the one turned. Perhaps it was only a sensitivity brought on by the sensual preparations that had kept him in a continual fever pitch. Or perhaps it was all in his head, and he had somehow slipped into that obsessive state many turning Hosts surrendered to.

  “I am as mad as the nosferatu,” he whispered to the velvet black of the room.

  No answer came to him other than the soft, easy breath of his sleeping master.

  Morgan shut the door and then began to strip his clothing without conscious thought, tossing each garment on the small settee standing at the foot of the great bed. Naked at last, he slipped beneath the bedclothes, focused on the heat of Jeremy’s body.

  Morgan gathered Jeremy in his arms, knowing he might disturb his master’s rest but needing a touch that reached beyond physical satisfaction. Holding Jeremy close against his chest, he felt the steady thump of Jeremy’s heart beating against his.

  He loved Jeremy. It was that simple. A thing he’d fought for a dozen years, a thing he vowed he would never surrender to. It had come to pass in mere days.

  No, that was wrong. These past few days, he had merely yielded to the truth of the matter. It had come to pass long years before, possibly even from the moment they’d met.

  Morgan had thrown away his life as a farmer, thrown away everything dear to him, to follow this fascinating stranger into a world as surreal as it was unexpected. He’d found there something to live for that outweighed his family and his responsibilities. Even his own life.

  To ensure the safety of all he held dear, Morgan would resurrect a man long in his grave. Argyle Holland must live again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Unexpected warmth against his back roused Jeremy from a deeper sleep than he’d intended or thought he needed. As full awareness returned, a sense of comfortable satisfaction suffused him. Despite the renewed camaraderie from earlier, he had never expected Morgan to join him in bed this way. He’d expected his stubborn Host would return to his rooms. To find Morgan here, to feel his strong body fitted to Jeremy’s, was a prize unlooked for and most welcome.

  A host of complicated emotions welled in Jeremy’s breast as he gazed on Morgan’s sleeping face. Love, most definitely love, was the foremost and the most pleasant. Fast on its heels came the awareness of his Host’s shorter life span and the unpalatable fact Morgan would age and die centuries before the end of Jeremy’s own life.

  The encounter in the bath had changed something between them. An odd resolution had developed from the bestial passion that had consumed them. Morgan had been racked with guilt over his actions, but Jeremy had felt himself respond to the near-violence in the seduction. While he couldn’t be certain what had provoked the bite, it had been as stimulating as any encounter he’d had in the past with Thorven, or any other nosfera, for that matter.

  Reaching out, he touched Morgan’s lips, tracing the strong curve across the bottom, feeling the faint rasp of whiskers on the chin under his hand. So virile yet so seductive. In more ways than one. Jeremy wanted to kiss him, not in the passion of sex but the tenderness of love. He’d known only the edges of this feeling before—now the weight of the emotion had sunk deeply into his heart, leaving him ecstatic. And terrified. He’d thought the tamashī no hanryo forever beyond his grasp, but waking to find Morgan’s arms wrapped about him brought it tantalizingly close.

  With that taunting lure came the inescapable knowledge that one day Morgan would leave him. Even if his beloved Host never left his side again, Jeremy knew the cruel passage of time would rob him of his happiness just as surely as if Morgan left him tomorrow. It was a feeling he’d endured before, but he’d never feared the inevitable to this extent.

  No, never to this extent. Something about Morgan had called to him, something more than the exquisite seduction of his Host’s blood. Despite knowing time would thieve away his joy, he would do anything to keep Morgan close, to make him happy.

  Jeremy stroked the strong chin again, then allowed his fingers to trail over the corded neck muscles and across the soft curls matting Morgan’s broad chest.

  Wake! he thought, keeping the word firmly in his head. Watashi no tame ni mezameru. Watashi wa anata o hitsuyō to suru.

  To his surprise, Morgan’s eyes opened, their amber-brown depths full of some emotion Jeremy was afraid to read.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand Japanese,” Morgan answered with a faint smile. “Could you repeat that in English?”

  Jeremy swallowed. Morgan’s voice was husky with sleep, yet it reached deep inside to knife through every bit of Jeremy’s self-control. The request had touched his mind, in addition to those seducing words, and sent his composure flying right out the window. “I said, ‘Awaken for me, I need you,’” he answered, though he could feel a blush tinge his cheeks for the first time in over a century.

  Morgan sat up, allowing the sheets to slither down and reveal more than just his bare torso. “One of these days, you’ll need to teach me your language, Jeremy.”

  The use of his Christian name sent a tingle through him, though a different name would do more. He considered for a moment. Jeremy was his given name, yes, but it was not the name nearest his heart. Another name would ignite greater passion in him, but would Morgan understand? There were no such intimacies for Morgan to offer in return.

  “You rarely use my Christian name,” he said, hoping Morgan would answer the real question behind the words.

  His Host smiled, and the desire behind it ignited a flame in Jeremy. “I find it far more intimate than Colbourne.” Morgan paused. “Or master,” he added. “Although that last one sometimes makes me crave something too shameful to admit.”

  The comment caught Jeremy unaware. It was more brazen, more open than Morgan had ever been. Something must have shown in Jeremy’s eyes.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound, right?” A tinge of pink touched the tops of Morgan’s ears. “If I’m going to do this, I’ll damn well do it my way, which means I’d rather admit to everything I want than slink about agreeing to half of it and ashamed of the rest.” With a twist, Morgan pinned Jeremy beneath him on the bed. “And I have to admit, as much as I enjoyed last night—well, this morning—I think I’d rather repeat what happened at the turning.”

  Morgan’s whole face was red by now, but lust glowed unabated in his eyes. Behind the lust lurked another emotion. Affection? Desire?

  Love?

  Jeremy considered the last, but before he could voice the thought, Morgan’s lips locked on his, and he was overwhelmed by a kiss that transmitted the answer through the scorching heat of their entwined tongues.

  “What should I call you in Japanese?”

  The thought slipped through Jeremy’s mind with ease, as though Morgan had spent years refining the ability. It sent an indescribable shaft of pure pleasure through him, and it took him a moment to reclaim his attention from the spike of ecstasy. How had Morgan known what to ask?

  “Takeshi,” he replied. The reasons behind Morgan’s questio
n didn’t matter. What mattered was the incredible intimacy promised by the asking. The intimacy of two lovers. The intimacy of the tamashī no hanryo, perhaps.

  “I want you, Takeshi,” came the thought, and Jeremy shivered uncontrollably at the feel of Morgan’s mental caress. “I want you in me, and I want your fangs in me too.”

  Jeremy shuddered again, trying to control his desires. The slavering beast from before had clawed its way to the surface once more, and he could feel it fighting to break free.

  “Then let it, Takeshi. Let the beast inside you take me with as much force as it needs.”

  Morgan’s blazing lust followed on the tail of his thoughts, along with the desire for what the beast in Jeremy promised. As if by magic, a small carafe dangled from a promising hand.

  “This seemed to stoke your fire well, Takeshi,” Morgan whispered.

  The tantalizing sound of Jeremy’s birth name released the beast at last. He reached for the carafe, letting the heady aroma of its contents spur him on. He poured a liberal amount on his palm, then set the container on the small table beside the bed.

  Reaching up, he grasped the firm, velvet flesh of Morgan’s erection, linking his fingers together to form a tight sheath. Slowly, oh so slowly, he slid his coupled hands up and down until the whole of the shaft was slick.

  Morgan groaned, and Jeremy shivered from the thought of pure need that surged in their joined minds. His cock swelled in response.

  “I want you, Takeshi.” The thought followed swiftly on the heels of the driving hunger, and the image of their violent encounter at the turning hazed Jeremy’s mind.

  Jeremy couldn’t resist the temptation. He shifted a hand, reaching around to slide two slick fingers into Morgan. The mental link let him feel each stroke, and the pleasure rose to dizzying heights as he prepared the way.