Blood Sworn 1: Salva Me Read online

  A scowl crossed Colbourne’s face. Morgan took a step back, but the wave of a hand halted him.

  “Forgive me, Holland. I am not angry with you. At least, not for that vow. I am angry I knew nothing of your family, nothing of where you came from. I have forgotten my nosfera duties. My duties as the Baron of Colbourne. I should have inquired after I bound you in Contract.”

  Understanding filled Morgan with relief, though he flinched from the self-castigation borne on those words. “I should have remembered my duty to them sooner. Yet it cannot be undone.” He swayed, momentarily unsteady on his feet. The wall behind him gave him some respite from his swimming head.

  A warm hand caught his waist, the unexpected support relieving Morgan’s mind. His master still cared, then. The thought bolstered him, bringing a sense of warmth to limbs that could no longer hold him up.

  “I wish you had trusted me, Morgan.”

  Quiet hurt lay behind the soft comment, adding to the guilt. Morgan tried to find the words to explain, but waves of nausea had begun, in counterpoint to the pounding of his head.

  The hand at Morgan’s waist tightened, pulling him away from the wall. “To bed with you, Holland,” Colbourne said, drawing Morgan’s arm over his shoulder. “It will be a long three days for you, and you’ll spend every minute of it abed.”

  Chapter Five

  Archibald Thorven glared at his dead Host, enraged at the man’s audacity. How dare he command the Master of Raavenshal; how dare he try to interfere with his master’s sport! The girl had vanished, yes, but for this imbecile to lay hands on his master and prevent the kill… Insufferable.

  The exhilaration of death had been stolen from him once more. Even now, the tremors began as his venom-enhanced muscles shook from fatigue. His stomach growled, angry at the lack of blood, his head pounding with the aftereffects of overuse. Well, all that could be mended. He straddled the fresh corpse, sinking his dripping fangs into the man’s flaccid neck, tearing through flesh so the blood could flow freely from a heart that no longer beat. Then he latched on, forcing the viscous fluid upward with repeated blows to the dead man’s chest.

  Ah, blood. Still warm, still tainted with the terror of death. So, so sweet. He trembled in an ecstasy of burning lust, gorging the fires of his building arousal.

  He sat back a few minutes later, sated, ignoring his blood-soaked shirt. Licking crimson-stained fingers, he savored the last of his Host’s life source, shuddering in mad pleasure at the lingering taste of primal fear. Good. Yet not good enough.

  He needed the girl. She was his prey, her terror doubly sweet for having felt his fangs before. Her death would be an orgasmic explosion, a replacement for the desire stolen from him a dozen years ago. She had survived the first attack and barely escaped this time. The third time he would make it last, drawing out the agony bit by bit until her horror overtook her mind. Then she would be his at last, in lieu of her vanished father.

  He reached between his legs, furious at the driving desire that could not be quenched. His Host’s death had deprived him of that satisfaction, but there were others. Others who could satisfy him first, then surrender their fear-stoked blood in the end.

  He strode to the wall, ringing for a footman. One of those who looked like the girl’s father. He’d fuck the man bloody and feed again.

  Then he would pay a call on the Baron of Colbourne, who had stolen his rightful prey.

  * * * *

  Jeremy stared at Morgan’s sleeping face, admiring the curve of his strong jaw, the softness where curve met corded muscle. That sturdy neck, muscular, powerful, yet throbbing with the sweetest blood Jeremy had tasted in more than two centuries.

  Everything had changed with the arrival of Laura Holland. With the turning, Morgan would now be driven by a compulsion as strong as the blood-call of any nosfera, pureborn or minore. A desire more than sexual, incorporating an emotional need stronger than any sense of self.

  At least in a normal turning Host, such changes happened frequently. Morgan, though, might be strong enough to maintain his independence, developing the bond into something more. Or he could fight it to his physical detriment. The result depended on the emotional attachment between the Host and the nosfera.

  If their friendship was all that bound them, Morgan would become nothing but an obedient follower. On the other hand, if something more was hidden in all the bluster and pride that had held Morgan back, then perhaps the turning would be a blessing rather than a curse.

  Jeremy reached out to stroke the clean lines of Morgan’s face, fingers rasping over the faint hint of whisker growth. The throb of a pulse surged beneath his fingers as they slid over the corner of Morgan’s jaw to the soft hollow of flesh beneath. Jeremy paused, the blood flow calling to him, though he’d fed less than four hours before.

  He wanted to sink his fangs into that living fountain, not for food but to sate the desire that raged through him each time Morgan Holland came near. Jeremy had been denied for a dozen years. Now his success came only to save a life more important to his blood-Host than Jeremy’s own.

  A daughter. Morgan Holland had a daughter. That meant he also had a wife, though the girl’s emaciated appearance suggested no one cared for her. Was the wife dead? A logical conclusion, given how the girl had been found. Yet Morgan had said nothing, had hidden this information from him. Why?

  Jeremy knew he had been remiss. Somehow, he had allowed his fascination with Morgan to overshadow everything. The sweetness of the blood that called to Jeremy had taken hold, and he had thought of little in the intervening years except how to bind Morgan to him. He had certainly never thought to inquire about the man’s antecedents, as he should have done.

  Now the consequences of Jeremy’s inactions had come home to roost, forcing them both to make a dreadful decision neither would have considered without the exigent circumstances.

  Had he done his duties as a nosfera noble, Morgan’s family would be alive, safely ensconced within the halls of Colbourne Manor or on the grounds of his estate. The dying girl in the peony room would not be the sole survivor of Morgan’s household. Nor would she have ever faced the terrifying pain of the nosferatu bite.

  Jeremy’s self-recriminations vanished as Morgan groaned. Sweat beaded Morgan’s brow, testament to the painful changes taking place in his blood. Soon it would be time for Jeremy to stir that blood, to bring it to a fever pitch again. To guarantee the proper changes, the Host’s body heat needed to stay high, almost at the level of a serious illness. Over the eons, by trial and error, only one method had proven adequate to keep the heat level stable enough without exceeding critical limits. For most Hosts, it presented a pleasant side effect in an otherwise miserable process. For Morgan Holland, it might be the least enjoyable part of the affair.

  Jeremy ran his fingers along the corded neck, teasing himself with the muscled feel of Morgan’s bare chest. An unconscious twitch met his explorations, the exposed nipples coming to hard points, beckoning. Soft brown curls cushioned the strong planes under his hand, and he followed the narrowing trail to its vanishing point beneath the sheet.

  Another soft groan accompanied a shift in Morgan’s sleeping position. Jeremy watched with interest as the lightweight summer linens revealed a growing arousal, even in Morgan’s somnolent state. A light caress sufficed to bring on a full erection.

  “What dreams invade your rest, Morgan Holland? What draws out your desire?” Jeremy wanted to steal a kiss from the sleeping man, but such an intimate gesture meant more than Morgan was willing to yield at this point. After all, Morgan hadn’t even told his lord and master that he had a family. The thought burned. “When will you surrender your heart?”

  Jeremy leaned forward, pressing a featherlight kiss to Morgan’s lips anyway, feeling their heat. “Time to learn the true meaning of your commitment.”

  * * * *

  Blood. Too much blood. Morgan glanced around him, trying to understand why such a fine gentleman would be in the middle of the road, b
eaten to a bloody pulp. By his clothes, the man had money, though if he’d been robbed, there’d be little left. From the sight of him, he’d not survive, yet the rise and fall of his chest proved life still existed within him at the moment.

  Morgan knelt in the dirt, touching the bloodied face, hoping for some sign. “Are you breathing?” He patted the man’s cheek, trying to rouse him.

  Black eyelashes fluttered open. A crimson-stained hand shot out, clutching Morgan’s coat with desperate strength. “Salva me, Hostia meam, salva me!”

  Latin? Though not devout, Morgan adhered to the Church of England. He knew nothing of Latin. Not even the words of the papist Bible. Yet despite his lack, somehow he understood the message. Save me.

  He cradled the injured man against his chest, hefting the limp body in his arms with a grunt. An arm snaked its way around his neck, trembling with injury and fatigue but still strong enough so the man could support himself, at least a bit.

  “Benedicta tu, Hostia.”

  Maybe the man had come from Rome and been attacked by highwaymen? “D’you speak English, man? I’m only a farmer, so I don’t understand that Latin gibbering.” Looking around, he spied a chestnut tree with soft lichen coating its roots. He made his way to the tree and set the man down as gently as he could.

  “Thank you.” The words came with a hiss of pain as shudders racked the battered body. “Forgive me,” the man managed through his bruised mouth. “I mistook you for one of my kin.” Eyes browner than the earth fixed on Morgan’s, an unspoken plea hanging in the air. Then the man slumped against the bole of the tree, shivering through uncontrolled tremors.

  “Bloody hell.” The curse escaped Morgan’s lips before he could stop himself. Julie would have torn a strip from his hide for using such profanity, but his wife wasn’t in earshot to chide. Shrugging out of his wool coat, he wrapped it about the man’s shoulders, surprised to note they were almost as broad as his own.

  “You should leave,” the man said, though his eyes remained closed. “This area is unsafe for your kind.”

  Your kind? What the hell did that mean?

  “I may not know my letters, sir, but that doesn’t make you my lord and master.”

  A grim chuckle met his words, followed by a gasp of air. “You mistake my meaning.” A deep, shuddering breath followed. “If you are willing, I can become your lord and master.”

  The words sank into Morgan like the shaft of an arrow. They carried an undertone he did not understand, but somehow the notion triggered a cascade of unidentifiable yearnings. “I don’t take your meaning, sir. Not at all.”

  Again the strong hand grabbed him, this time gripping his shoulder with a power that shouldn’t exist in a body so damaged. “My meaning, Hostia meam, is that I need your help to save my life.”

  “I’m no surgeon, my lord.” Morgan figured the term was fit enough. If the man spoke of becoming a lord and master, he must have a title of some sort. Certainly his bearing and his clothes argued for the thought.

  “I have no need of a surgeon’s skill. My body will repair itself eventually, but I need sustenance to allow for such recovery.”

  Sustenance? “Oh, you mean food.” Morgan reached for his satchel, where he’d stowed a small side of cured mutton and some cheese.

  “Not food. The sustenance I speak of lies within you.” The man’s hand stroked Morgan’s neck in an oddly sensual glide. “I need your blood.”

  “I need your blood.” Even as the man spoke the words, a shaft of lust pierced Morgan’s body, radiating out from the silken caress at his neck. An unexpected desire surged in him, a desire for this stranger to stroke him in places only his wife had touched. Unnatural, yet his blood burned with this sudden yearning. To his complete dismay, the mere thought aroused him, bringing an aching hardness to his groin.

  Painful though it proved, Morgan stood, not bothering to hide the erection straining his breeches. Given the way the man had stroked his neck, this must have been his intention, though why he’d spoken of blood was beyond his guess at this moment.

  The injured man stared at him with eyes that looked to be made of liquid fire, though only a moment before they’d been the color of new-tilled earth. Another shudder rippled through that wounded figure. “Don’t go, please.” A cough followed the words. “I will die if you do.”

  Morgan wanted to leave, to be away from this ungodly temptation. Yet he longed to yield, to surrender to the unvoiced plea resonating in the air. He swallowed, thinking the man he faced must be more than man. Must be a devil come to torment him. Still…he wanted. He yearned.

  “What are you, my lord?” Morgan summoned every ounce of his will. “Why do your words keep me from leaving?”

  Those dangerous eyes closed, shuttering their silent cry. “I am nosferii. The Church of England calls us vampires.”

  Alarm should have filled Morgan’s soul. A vampire? Unclean? The walking dead? He knew the old rumors. Yet this man’s body felt warm to the touch. Wouldn’t a dead thing be cold, like a corpse? The stranger’s body radiated heat, as though he burned with fever. Impossible.

  “You’re not dead.”

  The man tried to smile, though it clearly cost him. “No. Nosferii are not dead.” A cough produced a worrisome amount of blood. “But I will be soon, if you are unwilling to help.”

  Perhaps the man had put a spell on him, because Morgan could not walk away. He knelt again, surrendering to the man’s unnatural allure. “What do I do?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Morgan Holland.” He wasn’t sure how his name had anything to do with this, but he supposed if he were going to give this man what he asked for, some courtesies should be observed.

  “I am Jeremy Colbourne.”

  Those eyes looked at him anew, their intense draw stoking that unnatural lust. The bloodied hand reached for Morgan’s neck again, creating a tingle of desire that surged straight to his groin.

  “Do you do this of your own free will, Morgan Holland?” The husky voice had a strained ring to it, the formal words like some binding spell.

  “Yes.” What else could he say? Still, something in him responded. He leaned closer, unconsciously offering his neck.

  Colbourne’s lips touched him, their heat affirming the fever coursing through the man’s flesh. Morgan steeled his nerves for the inevitable pain of the bite. After all, vampires had fangs, didn’t they?

  Instead of pain, liquid heat scalded his neck as Colbourne’s tongue passed across the softer skin below his jaw. A longing for something indefinable blazed in its wake, driving Morgan’s senses insane with an unknown desire. Each time that rough tongue tasted him, the yearning grew, intensifying a sexual hunger he’d never experienced.

  Morgan could feel the rasp of sharp teeth, the fangs he’d not seen before. Anticipation welled up from the pit of his stomach, his arousal hardening to a near excruciating ache. Once again those sharp tips grazed his neck, and then he stiffened in shock as they drove through his skin with a sudden snap.

  An exquisite agony assailed him. The fangs withdrew almost as fast as they had penetrated, and he felt the hot spill of blood flow freely from the wounds left behind. Colbourne’s mouth latched on, sucking with desperate strength. Each pulse of this feeding sent a wave of pleasure that threatened to drown Morgan in its wake.

  The searing mix of pain and pleasure befuddled his senses, driving his arousal to a peak that nearly unmanned him. He couldn’t think beyond the surging release that beckoned. Did all vampires possess such power? No answer existed in this moment, not that Morgan cared. The desperate desire for this stranger’s touch consumed him, though he had no words to express or even name what he wanted.

  A second bite pierced him, and he cried out at the sudden pain, spending himself in an agony of ecstatic sensation. Yet despite his release, he was still hard, wanting…something. Desiring a touch he’d never considered in his life.

  As if in answer, a hand, still radiating a fever heat, slipped inside
the flap of his breeches, stroking him. The intimate caress drew a groan of desire Morgan could not suppress. Each pass of that warm palm over his aching length roused that unnatural want to a hot pulse running straight from his cock to flood his entire body with a need for more, for…

  Just as he thought it, Colbourne’s other hand slipped into the waistband of Morgan’s breeches, drawing them down and leaving his ass bare to the chill of the late autumn air. Moist fingers trailed over his rear to press against his hole in unexpected anticipation of Morgan’s silent yearning.

  The sudden rasp of fangs against the head of his cock startled him, and he pulled back. The motion forced that teasing finger inside him, bringing a shock of sheer pleasure, pleasure that crested to a near-unbearable height as the sharp fangs scraped the tip of his member.

  “God!” The word was torn from him. When had Colbourne shifted?

  Those fangs slid forward again, drawing a tingle that became an ecstatic burn as Colbourne’s hot mouth engulfed him. The finger at his rear drew back and then pressed in again, joined by a second, the two digits thrusting in mimicry of the sex act, stoking that unnatural fire to a scorching pitch. Morgan groaned again, almost mindless with a desire for the unnamable.

  * * * *

  Jeremy watched in fascination as a spot of moisture dampened the linen covering Morgan’s erection. He grazed a fingernail along the hard outline, his lust building at the feel of his steward’s arousal. Morgan shifted, his hips pressing upward, rubbing his length against Jeremy’s palm, though the man still slept, caught up in some erotic dream. Jeremy gave a gentle squeeze, shivering at the sound of Morgan’s longing groan.

  He couldn’t bear it any longer. He had to act now, while his Host still slept. Perhaps Morgan would think it an extension of the dream. Pulling the sheet away, Jeremy stared for a moment at his intended prize, hungry, desirous, yet wishing Morgan were awake and equally wanting.

  Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to that straining shaft, caressing it with his tongue, taking the moist head into his mouth, remembering the heat from earlier. He kept his fangs retracted and avoided releasing the anesthetics into his saliva. He wanted Morgan to feel only the most exquisite pleasure. He took Morgan deeper, relaxing his throat and taking the hot length to the hilt.