Bond of Blood
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Bond of Blood
By
Diane Whiteside
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Glossary
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2006 by Diane Whiteside.
Cover art by Trinette Reed/Getty Images.
Cover design by Monica Benalcazar.
Text design by Stacy Irwin.
BERKLEY SENSATION is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The "B" design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First edition: October 2006
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Whiteside, Diane.
Bond of blood / Diane Whiteside.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-425-20774-9 (trade pbk.)
1. Vampires—Fiction. 2. Texas—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.H5848B66 2006
813'.6—dc22
2006020602
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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To Daio, who helped make vampiro science solid
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Prologue
Cinco.
Five orgasms for her but Rodrigo still hadn't climaxed. Blanche forced herself to count in Castilian, not her native French, the difficulty just enough to keep her mind on this moment. She had to remember every minute. It could be her last night with her beloved husband.
Rodrigo growled softly. Anticipation stirred again, deep within her, at the sound. He tossed his head back, biting his lip until the blood flowed.
Nom de Dieu, she wanted him to enjoy this last night as much as she did, not calculate every move. Carefulness be damned, she wanted her passionate, young caballero, the finest knight at the king's court. She pushed back her delicious lassitude, fighting to concentrate on him. "Rodrigo, mon amour, fill me. Ride me hard, leave us both sweating and sated. Now, s'il vous plaît!"
"Easy, mi corazón," he muttered. "We have time for you to soften and take me fully into you." He knelt above her, braced on his strong arms, breathing harshly as he brought his hunger under control.
She stroked his shoulders, pleasuring herself with his heat. He dwarfed her—and he held her heart, as her first husband never had. When his breathing was steadier, he lightly caressed her rounded belly and smiled, his white teeth gleaming in a stray beam of moonlight. "Mi amor, tienes mi alma en tus manos."
Blanche's heart turned over. How could she carry his soul in her hands? She tried to find words but Rodrigo spoke again.
"You and our children, you are my life. If anything should happen to you—"
"Relax, mon amour," she murmured and tenderly pushed a lock off his forehead. "Our little angel is well. You know how he likes to sleep through our lovemaking."
"Daughter," Rodrigo retorted with a kiss on her forehead. "Only a niña would be lulled to sleep by lovemaking, after a storm of kicking at any other time. Sweet-tempered in the bedroom, like her madre."
Blanche snorted at his compliment, glad she'd distracted him from too much thinking about the future. Rodrigo frequently prayed for an easy pregnancy, like her first, which had yielded the twins. And she knew perfectly well that he hoped for a daughter with blue eyes, like hers. But all of that was God's doing, not a man's wish. Just as whether or not he'd come home alive from fighting the Saracen invaders was God's will, not a woman's prayer.
His callused finger swirled through her creamy folds, triggering a groan and wriggle from her. She moaned and happily accepted a little more of his cock. It always took so much coaxing and love play for her petite body to welcome his shaft. Her adoring husband was so very careful of her comfort and pleasure. Five years younger than she was, he treated her like a precious gem.
He stroked her again and cream rushed to embrace his cock, as she trembled. Her channel rippled and her hips rolled involuntarily, remembering the delight he always brought. He circled her pearl cautiously, first at a distance then closer, like a scout surveying a castle. "Ah, mais oui, exactement, mon amour," she sighed.
He fondled her gently and she arched, moaning his name.
He rubbed very lightly. She rocked against him, the mindless rhythm of love and lust burning away thought. She was so sensitive now that even a little touch could send her over the brink. And then he touched her favorite spot.
Seis!
Blanche shrieked her satisfaction, barely remembering to continue counting in Castilian. Waves pounded through her and seized his cock like a conquering army. Tightened and released, tightened and…
His loins jerked, fighting her body's demand that he finish. His finger pressed down on her pearl again and she sobbed. The pulses began to build once more and leaped into him through their intimate connection. Her body pushed up against him insistently and her cavern tightened like a glove.
His hips thrust, settling his cock into that secret place deep inside her. His control snapped. He pounded into her again and again, growling like a wild beast. He stiffened as pleasure launched him into flight.
"Rodrigo!" she screamed as the deepest climax of all raced through her.
Siete!
He roared his satisfaction as he poured his essence into her womb. He collapsed afterward, barely able to roll onto his side and hold her close. His body softened.
Bien, now he'd at least have some sleep before he went off to fight.
Dark as it was in their small bedchamber, she could only catch occasional glimpses of him. But she could feel him and she could smell him. Traces of horses, certainement. Leather and the oil used to keep hi
s armor rust-free and moving smoothly. Another oil, the one used to clean and protect his sword, a beautiful Toledo steel blade the king had given Rodrigo, in gratitude for his loyal service during the civil war. Under that—and the musk of his hunger—was a faint whiff of sandalwood, an exotic spice from the East that his Moorish cousins had given him. All the scents spoke to her of beautiful man, superb lover, and devoted husband.
Blanche smiled, eyelids heavy, content at having finally eased him.
Her sated husband was warm against her, a strong bulwark against enemies. His arms tightened possessively around her as he snored, just a little. She whispered her love to him softly, as she slipped into sleep.
"Para siempre, te llevo en mi alma." I will carry you in my soul forever.
A door slammed. Someone, wearing very heavy boots, staggered across the floor and fell onto the bed next door, sending it slamming into the wall.
Grania woke with a start, instinctively reaching for her absent gun. A snore came through the thin walls, then another, and another.
She relaxed slowly, as she remembered where she was. A cheap motel, deep in the Texas Hill Country outside Austin. Not Colombia, where she'd spent last summer studying owls—and keeping her weapons close at hand for protection against rebels and thugs. She was here to interview for a job at the Texas Hill Country Raptor Center, where she could be both scientist and veterinarian.
The ancient clock radio flickered and announced the time, two a.m. She flopped onto her back and stared at the water-stained ceiling.
A dream of Rodrigo—she'd been doing that all her life. But a sexual fantasy, especially one so incredibly detailed? Now that was a first. Probably because she was so nervous about getting this job.
Soothed by the explanation, Grania stretched, then settled herself again, wrapping her arms around the pillow.
And another dream claimed her, like a hammer blow between the eyes.
Blanche sat beside her Princesse, the French king's daughter who'd come south to marry the Castilian heir, and tried to keep watch over the Princesse's two young sons, the Infantes de la Cerda. Her baby gave a last thunderous kick to her ribs, then settled down as if respecting the solemn occasion. Her own son and daughter were safe at the palace, where their high spirits and quest to master the art of walking wouldn't cause a disturbance.
Toledo's great cathedral was filled to overflowing with the host of knights and men-at-arms. The Lion and Castle blazed on surcoat after surcoat, emblem of the kingdom who'd fight first and strongest against the Moroccan invaders. A few women had crowded in as well—the Princesse and her ladies foremost. But this ceremony was for the men, the fighters who'd save them all. Time for strengthening their hearts and souls, and stiffening the spines of their loved ones who must helplessly wait and pray.
The great military orders were also present, but in smaller numbers. The gray mantles of Calatrava, the white habits of Alcántara, and the red cross—the espada with its long downstroke, like a sword blow to the heart—of Santiago, the largest and most ferocious order. Rodrigo was honored to be one of them, a novice in the only knightly order with the amazing wisdom and flexibility to accept married men.
But, as a novice, he was not obliged to pray with them today. Instead, he knelt beside Infante Don Fernando de la Cerda, the Castilian heir and governor of the realm in the King's absence, whose confidant he was—and whom he easily outshone in his wife's eyes.
In Rodrigo, the height and strength of his father's Celtic and Visigoth ancestors blended perfectly with the warm skin and raven hair of his mother's Moorish blood. If she could see his eyes more clearly, she knew they'd be the darkest brown—almost black when angry, but softening to a warm glow when playing with children. He had a hawk's beak of a nose, a little crooked from some boyhood fight with one of his brothers. There were scars on his torso, of course, as befitted a gallant knight, but none on his face. Head and shoulders taller than most men at the Castilian court, he was as passionate about singing and playing the lute as he was about swordplay and horses—as his heavy muscles could attest.
Rodrigo would go to war with the mesnaderos, the royal household guard, together with his best friend, Fearghus of Inverness, who'd come from Scotland to fight infidels. And eighteen-year-old Diego Sanchez, Rodrigo's escudero.
Blanche gritted her teeth. She'd never trusted Diego, despite his being an orphan the king had commended to Rodrigo's service. Diego was too aware of his pretty face and too willing to give the easy answer to any difficult question. More than once, she'd caught a look of sheer, blazing hatred in his eyes, when he stared after his master.
She'd warned Rodrigo, of course. But he'd shrugged her caution off, reminding her of his sworn duty to obey the king and honor his oath to train Diego. She had never convinced him his escudero was dangerous.
Chanting in Latin, the archbishop lifted the cross to bless the assembled warriors. A shaft of light set the great golden cross ablaze until it seemed to belong to a different realm. Crossing herself reflexively, Blanche's gaze slipped back to Rodrigo, standing head and shoulders above the crowd of armed men. His face was transfigured, rapt, as he stared at the symbol of his faith. His lips moved, silently from this distance, as he gave himself up to the service of God and King. He seemed in no way to be a creature of this earth.
A shudder seized her. Mon dieu, what if he was injured? Or captured? No, if that happened, his Moorish cousins would see that he was ransomed. Surely she'd know if he was wounded; after all, she'd sensed it when he broke his arm. But what if he never returned?
The royal lion on Rodrigo's chest shifted in the golden light, its paws reaching for his heart.
The Princesse hissed something terrified and clutched her two young sons close. But, for once, Rodrigo's wife paid her longtime patroness no heed. Instead, she bent her head and began to pray desperately to San Rafael Arcángel, patron saint of healers and travelers.
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Chapter One
Rafael Perez accelerated down the last icy hill, whipped the wheel around, braked hard, and cut the engine with a flourish. The armored Toyota Land Cruiser skidded through a one-eighty into a stop precisely where he'd planned, throwing up a fine cloud of powdery snow over the boardwalk.
Moonlight reflected from clouds and snow-covered mountains, making the former ghost town bright as day to his vampiro eyes, fallen angel screamed the red light on the saloon's false front, while a neon bronc rider endlessly strove to outlast his twisting steed. Storefronts urged expensive diversions, from the latest high-tech snowboards to jewelry and electronics. One displayed extravagant lingerie on realistic mannequins, including a long, frothy concoction of silk and lace, trimmed with sable, and complete with matching sable slippers. His wife would have loved it.
Rafael's face hardened at the reminder of a loss never quite forgotten, despite the passing of seven hundred years. Turning away, he scanned his surroundings for watchers. The streets were empty, except for the sole traffic light blinking yellow in the distance.
After all, when a predator like Rafael visited another one, he expected to risk an ambush. Which was why he'd brought his best weapons: two of his oldest—and therefore strongest—hijos, the vampiros he'd sired.
Ethan Templeton cast one last, long look around the otherwise darkened buildings, then set the safety on his rifle. "No snipers so far."
"You astound me with your suspicions, mi hijo," Rafael observed sarcastically, as he unbuckled his seat belt. "Jennings promised to return my hospitality back in 1859, should he ever gain an esfera of his own. We have been invited for a night of good whisky and skiing. Have you no trust in his goodwill?"
"No," Ethan said simply, unlocking his door. "Better men than he have hungered for Texas."
"Which is why you're here and Gray Wolf is back there," Jean-Marie, Rafael's best spy and eldest hijo, retorted from the backseat, above the unmistakable click of semiautomatics being double-checked. "So you can go into danger, while the heir stays safe."
Poorly set ambush, Ethan commented mind to mind when they all stood on the boardwalk. Not a prosaico in sight, when it's midnight in a top Colorado resort?
Rafael snorted silently. It's midnight on a Sunday, Ethan, with a blizzard coming in. There shouldn't be any prosaicos around. It had better be peaceful here, with or without an ambush.
After all, assassinations were the usual method for a vampiro to take over an esfera and become a patrón. Just like Chicago mobsters during the 1920s, vampiros fought bitterly for every scrap of advantage, resulting in a rapid turnover oí patrons and esferas whose boundaries were fluid, to say the least. The average patrón only survived for thirty years or so before being killed by a younger, smarter, or faster challenger.
But Rafael had received Texas and Oklahoma from a Spanish king and held them ever since—despite frequent attacks from greedy vampiros, many of which had once called themselves his friend.
The best attacks involved prosaicos, ordinary mortals who'd never drunk vampiro blood or tasted it so seldom that their everyday lives hadn't been affected. In other words, their scent hadn't been changed by frequent contact with vampiro blood. Since the vast majority of mortals had no idea that vampiros really existed, it was very easy for those allied with vampiros to hide among their prosaico brethren—becoming invisible to keen vampiro senses. Given the opportunity, a hidden prosaico would make the perfect assassin. A paranoid patrón therefore allowed no strange prosaicos near him.