Bond of Fire Read online

  Praise for

  BOND OF BLOOD

  “What do you get when you cross the Crusades, Texas, hot and steamy sex, and immortality? The first in a vampire romance trilogy by the master of erotic prose…[an] incredible, sensuous story.”

  —Booklist

  And the novels of Diane Whiteside

  “A very interesting story related in prose so steamy that it fogs one’s reading glasses.”

  —Booklist

  “Extremely titillating…an excellent and engrossing story. I know I couldn’t put it down. I…eagerly look for more books by the amazing Diane Whiteside.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Erotically thrilling and suspenseful story line keeps the reader riveted to the book. Diane Whiteside has created fascinating characters that turn an ordinary story into a work of sensual art…it’s a scorcher.”

  —The Road to Romance

  “A devilishly erotic story…full of vivid imagery that sets your heart aflutter…a hero who will melt your heart and make your blood pressure rise at the same time.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Hot and gritty, seething with passion and the aura of the Wild West, Whiteside’s debut presents readers with a solid western as well as a highly erotic romance, and the combination is sizzling. Erotic romance fans have a tale to savor and an author to watch. SPICY.”

  —Romantic Times

  BOND of FIRE

  DIANE WHITESIDE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  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 © 2008 by Diane Whiteside

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  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: January 2008

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Whiteside, Diane.

  Bond of fire / Diane Whiteside.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A novel of Texas vampires.”

  ISBN: 1-4295-7747-9

  1. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.H5848B665 2008

  813'.6—dc22 2007035152

  This book is dedicated to

  Reference Librarians everywhere, especially

  Brynda in Texas,

  Gillian in Maine,

  and Pedro in Atlantia.

  The vocabulary for the Texas vampire universe is drawn from feudal Spain. That very special time and place, where Christians, Moslems, and Jews lived in a rich cultural synthesis, was also the origin of the vaqueros’—and later the cowboys’—cattle herding skills and specialized gear.

  A detailed glossary explaining those words, plus any other non-English terms, is provided at the end of Bond of Fire.

  Brief pronunciation guides to French and Spanish (with hints about Don Rafael’s quirks) are available on my website, www.dianewhiteside.com.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE REVOLUTION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PART TWO WAR

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PART THREE THE NEW WORLD

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  GLOSSARY

  PROLOGUE

  LONDON, PRESENT DAY

  Hélène examined the photo carefully, moving the lens steadily over the print the same way she’d done when she’d first learned to hunt for underground German bunkers. The wood paneling of the private club in Mayfair was centuries old and solid enough to dim any midsummer evening noise.

  Someone swallowed hard behind her and was admonished with an elbow, making him grunt.

  The photographer had shot from an elevated vantage point and an awkward angle, creating a picture more artistic than logical. Still, some things could be gleaned.

  Late 1920s America, somewhere that understood high fashion—New Orleans, perhaps? A festive street scene, probably Mardi Gras, given the masks and costumes. Most of the faces in the crowd were turned away from the camera or out of focus, making them unidentifiable.

  A man came into focus, and she recognized him immediately—Rodrigo Perez, a very polite fellow when she’d met him at Versailles two centuries ago, though he could also be obnoxiously arrogant. He was poised on the balls of his feet, his shoulders tense. She could almost feel his eyes moving left and right, hunting for the hidden photographer.

  She sniffed, silently cheering the fellow’s success, and moved on.

  Another face slid into focus beyond her hat’s bizarre shadow.

  She froze, her hand clenching the jeweler’s loupe until her knuckles turned white.

  A woman, the image of her mother. Family. After all these centuries, she was not alone.

  Tears sprang into her eyes, and she blinked them back fiercely. Not here, not in this audience, would she show weakness.

  Besides, how much had her masters known all these years—and chosen to keep from her? Nom de Dieu, she would have answers from them and, this time, she would not be polite about how she asked her questions.

  Lord Simon set a snifter down beside her, and she gulped the fine cognac with scant regard for its high cost. Mon Dieu, if la petite was alive, answers must be demanded.

  She shifted the loupe slightly to give herself time to think, ignoring Lord Simon’s watchful bodyguards around her.

  A man’s face sprang out at her. Jean-Marie St. Just?

  Her heart slammed to a stop, harder and faster than any time she’d fallen into hibernation as a vampira.

  She almost knocked the lamp off the table before she could control herself.

  Alive, alive, alive…Joy fizzed through her veins faster than any champagne.

  Her heart bega
n to beat again, echoing her determination to find him, and her fingertips instinctively ached, desperate to caress his mobile mouth. If he’d lived long enough to be recorded in this picture, surely God would not be so cruel as to separate them again.

  PART ONE

  REVOLUTION

  ONE

  VERSAILLES, PARIS, FEBRUARY 1787

  Thomas Jefferson, ambassador of the young American republic, led Jean-Marie St. Just and Rodrigo Perez down the long hallways, Sara Perez radiant on his arm. Candlelight blazed from hundreds of candles, magnified and scattered through mirror after mirror, only to shine like freedom’s torch on his red hair. The quartet cut through the throng like masters of their own fates, wearing their peacock attire as if it were no more than a diversion or camouflage—not a grab for attention or a naked declaration of unassailable power.

  Chattering courtiers, sweating under their paint and powder, as gaudy in their brilliant silks as parakeets, circled and glided inside the palace’s spectacular cage. Predators, barbed glances flashing like knives, stalked their prey.

  The king and queen of France were displayed on gilded chairs in an alcove, arrayed in their finest clothes and surrounded by fawning, over-bred lackeys. The corpulent, unhappy excuse for kingly omnipotence looked like a peasant forced to sit on the throne. If there was any hope for the next generation’s intelligence or energy, it came from the Austrian queen, whose flashing eyes captured every detail. Marie Antoinette displayed her legendary sense of style by wearing a costly, amber silk dress, which turned everyone and everything else here into a backdrop for her glory.

  Louis XVI looked the newcomers over coolly, obviously wishing to be anywhere else. His royal hand waggled in a languid sign of recognition.

  Jean-Marie retained his impeccably pleased demeanor, despite the dirk in his heavily embroidered silk sleeve and the overwhelming urge to retch. After all, how many times had he been caned in this very palace for promoting republican ideals, rather than the divine right of kings?

  Whatever else Father had been, he’d rarely been openly rude without a good reason. If he’d lived to see his great-great-grandson sit on the throne of France, there would have been hell to pay in the royal nurseries decades ago.

  But that had nothing to do with tonight’s visit.

  Jean-Marie let his expression slide further into open sycophancy, masking his opinion of his many-times-removed nephew and his body’s unease. His mouth tasted of smoke and ashes, and a demon was drilling spikes into both temples. It was hardly the first time these agonies had attacked him at Versailles.

  Jefferson nodded formally, stopping just short of a bow. “Your Majesties, may I present Don Rodrigo Perez, one of General Washington’s most trusted advisors?”

  And spymaster, come here to personally verify for Washington that France was not an immediate threat.

  Rodrigo bowed low and very smoothly, as befitted a man who’d mastered the skill while wearing eighty pounds of chain mail, sword, shield, and other knightly accoutrements.

  “And Mister Jean-Marie St. Just, whose gallantry in action has been recognized by both General Washington and your own Marquis de la Fayette?”

  Jefferson’s Virginia drawl managed Jean-Marie’s name quite well, including the tricky detail of pronouncing the J’s like the s in “measure.”

  Jean-Marie’s bow matched Rodrigo’s in depth, although he automatically added the flourishes appropriate to greeting a king. They were taught to every member of the royal brood, legitimate or not. No matter how many decades had passed since he’d been here, some things were never forgotten, even when the skill could cause comment.

  “And Señorita Perez, Don Rodrigo’s sister.” Jefferson’s Virginia drawl lingered over every syllable, caressing her name.

  Sara sank into a deep curtsy. While she was not blood kin to Rodrigo, they’d endured long years of hard trials together, forging a bond closer than many brothers and sisters. Her eyes were shining now, and her color was very high, causing an almost audible groan of desire from their watchers. Even the king’s eyes widened, despite his notorious disinterest in carnal congress.

  Instinctively, Jean-Marie’s fingers flexed, and he started to edge forward, moving to protect her.

  Rodrigo’s foot tapped his, once, briefly.

  Jean-Marie stilled. The other man was as tense as he was, perhaps more so. But he was willing to allow Sara’s eagerness to shine like a diamond amid the jaded courtiers. Her hunger was, after all, the official reason they’d come to Paris.

  Jean-Marie relaxed slightly, resuming his original sycophant’s posture. He would wait and watch, as Rodrigo did. If any of these fools lifted so much as a finger against her, they’d wish they were dead. There was no need to do anything more now.

  She rose, sending her taffeta skirts sighing back into place like an houri’s invitation to paradise. She cast her eyes down, teasing those around with a come-hither look that seemed meant for each one alone. Meaningful glances were exchanged, laden with coded messages.

  By Jean-Marie’s reckoning, she’d guaranteed at least one assignation before the courtiers remembered to watch their monarch again.

  He clenched his teeth, refusing to react to another stomach-churning wave of dizziness.

  The king yawned, having lost interest in Sara, and waved the newcomers away impatiently. “Yes, yes, I know. Come back again with whatever you wish to say, Jefferson. And these three are welcome to Us, too. Now go.”

  They hadn’t gone more than two steps away from the king and queen before a fresh-faced young man, with a weak chin and slender build, asked Sara to join an innocent card game.

  “Ooh, certainly, Monsieur Simenon, is it not?” she cooed, her middle-aged face softening with delight. “It would be a pleasure to spend time at play with you. You’ll excuse me, Don Rodrigo, Mr. Jefferson.”

  The men murmured their regret and bowed, hemmed in on all sides by the throng of courtiers.

  Sara departed, her hand resting on her new acquaintance’s and her head tilted attentively up to his. He was already chatting to her, of course, and would almost certainly be in her bed before the night was out. He’d probably consider himself lucky, although she’d likely drop him within a week or so—once she had an eye to where the king’s spymaster might be found. She loved having a focus for the game of seduction, and it had saved them all more than once.

  With Sara gone, there was little to keep Jefferson around, and he soon disappeared with a few polite words of farewell. He’d visit them again, of course, to exchange more conversation about French intentions toward America—and to indulge his fascination with Sara.

  Courtiers rustled, eager to advance on their monarchs. By unspoken agreement, Rodrigo and Jean-Marie moved to the next room, seeking fresher air. They found a comparatively cooler space in a window embrasure, Rodrigo’s imposing height and formidable presence chasing off its previous occupants.

  Jean-Marie claimed a pair of glasses from a passing lackey’s tray and handed one to Rodrigo. He sipped it cautiously—and the champagne’s cool refreshment eased his throat a bit. Before he could stop himself, he’d gulped the rest, sending bubbles jolting into his stomach.

  Merde, that was stupid. This was not the time or the place to display any weakness.

  His head came up warily, and he scanned for watchers. Nobody tossed back champagne like water, especially at court. Growing up in these halls had taught him to guard every move, every glance, every word at all times.

  Rodrigo silently exchanged glasses, providing him with another round. Droplets of red swirled and dissipated within the champagne, changing it to a pale pink.

  Jean-Marie stilled and directed a suspicious glare at his friend’s hand.

  Rodrigo casually rubbed his thumb over his fingertip, erasing the few traces of blood.

  “You do not need to guard me from every disaster, mon frère,” Jean-Marie snapped, well aware starvation was turning him foul-tempered.

  “You should have let her
feed you this morning, as she asked.” A big shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I do not have so many friends that I find myself able to face the loss of even one with equanimity.”

  “I do not need it,” Jean-Marie all but snarled.

  “Your stubbornness makes a donkey look as flexible as a papal diplomat, mi hermano. Bend your pride enough to take extra blood for greater needs, such as tonight,” Rodrigo hissed, stepping close enough to block the view of onlookers. Only another vampiro or a compañero like Jean-Marie, whose body had been altered by decades of drinking vampiro blood, could have heard him. “You’ll have to make do with mine for a few hours, until she can feed you again.”

  Despite the rational explanation, Jean-Marie gritted his teeth, loathing yet another example of his enslavement.

  Rodrigo’s iron grip closed around his wrist under his cuff and tightened until Jean-Marie could feel tendons start to grind against bone. “It has been weeks since you fed. Even at that, you need more than blood.”

  “I swore I wouldn’t take more from her when I learned the truth of what she’d done.” Jean-Marie shot him a barbed glance.

  Rodrigo snorted in disgust. “In that case, let the wine cool you and your temper for a few moments.”

  Jean-Marie seethed but nodded acquiescence, knowing all too well the truth in Rodrigo’s words. He’d nearly died a dozen times in Washington’s army—never because of wounds or disease but rather, because he’d been separated from Sara, the mistress who held him literally in thrall.

  If he went another day like this, he’d barely be able to speak. Three days, and he wouldn’t be able to walk. A week longer—eh bien, that was as long as he’d ever been able to force himself to live without a taste of Sara. Much more than that and he’d die—very painfully.