Bond of Blood Page 25

  "So he won't be thought a coward."

  "Such a reputation would cause every other vampiro to attack him at any, or no, provocation. Refusing a duel is essentially suicide."

  She whistled softly. "Sounds like lions fighting to take over a pride. Very bloodthirsty."

  "We are predators, Grania."

  "True." She linked fingers with him. Her predator—and her knight.

  Grania considered herself one last time in the long, three-way mirror, while the last of her dinner grew cold behind her.

  She'd dragged her cadre of bodyguards all over Austin to find an outfit she liked for a price she could afford, scorning any mention of Rafael's money. It was the first time in her life she'd bought sexy clothes.

  Now she wore a sleeveless, blue, silky, empire top, cut low to show her breasts and shoulders, with matching, knee-length skirt. High-heded sandals—well, Brynda probably wouldn't consider them high but she did. Long, blue, dangly earrings and matching bracelets—she'd been very careful to make sure that Rafael could nibble on anything he wanted to. She'd even gone without a bra—she shivered again at the sensations that created—and she was wearing only a thong under the skirt.

  Most astonishing of all, she was wearing her hair in a high pony-tail, caught up at the back of her head and falling to her hips. She'd braided her hair all her life. In fact, she always put it into the braid while it was still wet. This was the first time she could remember seeing it loose and dry since she was six years old and had cleaned up after an unexpected thunderstorm while hiking with Tom.

  She shook her head from side to side, letting her long hair chafe her shoulders and arms. Her clothes were so thin, she could feel her every strand brush against her back and elbows. She tipped her head, letting it veil her expression, and laughed at her unexpected secrecy.

  She drew a few locks forward, so the ends curled over her breasts, teasing her sensitive flesh through the delicate fabric. A sudden spark flashed through her, dancing down to her core and all the way to her legs and toes. She shivered, her other hand coming up over her mound.

  Mischief bloomed in her eyes. If she excited herself before she joined Rafael, she might drive him wild. One of the few things calculated to fray his concentration was the scent of an aroused woman.

  Her hand promptly dived under her skirt and into her thong. Sparks gathered under her fingers, turned into a flame, which became wet heat and coated the thong. It tightened her belly as she breathed and swelled her breasts, lifting her nipples. "Nice," she sighed. "But more, I think."

  She played with herself further, flicking the thong across her labia until she moaned, swirling her finger inside herself. She added a second finger and rubbed her cut lightly, approving of how her cream rose and dripped onto her thighs. She closed her eyes and thrust her fingers faster, rocking back and forth as the familiar pleasure built.

  "Rafael, ah, yes," she moaned, as she climaxed, a sweet orgasm that sent waves of cream gliding onto her thighs. She laid her head against the wall until she regained her self-control. Then, while very carefully holding her skirt up with a tissue, she carefully rubbed her cream into her thighs.

  Rafael might have to talk to politicians tonight at San Leandro's big Fourth of July Picnic, but she'd have at least some of his attention.

  Head held high, she sashayed out of the bedroom and down to the great hall, where Rafael was talking quietly and intensely to a few of his more dangerous men.

  "Evening, gentlemen," she said sweetly. "Ready to go, Rafael?"

  Her reception was everything a girl could have wanted. Rafael came to his feet immediately, his dark eyes drinking her in like wine. Ethan's hazel eyes flashed hungrily, before he quickly leashed himself and reverted to a gentleman's stolid propriety. Emilio frankly stared before he grinned and bowed low, in one of his Zorro impressions. The others gaped before Ethan's elbow reminded them of their manners.

  "Grania, mi corazón, the stars above will be jealous of me tonight." Rafael kissed her hand, drawing her close. His hand cupped her cheek, his fingertips stealing into her hair. "You left your hair unbound."

  "To tease you," she whispered.

  "More than your scent? Impossible," he breathed against her mouth and kissed her gently. She answered him, their tongues dancing together, as his fingers slipped over her back.

  His big hand slid down over her ass and stopped.

  Grania waited, suddenly nervous of his reaction. Would he be offended that she wasn't wearing panties?

  His fingers stroked, explored, found the edge of her thong, froze. She pressed against him, seeking more.

  He lifted his head from hers, with a barely perceptible quiver. "¡Ay, querida!" he breathed. "You will drive me insane tonight."

  "Excelente," she answered, caressing his cheek, confident again.

  San Leandro was over a century old, founded just after the Comanches had left, and built in the true Old West style beside the San Leandro River. The small town was centered on a courthouse square, where a World War II soldier still threatened enemies from high atop a granite plinth. Its two-story buildings were formed of limestone and granite, with boardwalks circling the courthouse lawn.

  Tonight red, white, and blue bunting hung above the boardwalks, patriotic ribbons decorated every door, and American and Texan flags flew proudly on every pole. Pictures of Texan heroes, both modern and historic, papered every window. Twinkling lights decorated the courthouse roof at the moment, although they'd be turned off during the great fireworks display.

  Normally sleepy with barely enough vehicles for its sole traffic light, now San Leandro was crowded with people wandering between food booths and devouring their findings. Since this was a family picnic, nonalcoholic beverages were readily available. Beer could only be found at one truck on the edge of the square, conveniently close to the jail.

  As befitted a town close to Austin, San Leandro's world-famous festival focused on music. First Saturday celebrated amateur musicians, rotating the type of music every month. Many famous professional musicians had gotten their start at a San Leandro First Saturday and still came back to sit in on a jam session. For big holidays, especially in summertime, First Saturday would be stretched over two weekends, allowing extra time for the pros to play.

  Tonight live music provided the underlying beat, not a radio DJ. Bluegrass musicians kept people's toes tapping with their lively banjo and fiddle playing, while Tejano bands warmed up on the bandstand overlooking the park.

  Rafael and Grania strolled quietly through it all, hand in hand. Or, more likely, with his arm around her waist and her head resting against his shoulder, all too conscious of how neatly his chest curved against her jaw. Or the light glide of his fingertips over her hips through her skirt's thin silk.

  Their bodyguards were working a layered defense tonight, both on the streets near them and on the rooftops. Changing positions with each other and trying not to be too conspicuous, especially before darkness fell. Frankly, they were just part of the scenery around Rafael to her.

  She smiled and said the right things to the people she recognized. Rafael always knew all of the children's names.

  They wound up at the park by the river, just as the first Tejano band started playing. Excited, happy cries went up and couples surged onto the grass—young lovers but also married couples and children. Grania grinned at their enthusiasm, which so matched her own. Rafael wrapped his arms around her and she leaned against him, watching the dances. Most were country-western, with some pure Tejano dances thrown in, including a polka, Cotton-Eyed Joe, Texas Two-Step, the cumbia, and more.

  Rafael played with her hair, caressing her shoulder. "You seem to recognize some of the dances," he commented.

  "We did a lot of folk dancing at the group home," Grania answered vaguely, wishing they were back at Compostela, where she could have fondled him without worrying about an audience. "The nuns found it a good way to burn off our excess energy on days when we had to be indoors."

 
; The music shifted to an infectious, slightly irregular, very Latin beat. Similar to a polka, it was obviously the rhythm section for the next dance. The Tejano band's lead singer urged people to come down to the dance floor.

  "Would you care to try the cumbia? After that, there's another polka, then the patriotic concert and fireworks."

  Dance with Rafael? "Of course I would. Can you prompt me through it?"

  "My pleasure, querida."

  He led her out onto the dance floor and took position behind her, left hand holding her left, right hand to right, hands caught at shoulder height. His long fingers gripped hers lightly, giving the barest hint of their rough calluses.

  Her head came up and her shoulders straightened as her body started to purr. His scent wrapped around her, with his heat and his strength, as she waited for the dance to begin.

  Then the music started, its rhythm pulsing through her skin and into her bones. The female singer caroled the melody's first notes.

  "Forward." Rafael took a step, his muscular horseman's thighs brushing against her. How soon could she have his legs against hers without denim's intervention?

  Grania instinctively moved on the same beat, responding to his lead.

  "Spin." Rafael's deep voice resonated through her and set her body throbbing.

  He spun her in a circle, rumbling something softly as her long hair brushed against him. But he recovered quickly and gracefully finished the move, leaving Grania behind him, still holding both his hands. She found herself so temptingly close to his firm backside above his strong, narrow hips. If she let go of his hands, she could fondle him there…

  "Come front," he whispered, the words sinking into her bones like an invitation to sin.

  He twirled her and she ended before him, tucked against his hip as at the beginning. Now she could clearly feel the hard ridge behind his fly and a sharp stab of desire ripped through her, weakening her knees.

  She looked up to see his dark eyes intent on hers. She could almost taste his sensual mouth when it would finally cover hers. She shivered at the thought, regardless of the Texas night's heat.

  "Spin."

  Then he rotated her again, proclaiming her desirability to the world. Her body burned under his glance, even when she couldn't find him with her eyes.

  The singer sang again, urging everyone to dance the cumbia.

  Sweat trickled between Grania's aching breasts when she brushed against his massive chest. Her skin prickled as Rafael watched her, spinning and dancing with her as if she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  "Turn. Reverse."

  A pattern of repeated turns came, first one direction then the next, always next to his heart. She deliberately tossed her head to sweep her hair over him and his eyelids drooped, half veiling his passion.

  Longing to feel more of him, she ran her fingers across his shoulder as she slipped behind him, letting his strength flow into her. She leaned against him a little, his black hair brushing her arm. Her nipples hardened into spear points against his back, shielded only by thin clothing.

  A long shudder ran through him. His eyes snapped to meet hers and her body melted before his hunger.

  "Can we leave now, please?" she begged softly, spinning around him again to the starting position and snuggling herself as close to his crotch as possible. Every button in his jeans' fly rubbed against her ass.

  "Not yet, querida." His voice was all too husky. "Three more circuits around the floor."

  He stepped forward, his cock as hot and hard against her as if she wasn't dressed. She moved with him obediently, their thighs sliding against each other, and he dragged in a harsh breath. "Plus the fireworks."

  "Good thing it's dark and nobody's watching," Grania commented before slipping around to his back. She was damned if she'd be cautious tonight about anything.

  Beau closed the binoculars slowly, enjoying every subtle click as its mechanical elements and his long-held plans simultaneously fell into place.

  Rafael had smiled at the red-haired bitch even more fondly than he'd looked at his wife. Destroy her and he'd finally crawl.

  "Yaa 'abi l-'aziiz, his blood will run like water for you," Beau whispered.

  Cursing the fire ants eating every inch of his flesh, he started to crawl carefully back to the ravine where he could shift and free himself from their sting. If Rafael's roving mesnaderos hadn't forced him to stay so far away that he had to use binoculars to see anything, he wouldn't have had to be tortured by these insects.

  It would be a delight to finally set Rafael's downfall into motion.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  A whisper of sound, scarcely louder than a mouse cleaning its whiskers, but unusual.

  Rodrigo carne awake instantly, straining his ears to hear. Less than an hour before sunset on the feast day of San Rafael Arcángel, in the Year of Our Lord 1487. Thanks to Señorita Sara, he was fully healed and could fight again.

  There! It came again, a scratching noise just outside his door. A man whispered in purest Castilian, "Tío Rodrigo?"

  ¿Uncle Rodrigo? His heart leapt for joy. They came, they came, they kept their word after all these centuries!

  Santísima Virgen, I will begin every day, for the rest of my life, with thanks to you and your Son for answering my prayers.

  "Here." Rodrigo scraped his door very lightly in answer. "Hassan?"

  "His descendiente, yaa 'ammo, also named Hassan. Let me pick the lock so you can finally be free."

  Dear uncle. Rodrigo smiled at being given an affectionate title in Arabic again, after all these years, and waited, eyeing the sunset through his window. If he didn't kill The Syrian before nightfall when that demon awoke, all would be lost.

  Hassan oiled the lock, latches, and hinges thoroughly before setting to work. Metal scratched metal delicately as he worked, almost as quietly as his arrival. Suddenly, he paused, scraped again, and the lock turned.

  An instant later, the door opened soundlessly and Rodrigo beheld a kinsman's smile. "Tío Rodrigo. Praise be to Allah that you are still alive."

  He bowed, offering Rodrigo's sword in its scabbard, its silk wrappings pulled back. Behind him, two other men—closely related by their scent—kept watch in the corridor.

  "Mi sobrino." Rodrigo embraced him hard, unashamed of his tears. He released him and began to buckle on his sword.

  Hassan's eyes also glittered. "My brothers, Achmed and Hamza."

  Two brief nods from the others, their eyes remaining on the corridor not Rodrigo, and their weapons at the ready.

  "As the fastest one of us to pick locks, I had the honor of being first down the corridor, even though I am the youngest. We came on the twenty-ninth day of September, the day Tía Bianca always kept vigil for you. My ancestor said it would be the safest time."

  Rodrigo's fingers froze for a moment. Blanche had kept vigil for him on the feast day of San Rafael Arcángel, guardian of travelers and healer of the sick? He would ponder that later.

  "Did you lie up during the day?" He drew his sword and slashed the air with it, grinning like a fool at the still-perfect balance.

  Hassan's face held the same delight. "St, Tío Rodrigo. There is a small, half-ruined cistern just below the aqueduct."

  "Return there and I will find you, bringing a gentle lady with me, who is distressed of mind. But we may have pursuers. If we are not there by an hour past sunset or the guards find you first, then save yourself."

  Hassan's mouth curled in a warrior's hard grin that promised I death to all enemies. "Let them come. We have more men waiting for us below and the Turkish overlords wish this evil gone."

  Rodrigo nodded, well aware that neither Hassan nor any Turkish overlord had any chance of destroying The Syrian. "Go then and be quiet. You must be hidden before it is dark."

  The castle held only its usual sullenness as he crept toward The Syrian's quarters. Given that their masters lived by night, the servants tended to do so also, and he needed to dodge v
ery few in the corridors. Still, very few minutes remained before sunset when he reached those great studded, double doors.

  He crossed himself and said a prayer, committing his soul one last time to God. He reckoned up yet again—as he had every night for two centuries—all the women he had failed to save and their mothers who must have wept for their lost children.

  His fingers flexed on his sword's hilt. He went into battle now as the champion of all those girls' fathers and brothers, who could not themselves destroy The Syrian.

  "Fearghus," he whispered, remembering his friend, "this is for you."

  He lifted the great shining blade and set his lips to it, sealing his dedication to the fight.

  Then he set his palm to the door and pressed lightly. It swung open quietly and he slipped inside, closing it behind him.

  The entire suite was laid out and decorated reminiscent of an Arabian tent, with hanging lamps and carpets. The carpets were layers thick, matted deep with blood and worse. Eventually they'd be thrown out and burned, rather than cleaned, as would those on the wall.

  Rodrigo's nostrils twitched and his stomach heaved. The room reeked of foulness, of blood and death and agony beyond belief. Every scent was wrenchingly familiar to him.

  The room's most prominent feature was the balcony overlooking the garden and the western sky. The sun hung blood-red just above the horizon like a baleful eye, casting its heavy, rich light over the bed and its occupant—just as it had in Rodrigo's vision two centuries ago. The vision that Rodrigo had rarely allowed himself to remember, lest The Syrian or Diego snatch it out of his head and kill him for it.

  Rodrigo stepped forward, raising his sword, first given to him in the cathedral with holy oaths.

  Suddenly The Syrian awoke and rolled to face Rodrigo. Irritation flashed in his eyes. "Yaa ibn sharmuuTa," he barked, "get back to your cell immediately. Diego will deal with you tomorrow."

  A spark of anger lit deep within at hearing his mother called a whore. Rodrigo braced himself against the ingrained need to obey his creador's order and fought to complete his sword's downward strike. "I will not," he bit out.