Blood Marriage

  BLOOD MARRIAGE

  Regina Richards

  Copyright © 2012 by Regina Ruth Richards.

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any form or by any means, now known or hereinafter invented, without the written permission of the author. No part or portion of this work may be reproduced or transmitter by any means, including mechanical, electronic, recording, information storage and retrieval system, or by any other means without the written permission of the author. Payment of the required fees grants the non-transferable, non-exclusive right to access and read this e-book on-screen. No other rights are granted.

  Acknowledgements

  With a truly grateful heart, I want to thank my husband Steve and our children, who always believed I was capable of writing a novel and helped me to believe it too. Each of you has your own special style of pep talk guaranteed to send me back to the keyboard.

  Others I wish to thank as well:

  • Richard Godivala, one of the most talented critiquers I have ever been blessed to know. He told me the truth, clearly and often, but in an unwaveringly kind and encouraging manner. I will always be grateful to you Richard. You’re the best!

  • All the wonderful people at critiquecircle.com, who helped me grow in my craft from someone who didn’t know that such a thing as spell check existed or what simple terms like point of view meant, into someone with enough skill and confidence to reach that final page and write The End.

  • The members of various writing groups -- RWA, NTRWA, DARA -- who have supported and continue to support my efforts to learn about the business of publishing.

  • All the fabulous folks at North Branch Writers Critique Group who helped me iron some of the wrinkles out of the finished product.

  • Beta reader extraordinaire and very talented poet and writer Annie Neugebauer. You rock!

  • Ally Broadfield who did a great job proofreading for my many historical and grammatical mistakes. Those that remain are entirely my own fault. I just couldn’t stop fiddling with some scenes until the last possible moment before publication.

  • Vickie at CopyEditingSavesLives.com for her formatting expertise and infinite patience in leading me through the process.

  • And of course, my muse, who remains anonymous but to whom I will always be grateful. I asked for your help and you not only set my feet on this writing path which I love so dearly, but you have remained with me, encouraging me every step of the way. God bless you. Thank you!

  Dedication

  For my mother, who dreamed all her life of becoming a writer, but instead blessed me and so many others by doing things of infinitely greater importance. And for my father, an imperfectly perfect human being, who gave me the most precious gift that a parent can give a child, unconditional love.

  Chapter One

  Romania 1787

  Lucretia laid one small, dark-haired child beside the other on the cold stone floor, then turned to the marble coffin. She should lift the lid. Her husband should bear witness to the vengeance she would take for him.

  "Mea amor," she breathed as she laid her cheek against ice smooth marble, trailing caressing fingers through the fog made by her grief-ragged breath. Tears beaded on stone. Who would protect her now that he was gone? Who would share the sweet darkness of the nights and sleep beside her when the wicked sun burned across the land?

  Rage flared hot and she shoved back the marble lid. At the sight of the wooden stake in his chest a low keening moan parted her lips, the sound rising to an anguished scream that seemed to rattle the mausoleum's ancient walls. The scream died abruptly. She cocked her head to one side and reached out to wrap a finger tenderly around one of his dark curls. For an instant the hatred coursing through her eased. Violence. Hatred. Vengeance. He would not have wanted that. It was not his way.

  "We are like bees," Sebastian used to say. "We do not destroy the flower, we merely take a sip."

  On the floor behind her, the boy child moaned and stirred. The girl remained still as death. They would both awaken soon. The drug she'd forced upon them wouldn't last much longer.

  "Forgive me, Sebastian. I have not your goodness of heart." She touched her lips to his. Cold, unresponsive. Rage flared again, hell-hot. "He will suffer for what he has done to you, my love."

  She turned away from the body of her husband, back to the English duke's children. Their sweet fragrance filled the mausoleum, warm young blood. Hunger mingled with rage. She would not sip this night; she would devour.

  A new scent floated to her on the night air. She turned toward it.

  "Do not do this, Lucretia." Her brother, Vlad, stood at the entrance of the mausoleum. The full moon haloed his head and glowed through his priestly robes. He was dressed as if to perform a High Mass, just as he had been the night of her wedding, the night he'd blessed their union, the night Sebastian had transformed her into one like himself.

  "They are innocents, Lucretia." Vlad took a step into the room. "They had no part in this."

  "They share the blood of the murderer!" Lucretia faced the young priest. "He will suffer."

  Madness was taking her. She knew it, but didn't care. The smell of the priest's blood, the blood of her own brother, stirred her. Hunger curled within her. Nothing would stop her from taking revenge. The English duke would share her pain when she was finished with his children.

  She dove at the boy first, sinking her fangs deep into his neck. His blood was warm in her mouth. For a moment she let it flow onto her tongue, lapping at it as Sebastian had taught her. Then the madness took her and she began to suck at the wound, drawing great mouthfuls of warm thick fluid and gulping it down.

  Her brother's hands clawed at her shoulders, trying to pull her away. Releasing the child, she spun toward him, baring her teeth. Blood from her mouth splattered across the hem of his robes.

  "No, Lucretia!" Vlad pleaded. "They are children, Blameless innocents."

  She thrust him away. He stumbled back and fell, his head striking the corner of Sebastian's coffin. The sight of Vlad sprawled there unconscious shocked her and the veil of madness receded a little. This is not what Sebastian would have wanted. What she was doing went against everything he'd believed in. She turned back to the boy.

  He was awake. His blue eyes regarded her from beneath heavy lids. His skin was as pale as the full moon. He was dying.

  The madness receded further. Compassion pushed aside rage. He was a beautiful child. Soft dark hair, much like Sebastian's, curled at his temples and the fine, even features of his boyish face promised he would have grown into a heartbreakingly handsome man. She might have borne Sebastian such a son one day.

  Regret washed over her. She could not undo what she had done. But the child didn't have to die. And perhaps she didn't have to be alone. Lucretia looked over at the boy's sister. She slept still.

  Would this not be justice as well? The English duke had taken her husband and she would take his children. But she would not kill as he had killed. Instead, she would give them a new kind of life, a life of dark honeyed nights under the warm glow of the moon, a life with her.

  Lucretia bent over the boy once more and pressed her mouth to his neck. Gently she began the transformation.

  The stake entered her chest from behind, ripping through her heart. Her mouth slipped from the boy's throat, her task unfinished. She rolled onto her side on the cold stone floor and looked up at blood-splattered robes. She smiled at her brother. Tears were streaming down his cheeks as he knelt beside her and began the death rites in Latin.

  "God forgive me," she whispered, as much for the peace she knew it would give him as for the sake of her own soul. Her brother's chants smoothed her way into final, sweet darkness.

 
Chapter Two

  London, June 1813

  Nicholas Devlin rapped on the carriage roof. The vehicle stopped its forward creep, then bounced as the driver jumped down to open the door hired hackney. The jarvie's eyes widened at the two gold crowns he held up. The coins glittered in the moonlight.

  "The first now. The second if you'll wait in the park down the street for one hour. I don't plan to be long," Nicholas said, handing the man one of the two coins.

  "Glad to, your lordship." The jarvie flipped the coin high and caught it with a grin, tugged at his cap, and then climbed back up to the driver's seat. The hackney pulled away from the line of vehicles that choked the street leading to Mrs. Huntington's residence.

  Nicholas wove his way through the line of carriages containing some of England's wealthiest citizens, pausing briefly here and there to exchange a greeting with those he knew. Mrs. Huntington's ball was not the first of the season, but it was one of the most important to those members of the ton that valued such nonsense. His father had assured him everyone who was anyone would be present.

  Nicholas was counting on it. The duke had sent him out to find a woman tonight and find one he would. Although, unfortunately for his father, the young lady the duke had in mind and the prey Nicholas sought this night would have little in common.

  The Huntington mansion sat well back from the street. Tonight the drive, which had been designed to weave elegantly up to the mansion's impressive columned entrance, was cluttered with vehicles. Private and rented carriages jockeyed for position as they tried to disgorge their occupants. Drivers of hired hackneys, eager to seek out their next fare, exchanged colorful language with their counterparts -- at times friendly, at other times not.

  Nicholas slipped between two carriages and came to an abrupt halt as a walking stick stabbed out from the window of one vehicle, banging into the door of the other and nearly removing a button from his coat. The window shutter of the abused vehicle came open with an angry snap, then closed again more softly as the occupant noted the crest on the opposite carriage.

  Taking a half step back from the walking stick, Nicholas tapped its familiar design with one finger: dark wood, entwined with golden holly leaves and inset with twinkling berry-clusters of blood rubies.

  "Good evening, Father."

  A rustling of skirts and muted giggles came from inside the carriage. The Duke of Marlbourne's handsome blond head appeared in the window.

  "Good evening, Nicholas. Glad to see you here early and ready to do what needs doing."

  From inside the carriage a chorus of female twittering sounded again. The duke clucked his tongue, the noise subsided, and identically lovely feminine faces appeared at the carriage's second window. The Grady twins were middle-aged widows his father had a great affection for. Nicholas bowed to the ladies, sending them inexplicably into twin peals of high-pitched giggles. The duke frowned and the twins disappeared back into the depths of the carriage.

  "You and Miss Blakely have delayed things long enough, my boy. Tomorrow I'll expect happy news. Though I can't say I understand your choice. Little dowry, no great beauty and" --his father leaned further out the carriage window-- "bookish, from what I've heard. Still, long as she's fertile, I suppose..."

  "Dukie dear, you're letting the other carriages get ahead of us and we haven't much time," complained one of the twins. "You promised to dance with us both before you go."

  "Not staying?" Nicholas asked.

  "I have another appointment." The duke winked.

  Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "Two not enough?"

  "Enough for an afternoon, son, but it's evening now." The walking stick retracted into the carriage. A smart tap sounded against the roof. Nicholas stepped clear as the carriage pulled away with feminine fingers fluttering goodbye out the windows on either side like miniature wings.

  The grin that started to form on Nicholas's lips at the sight died suddenly. From the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement off to his right. All around him was a roiling sea of chaotic sound and motion as party-goers moved toward Mrs. Huntington's Ball, but there was something different about this movement. It was strangely familiar. A disturbance of air. A silent stirring. He pulled in a deep breath and his spine stiffened. Something corrupt and wicked, something--

  "If you've a notion to become a lamp post, the job's for the side o' the road, not the middle!"

  Hot breath shot down Nicholas's back. He spun, coming face to nose with a hackney horse. Brown lips curled at him, exposing large yellow teeth. He stepped aside.

  "Quality," the jarvie muttered as the hired hack rolled past. "No sense a'tol."

  Nicholas scanned the crowded street. But whatever he thought he'd glimpsed, whatever presence he'd felt, was gone. He was tempted to investigate further, but tonight he had more pressing business. He left the drive and stepped through tall hedges onto the path that led through Mrs. Huntington's much-celebrated rose garden to the terrace off her ballroom. He'd no time for long receiving lines. He was here to see, not be seen. The back entrance would suit his purposes well enough.

  The rose garden was already awash with couples strolling in the moonlight. He avoided them, making his way to the terrace doors. He paused before he entered, steeling himself as Vlad had taught him against the assault all those heated bodies would have on his senses. It had taken years for him to learn to discipline his mind and his instincts, to move among crowds in this way. Move among them without wanting.

  The musicians were playing a lively country-dance as he entered the room. Dozens of young men and women jogged across the floor in a dazzling array of colorful silks and satins. Nicholas glanced over them once before dismissing them. The one he sought wouldn't be on the dance floor. She would be sitting against a wall, or perhaps at a table in the card room, or maybe tucked in the corner of one of the salons where the dowagers gossiped. And she wouldn't be dressed to attract attention, which was exactly why she would attract his.

  Chapter Three

  Elizabeth looked out over the sea of whirling dancers that filled Mrs. Huntington's ballroom and smiled. Harriet danced past on the arm of a young gentleman, treading on his toes quite intentionally unless Elizabeth missed her guess. What had the boy said to Countess Glenbury's daughter to earn such abuse? Nothing perhaps. Harriet didn't need a reason to be cruel to young gentlemen. The fact he'd asked Elizabeth, her mother's paid companion, to dance first would be reason enough for the fiery-haired debutante.

  Harriet and the unfortunate gentleman were separated by the pattern of the country-dance and Elizabeth swallowed back a laugh at the expression of relief on the man's face.

  It was a good night, despite the pain throbbing in her elbow and knees. The music was beautiful and for once her employer had chosen a seat away from the stifling heat of the interior walls. Though Elizabeth suspected the countess was more interested in watching the comings and goings through the French doors that led out to the garden terrace than she was in the cooling breeze.

  What new bit of gossip was the woman hoping to confirm by choosing to sit where the night air could ruffle their skirts and disturb her daughter's carefully coiffed hair? Elizabeth didn't know and didn't much care. She'd given up interest in the dowager's pursuit of scandalous tidbits weeks ago, almost from the day she'd entered her employ. Whatever the lady's reason for the current seating arrangements, Elizabeth was glad of them.

  She closed her eyes and pulled in a breath. The scent of roses was strong. Mrs. Huntington's rose gardens were famous in London and were, Elizabeth suspected, one of the reasons her balls were such a crush. Viewing the gardens was the perfect excuse for ladies, the perfect lure for gentlemen, who wished to steal away for a few moments alone.

  Tonight, Elizabeth had watched couples of every description slip out those garden doors. Innocent young girls in their first season, dressed in demure white muslin gowns, were whisked outdoors by young bucks dressed in flashy waistcoats and small clothes so tight they left little to the imaginat
ion--and quickly fetched back in again by their hawk-eyed chaperons. Sophisticated matrons in pale Grecian-style silks with low cut bodices were escorted through the French doors by elegantly clad corinthians or sharp-eyed rakes, returning long minutes later with over-bright cheeks and secret smiles.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to imagine what the rose gardens would look like, what it might feel like to be lured out into the night by a handsome gentleman, to be kissed in the moonlight.

  She opened her eyes. Those were things she would never know. She was not a fool. The swelling in her joints was coming more frequently, healing in weeks instead of days. There were mornings now when getting out of bed was an act of will made possible only because she knew the consequences of not doing so.

  She was twenty. The same age her brother William had been when he'd died of bleeding in the brain. Four years older than her brother Robert when he'd slowly choked to death from a hemorrhage in his neck. Her time was short and she knew it. If a bump or a fall didn't take her, the bad blood would do so soon enough.

  "There they go." The glee in the countess's voice told Elizabeth the lady had seen what she'd been waiting for. Elizabeth didn't bother to look. She didn't care to be part of the woman's vulgar delight.

  "Wait until I tell Lady Barton. She'll be so-- Oh! Look who's here!" Something different in the countess's tone made Elizabeth look this time. A shiver ran through her.

  He stood just inside the French doors, surveying the ballroom with a slow, sweeping gaze. Everything about him was warm and smooth with darkness, as if, when he'd stepped into the room, he'd pulled the night in with him. Thick dark hair curled at the collar of his equally dark coat. The set of his jaw, the expression on his strong masculine face, the tall, solid build, the very manner in which he stood, all had the feel of angelic darkness. Elizabeth thought of her own approaching death. Would a creature such as this meet her in that final moment?