RemissionChapter Nine
Lunch was uneasily silent at the Charrier household the next afternoon, Ramadevi noticed as she restrained herself from fidgeting nervously with her flatware. Melisande’s uncle had taken his family out to visit an aging relative . Monsieur Charrier was habitually silent anyway. Madame was stiff and upright and she repeatedly stared at Ramadevi in a cold-fishy way that seemed even colder and fishier than usual. Melisande, at least, seemed content, Ramadevi noted fondly. She had survived the reception with her bodice intact and she had been introduced to several very nice young men. At least her silence was a happy sort of silence.
Melisande is a very beautiful girl, Ramadevi thought to herself. I hope she is married to a worthy man, I hope she is very happy. Her heart clenched painfully that the time between them was now so short. She wanted to hug her friend, bless her and give her a kiss. Ramadevi knew she could not do that. Neither Melisande nor any of the Charriers must know what was happening. She had to remain calm, ordinary.
And Angelus... When she thought that last night was all she would ever have of the vampire...She tried hard not to think about it too much. Angelus’s hands, so gentle on the back of her neck, his hard voice assuring her as his body encased itself in hers. She was surprised that he had chosen gentleness and–perhaps–the slightest bit disappointed. Ramadevi shoved that thought into the back of her mind, not wanting to examine it too closely.
It had been the hardest thing of all, to return to the ballroom at his side and pretend this was just another party they were attending. That she could flirt a little and dance with other men from time to time until Angelus reclaimed her, his hands pressing her smooth skin through the luxurious silk. It was so hard to smile cheerily and accept Angelus’s soft kiss on her cheek at the end of the night, to wave as he left her.
“I’ll send the coach for you before sunset,” he promised in a whisper against her jetty ringlets. “You’ll have a bath waiting.”
She smiled. “But Marie won’t be back for another two days.”
He laughed out loud, heartily, like a schoolboy who’d heard a funny joke. He wound a stray curl in his finger, stretched it, then let it go.
“You won’t need her help,” he promised.
Madame Charrier stared angrily at Ramadevi as the young woman lifted a forkful of omelette to her lips. She had always thought the Eastern girl was a common whore and last night had proved it! She had seen Angelus slip away with her for a time at the party. She had smelled the sex on both of them when they had returned. It was disgusting, an affront to decent women, that the little bitch was seated at her table next to her daughter. She could hardly wait for Ramadevi to leave. She would never invite her to her home again or allow Melisande to speak with her. She did not care if Angelus Des Lourdes was one of her husband’s best clients.
A maid hurriedly entered the dining room. She carried a small silver tray with an envelope on it.
“Yes, Estelle, what is it?” Madame Charrier asked coldly after the maid had curtsied to the table.
“If you please, Madame, an urgent letter for Mademoiselle.” Estelle held the tray before Ramadevi.
To Madame Charrier’s surprised, Ramadevi stiffened a little, her eyes widening. She thanked the maid and opened the note with quivering fingers.
“It’s from Monsieur DesLourdes,” Ramadevi said abruptly. “It seems he has taken ill.”
“Taken ill?” Melisande exclaimed. “But he seemed in excellent health last night!”
Ramadevi blinked. “He has taken very ill since this morning. He is asking that I come to him–that I come home at once.” Ramadevi rose stiffly from her chair.
“Of course,” Madame Charrier answered civilly. “He would be more comfortable if you were with him.”
“Yes!” Ramadevi’s forced smile did not reach her eyes. “I must–I will go at once.” She curtsied. “Thank you for your hospitality, Madame, I’m honoured to have been part of Mademoiselle Charrier’s party. I enjoyed myself very much.”
“Oh Ramey! I hate it that you have to go now.” Melisande’s little mouth turned down.
“But Melly, I would have been leaving in a few hours anyway.” Ramadevi laughed.
Melisande subsided. “I’m sorry Monsieur De Lourdes is ill,” she said contritely.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Monsieur Charrier declared affably. “I’ve never known the man to be sick.”
“Estelle, help Mademoiselle with her luggage,” Madame Charrier instructed her servant. She rose from her chair.
“Please don’t get up,” Ramadevi urged her suddenly.
“There’s no need for such distress, Mademoiselle.” Madame frowned at her nervousness. “I’m sure Monsieur Des Lourdes is fine. I’ll see you to the door.”
Ramadevi realised she was trembling. Now that the moment was at hand she could scarcely realise it. She went through the motions of wishing Melisande well and kissing her good-bye as casually as possible.. A dragon headache clamped merciless jaws on the back of her skull. How to act? What to do? Her heart hammered in her chest as she ran upstairs to fetch her hat and reticule. No, she would not wait for her things, she would send for them later. She must leave at once.
Ramadevi gazed into the mirror atop the small bureau in Melisande’s bedroom. Her heart and stomach quaked in ecstatic fear and excitement. It would finally be over, once she left this house. She would be free of Angelus–not completely free, the years she had spent in his care would leave their indelible mark upon her. But he would never hold power over her again. She clenched her hands tightly, the chain and medallions of her bracelets dug into her soft flesh.
The slave bracelets...
Quickly, Ramadevi worked off her gloves. Her fingers shook as she unfastened the bracelet clasps and she slid the ring off her finger. Now the other hand. For a moment she could only flex her hands and gaze upon their nakedness in amazement. She had never found the courage to take them off after Angelus had killed Antoine and Henri, her childhood playmates, and locked her in her bedroom with their bodies when she defiantly threw the baubles, marks of his possession, his authority over her, out her bedroom window. Except for removing them to be cleaned and re-fitted every few months, she never took them off.
Her breath was coming in exhilarated gasps. Free. The proof of it was her bare hands. She tossed the bracelets on the top of Melisande’s dresser and hurried back downstairs.
Melisande smiled slyly. It was inappropriate to smile at her flustered anxious friend. But there was an intensity to her anxiety, surely beyond mere concern for a guardian. Yes! Melisande thought. She is certainly in love with him and they will have to marry. Everyone knows they were alone together in the greenhouse last night. Melisande blushed; she was not entirely certain what couples did when they were alone in a conservatory but it was enough to make people talk. She was too good-natured to hold Ramadevi’s earlier denials against her. A pang of envious regret struck her heart; it was her own childhood wish to have Angelus for herself, but Melisande had always known that wouldn’t happen. It was good he chose her dear friend and made her sad dark eyes sparkle like precious stars.
Melisande hummed happily under her breath and fell into a pleasant daydream of Ramadevi’s bridal party.
Ramadevi rubbed her gloved hands together in nervous wonder. The hall seemed triple its normal length as she quickly crossed it, heading towards the front door. Madame Charrier, a slight scowl on her unfriendly features, waited for her impatiently.
“You’re looking pale, Ramey,” the older woman told her. “Monsieur Des Lourdes was perfectly well the other night. I doubt he’s badly ill. Perhaps he’s merely lonely for your company.” She smiled mirthlessly.
Ramadevi nodded, her eyes cast down modestly. Obviously, word had got round that Angelus and she had been alone together and Madame Charrier assumed what many of their acquaintance already had, that they were lovers. And you are. Ramadevi felt a brief surprise at her own inner voice telling her this. You think because you didn’t let him enter your womanhood that the other things you did, the other things you felt, were just empty gestures? You enjoyed him and he found delight in you. You are lovers.
She knew suddenly, terribly, that she didn’t really want to leave Angelus. She wanted to rush home to him and take off her clothes and open her heart to him, give him her whole self. And she knew, as surely as she loved him, he would only crush her. He would never love her back. She had to be free of him.
“How odd that Monsieur sent a taxicab for you.”
Ramadevi’s teeth sank into the soft fleshy interior of her left cheek. She was certain the woman saw right through her.
“Angelus must have given Marcel the day off,” she said softly. “He would have been up very late last night.”
Madame still frowned disapprovingly but nodded, accepting the weak explanation.
They made a brief show of cordiality, exchanging light kisses on each other’s cheeks. Madame urged her to bring Estelle with her for company and propriety’s sake and nodded dismissively when Ramadevi gently refused.
I made it! I’m out of the house! Triumph whipped her anxious stomach and Ramadevi clung harder to the driver’s hand as he guided into the compact smelly taxi. She felt a disbelieving shock that she had managed thus far. Her life had been so monopolised by her guardian it seemed impossible she could hope to get away so easily.
Ramadevi glanced about suspiciously, fully expecting an enraged Angelus to drag her bodily out of the cab. But it was mid-day, lunch time, impossible for him to be out and about. The vampire was confined to his luxurious home. He was powerless to stop her even if he knew what she was doing. The sunlight smiled warmly down upon her like a trustworthy friend.
So many feelings wound themselves in her conscious, shooting adrenaline throughout her body. She was free of Angelus! He would not control her life anymore! She would never see him again. Euphoria, a wildflower arrangement of joy, relief, a prisoner’s triumph, and a lover’s heartache coursed through her blood and pounded her pulses.
“Are you all right, Ma’amselle?” The driver asked, waiting patiently for her to direct him. Ramadevi almost giggled aloud. She had never directed a driver herself in her life. Quietly, calmly, she told him her destination.
She hadn’t considered how hard it would be to do this. Fleeing the demon, the cruel abusive and murderous creature, was easy enough. She had wanted that from the beginning. But she was also giving up the man she had grown to love. She stifled a gasp of heart wrenching pain as the driver started the horses. Sadness, more profound than the fear and the joy she’d felt only moments before, washed over her soul. Ramadevi settled quietly back onto the cheap cracked leather seat as hot tears slipped away from the corners of her eyes. She clenched her teeth on a sob.
I will learn to forget everything. I will forget how he looked at me when he drew my picture. I will forget him. I will forget how it feels to feed him my blood. I will forget how wonderful it is when he touches me. I will forget how much I like him to laugh. I will forget how much he needs me...
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Approximately six o’clock in the evening...
Angelus cursed his own eagerness as he idled throughout his house and inspected various rooms. Ramadevi’s gold-and-white parlor was immaculate and a large glass bowl of white roses adorned the tea table. He had ordered his bed linens washed and rinsed in rosewater and the fragrance teased him, tantalised him with the knowledge of his woman’s scent without her essential warmth: skin, blood, hair.He had sent Marcel to fetch her home about twenty minutes ago. It would not do, he thought, to go himself. It would make him appear too eager to see her and hold her in his arms again. Besides, he added to himself practically, if he called himself, he would be expected to visit with the Charriers for at least half and hour and he wanted to be alone with Ramadevi.
After their love-play in the garden the night before, Angelus felt less certain than ever of where he really belonged with his ward. She inspired tenderness in him. Even when he chose to hurt her for pleasure he did it tenderly, loving to watch her head drop back and hear her high-pitched moans.
He needed her to love him openly. Just as much as he needed her precious blood. Just as much as he desired to possess her body completely.
”Do you love her? It’s not a sin, Angelus...”
Angelus shrugged away the faintly wistful longings in his mind. He was one of the most brutal creatures of his kind, cunning, intelligent, swift and powerful. He had climbed out of his grave and killed the only person who had ever really loved him and shown him kindness while he was alive. He was never meant to love a beautiful innocent young girl–or enjoy her love in turn. He was a monster, and whatever he chose to do with Ramadevi was his right.
The maid politely interrupted his stupid musings to tell him the bath had been filled and the fire built up in his bedroom. Angelus nodded her away. He strolled out of Ramadevi’s parlor and walked along the short gallery where their portrait hung. She was so lovely, almost life-size in the huge portrait. Gerard had imbued the canvas with her sweet lively spirit and he had somehow revealed a glimmer of Angelus’s spiritual truth as well. The vampire smiled without humor as he recalled Melisande’s shocked exclamation that portrait made him look cruel. That simple soul was too good to see wickedness when it stood right before her. Angelus had drained the life out of dozens like her.
Tonight, he would bathe Ramadevi himself, just as he’d promised her he would. Angelus closed his eyes and savoured the anticipation of touching her again. She had said she wanted to make love with him. She had said when she came home they would start over.
Could it really be possible? Could she really mean it? Angelus didn’t dare investigate the raw hope her words produced within him. He had done so much to injure her in the beginning, to try and break her and force her obedience.
I’ll take her away from here, he decided. I’ll take her to Brynn Kaighean. It will do her good, the change, the fresh air. And I haven’t seen Ireland in some years now. Perhaps, if we’re away from this house, the past will grow more distant.
His mouth watered at the thought of home, of the fresh red apples in the orchards, and the chuckling flow of the Tintagel brook. How strange that he would feel a pang of appetite for something that did not bleed. Yes, I should take her home.
Angelus heard the front door open and he forced himself to move slowly, not to betray his eagerness. He did not want to frighten her with frenzied speed. She had already said she wanted to be his lover. They had time.
“You took your time with your good-byes, darling.” The endearment slipped off his tongue, as naturally as his taste for human blood. He turned towards the grand foyer of his house and frowned at Marcel and Alain. Another servant whose name he didn’t remember was carrying Ramadevi’s little trunk down the hall towards their bedroom.
Angelus arched an inquiring brow towards his manservant. He could not see Ramadevi. He could not smell her. Fine tension throbbed within him.
Alain nodded briefly at Marcel. The young driver blanched in the shadowy gloom of the entry and cleared his throat nervously to explain.
Ma’amselle was not at the Charrier home when he, Marcel, had arrived to collect her. Madame herself had seen Ma’amselle off this afternoon in a taxi. The driver had a note from Angelus instructing her to return home at once. Ma’amselle had left her things to be sent after her.
Marcel drew a small bundle out of his coat and held it out to Angelus. Ma’amselle had left these on the dresser. Madame knew she must have been terribly worried for Angelus’s well-being to forget the jewelry she wore daily.
Angelus reached out stiffly to accept the bracelets wrapped in a silken scarf. The gold was cool to the touch, the metal devoid of Ramadevi’s vital warmth and the large rubies winked tauntingly over his fingers. Just last night his large hands had covered these jewels on her hands as they plunged and reared together like mating horses. Ramadevi had tossed her head back, her loose hair caressing him, a warm and silky touch. She had lifted her bottom against his groin, clenching and squeezing him deep inside her rear canal, whimpering, moaning, yielding completely to pleasure as they bucked and exploded together.
Abruptly, Angelus turned away from his servants and strode away to his bedroom. Alain blandly ordered Marcel to leave the house and finish unhitching the horses. The nervous young coachman left immediately. Alain cast a cold disdainful smiled upon the remarkable portrait of Angelus and Ramadevi, then returned quietly to the butler’s pantry.
Angelus glared around his bedroom. How stupidly he’d prepared things for her return. Perfumed sheets, warmed bathwater, fresh flowers and wine. It looked, for all the world, like preparations for a bride’s bedding. What the hell had he been thinking?
He had thought her ardent responses to him had been real. Not the sexuality; Angelus had experienced more women then he could count. Pleasing a woman, with or without her consent was second nature to him. No, he’d believed in the truly surprised pleasure in her eyes and voice when he’d attended Melisande’s soiree. He’d believed the sensuous beauty she’d revealed that night had been for him: blood-red silk clinging to her curves, her hair flowing loose and long down her back defying the protocol of upswept hairstyles for eveningwear. Angelus had thought it was all for him. Was it for another lover? Had she meant to encourage someone else?
An intense prickling pain throbbed in Angelus’s throat. A myriad of past impressions danced through his mind. Ramadevi, the beautiful woman-child dancing gracefully on his nightclub stage, her sinuous body rippling and undulating, the smooth skin veiled in a fine sheen of sweat. Her large dark eyes shaped like lotus blossom petals, curious towards him, sensing he was not truly human when they first met, obviously repulsed by his open interest. Her screams, still childishly high-pitched, frightened and angry, when he forced her to the floor and tasted her sweetness, pure Red Gold. Defiance, desire flashing in her eyes, passion mixed with shamed resistence.
His beautiful little girl...
No, she hadn’t been a little girl, not really, merely that precious age where childhood ripened into womanhood. He had loved having a daughter of sorts, paying dressmakers and tutors and governesses. Taking care of her, watching her grow had brought him joy, he realised stupidly.
If he was a true human, Angelus knew, he would have wed her and fathered beautiful children on her. Sturdy strapping Irish boys with raven curls and creamy-skinned daughters with huge dark eyes.
Who took care of Ramadevi tonight? Angelus wondered where she was. Had she fled to a convent? A hotel? Had someone offered her shelter from him in a private residence? Who? Who would have done it? Who would have dared?
How could she go away when he needed–
His lungs pushed a bizarre sound out of his gut, a snarl of rage blended with an all-too-human sob. Angelus’s demonic face surged forth through his human beauty and a warm streak of thick fluid trailed along his cheek. Angelus touched the side of his face and stared down at the bloody teardrop on his taloned fingers. The vampire bit his lip so hard another trickled of blood flowed onto his firm chin. His eyes stung and his broad chest shuddered.
He made his way over to the inviting bath and dipped his hands into the scented water. Soft curls of steam danced over his shirt cuffs as he splashed his face to wash away the gory trace of his grief. What a fool he’d been to think the strength of their bond would induce her to remain with him. And now Ramadevi was alone on the streets somewhere. Or was she resting comfortably at someone’s fireside, relieved to be free of him at last? The thought made his guts clench and his eyes smarted furiously.
And his tender little innocent knew nothing of Red Gold. Ramadevi had no idea that any vampire who smelled her would want her as madly as he did. Not at first, of course. The soft scars on her neck and the trace of his scent on her would ward them away. But she was unsealed, not truly claimed by him or even consummated. Ramadevi was open game.
Angelus painfully forced his game face back and wiped his wet hands on Ramadevi’s velvet bath towel. He crossed the room so quickly he was invisible to the human eye and he yanked the bell pull to summon Alain for assistance. He had no time to spare for the burning pained rage inside him.
He had to find Ramadevi before other vampires did. Before she wasn’t his anymore.
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By the end of her second day on the road, Ramadevi thought she might be close to feeling truly safe and free. But she was also confused. She had been so focused on leaving Angelus and fleeing Paris she had not given consideration to where she would go and what she would do once she had managed to do it.
It was a nasty shock to realise she had left the only real home she had anymore. She could not return to India–at least, she reasoned, not right away. Surely Angelus would attempt to seek her there. Where else could she go? Her father was dead and she knew perfectly well her half-brother, Vickram, would not welcome her back to his court. He had always resented her when they were children and she was of no use to him as a pawn for marriage, for it was well-known she’d gone missing during the political coup where Singh, her father, had been assassinated and the British consulate had claimed his kingdom with Vickram as a puppet ruler. If she returned home, no man would want her, not when she’d been missing for so many years and her honour was suspect.
And truly, Ramadevi did not wish to return. This surprised her more than anything else but there it was. She had become European in her years there. Angelus had forced it to happen at first with his chronic lessons in languages and manners. She had grown to maturity in this culture, the thought of returning home to live out her life in the women’s quarters of her brother’s palace, disgraced, pitied, virtually ignored, did not appeal to her.
Nor did she consider returning to her mother’s sanctuary at Maat-Kheiphiros in Egypt. It would serve her no good anyway. They had long ago sung her funeral dirges and regarded her as one dead. She shivered as she recalled the prophecy of Tiyet, the old witch at Maat-Kheiphiros: If you wait to call the floods in Egypt, you will never go home! Ramadevi had thought the witch meant she would die.
But she could not stay here! Surely Angelus was searching for her! Ramadevi had no doubt his vengeance against her would be terrible. She could not think of Angelus without recalling the longing in him when they were last together the night of Melisande’s party. It seemed so long ago when it had only been three nights! Angelus had every right to be offended and, legally, he could do whatever he pleased with her. Ramadevi wondered if he would actually torture her. Her father had generally been a benevolent master, but he had not hesitated to order punishment for his women if they offended him–careful punishments that did not mar the beauty of their bodies and faces, but painful nonetheless.
Ramadevi did not doubt Angelus was capable of far greater cruelty than her father had been. The thought of being caught was enough to spur her on when she felt weary and wanted to rest during the day.
She’d had the sense to purchase some clothing suitable for the road. The man’s suit was comfortable and allowed for her to ride horseback astride. She kept her hair tightly clubbed back into a braided queue tucked under her long duster. She kept her chest tightly bound with wide bands of linen to draw less attention to her figure, but Ramadevi realised ruefully her days of easily passing for a boy were over. Her body was ripened and rounded, deliciously feminine.
Ramadevi did her best to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She was lucky to have kept her head about money. Angelus had so rarely given her actual money to spend, preferring that she use his credit instead. She had kept whatever spending money he gave her. She had sold smaller bits of jewelry he had given her that wouldn’t be missed. She had a tidy little sum in her purse but she used it frugally, not wishing to attract thieves.
The village she had stopped in last night had served her a good hot supper and she had eaten ravenously, using her bread to soak up the last bit of hearty meat stew from the bottom of the bowl. That was hours ago and she felt so hungry now.
But fear of Angelus was more awful than hunger pinching her stomach and the tight bands of linen flattening her chest; or even the fear of being attacked and robbed.
She had wept last night in her thin itchy bed and dreamed of him. She dreamed of pleasure and pain. She missed him so much! Her body missed him, throbbed and ached in secret places for his fingers and his tongue. She could not forget the last night, his deep voice soft against her ear, gently encouraging, tender. The feel of his hard shaft in her rear channel had been exquisite, the thickness, the pressure inside of her. She had been frightened of him, his size and his cruelty, but he had been slow and made certain she was well prepared for him. He had been gentle, loverlike, magnificent. His careful treatment of her had only made her long more to be truly joined to him.
If I cannot stop thinking of him this way, I’m doomed! she thought to herself. I am still a Deva and I will not be the concubine of a demon!
Even her blood missed him. She longed for the prick of his sharp fangs and the sweet pull of his mouth on her torn flesh. Instinctively, she knew, there was something magical and abnormal at work between them. It was the only reasonable explanation for all of it: his pleasure in her blood, her pleasure in giving it. Ramadevi was uncertain if Angelus himself understood it all.
Even if he did it’s unlikely he’d share the information with me.
None of it mattered! Ramadevi shook her head frustratedly, as though she could loosen and discard all her secret desires and needs. She had a duty to her old tribe and a duty to all the Devi whose generations had bred her into this world. She would find a new home, a sanctuary, a beautiful place where she could call the rains and bless the earth with fertility. She would find a consort, a human consort, and make children with him, another Deva perhaps.
Ramadevi gasped back a cry. I can’t bear it! I want him! I want him to touch me! The thought of yielding her body to another besides Angelus distressed her terribly. The Devi do not couple with the dead. Her mount sensed her pain and sidled nervously in the dirt road, his hooves crumbling the dry dusty ground.
The scratchy sound of crumbly dust drew Ramadevi’s attention to the road. So dry. She glanced around her curiously. The trees and foliage was pale green and droopy. Drought had afflicted the region. There wasn’t even much chattering from birds and squirrels in the trees as the animals rested as much as they could to conserve their energy.
It was hard to believe that the gorgeous French countryside would ever lack water, Ramadevi thought as she led her gelding to the side of the road and generously tethered him. Even this poor, droopy greenery would have looked like paradise to the desert tribes.
Her saddle muscles stretched gratefully as she bent over to pull off her riding boots. One of the greatest disabilities with European clothing was the way it restricted a body’s movement, she thought, draping her duster coat over the saddle. She stripped off her cutaway and waistcoat and placed them under the duster.
She felt more than a small twinge of fear. Why am I afraid to do what I have always done? But the doubt remained. Had she been Angelus’s captive too long? Had she really become what he wanted, a European Miss with no power to change her own fate, much less the fate of thirsty earth? She actually glanced about nervously, worried that she might be seen as she untucked her broadcloth shirt and let it hang freely over her trousers. Dear Gods! I’m afraid of my body being seen! The realisation filled her with shame. The moral prudery of the era had claimed her, made her anxious to be seen “undressed” in a shirt and trousers!
Suddenly, unbidden, Angelus’s whisper reminded her: “Your body is so beautiful, sweetheart.” Instead of frightening her, she felt her breathing calm as she stood in the straw-like grass, lifting her arms over her head. She closed her eyes and began to focus on the music inside her body. She pictured clear clean white light above her, around her, around this place.
She moved, tentatively, her wrists circling and her fingers lightly grasping as though gathering handfuls of silk and letting go. She stepped in place with one foot, toes down, then stepped forward, then stepped in place again, a dainty little step. Ramadevi rolled her head to one side and her left hip rolled into a semicircle. It felt odd to do this in silence, without music or percussion to influence the beat.
It felt odd to do this anywhere but privately in her bedroom.
Resentment flooded her soul and spilled over into her spirit. I will NOT be afraid to be what I’ve always been!
She touched her toes into the earth, a loving sweep of her foot promising the ground it would drink its fill soon. She arched her ribcage and lifted her chest into sensuous undulations that followed her entire body: chest, belly, back, hips.
Her movements were liquid, her body flowed like the thought of water.
Water. The movement became a thought.
Water! The thought became.
Moist breeze swept over the land, and Ramadevi felt tears in her eyes as it caressed her smooth cheek. The drying leaves rustled and whispered with anticipation of the soft humidity.
Abruptly, rain began streaming down from the cloudless sunny sky. It pattered on the ground and bathed the foliage, slowly easing it into needed moisture. The sound of the rain was almost like a sigh released after holding its breath too long.
Ramadevi felt her lungs push a harsh sound out of her lips, part laughter, part sobbing.
Do you see me, Angelus? Do you see what I am? I will NEVER be anything different! You CANNOT change me! I am STILL Deva!
She turned her face upward and smiled in triumph as the clean fresh rainwater sprinkled on her lips. And all around her, in its own way, the earth applauded.
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Ligeia stretched languidly as she rose from the cuddly bed she shared with her husband and donned a lavender cambric morning gown. Daylight smiled enticingly at her, filtered through the brocade curtains over the huge bay windows of their bedroom and Ligeia cast it a longing look. Charles always slept late whether they were in town or country. He would not be up for some time yet.Her body was sore–deliciously so–from lovemaking. Even the soft cambric of her gown irritated her tender nipples and she would need a bath this morning. She giggled softly like a mere girl as memories of the previous night danced in her mind.
Beauchamps had always been her favorite residence. It was a small estate, really little more than a glorified farmhouse with some extra land attached. But it was their home, their sanctuary, where they went to be alone and shut out the rest of the world. It was where they had fallen in love so many decades ago.
It was strange for Ligeia to recall that once she had not loved Charles.
Once, she had been the oldest child of a Greek peasant who had sold her off for a handsome sum of money to the tall blonde Scotsman. She had dreamed of him before, had always known he would seek her one day. Her father had been more than willing to part with her because the rumours of her abilities to see the future and sense thoughts were spreading through their small village and mutterings of witchcraft had begun.
”At least he can afford to feed you, Geia.” There had been a continuing famine in the region for three years and food had become so dear! Ligeia wondered that the Scot even wanted her with her undersized, undernourished figure and her pale hollow cheeks.
”I don’t care! I don’t want to go with him, he frightens me! PLEASE let me stay!”
She’d been docile when Charles came to her bed. She saw no point in fighting what he would only force on her if she did not submit. Her tall brawny lover–Dear God! He looked like a Viking god naked!–had easily taught her that desire could be awakened even in a reluctant virgin.
Oddly enough, his demonic face and his need for her blood had never frightened her. She had seen both his faces in dreams before and sensed Charles de Moncrieff wanted more from her than her warm nubile body in bed.
It was at Beauchamps, the small estate awarded to him by Mary Stuart while she was Queen of France, that Ligeia learned to love him. He had sealed them together there and, somehow, Ligeia felt as though the land itself had become part of the bond. She never felt more like she belonged to him than when he claimed her at Beauchamps.
It had been nearly forty years since their last visit. Ligeia was looking forward to a long happy stretch of pleasant years with her heart’s mate. Fresh fruit, fresh milk, wonderful vintages from their own small vineyard, midnight rides across the smooth pretty countryside, and long nights of uninterrupted loving. Their passionate connection had grown in intensity as the years went by instead of cooling down. These simple pleasures were what she most looked forward to about their lives together.
She had grown into the role of a nobleman’s wife and learned to order servants and patronise artists and orchestrate entertainments for their friends. She could gamble and shop as though money grew on trees, but she was still a peasant girl at heart.
It was slightly nippy and Ligeia wrapped a dark blue wool shawl over her shoulders, fastening it with a huge amethyst brooch in a pewter filigree setting.
Stepping out of their bedroom, Ligeia smiled as she stepped on a squeaky floorboard. We still haven’t fixed that! We have to get it taken care of! It’s been squeaky for over a century. She yawned. We’ll get to it one of these days.
She smiled pleasantly as Madame Clermont, their housekeeper, met her on the landing of the grand staircase. Goodness! She’s nearly fifty years old! When I last saw her she was a little girl! Part of Ligeia never forgot being mortal and it was still incredible to her that humans aged so quickly while she never aged at all.
“Yes, Jeanne?”
“There’s a man come with a message for Monsieur le Compte.” Jeanne Claremont rumpled her white cap nervously until it rested askew on her head. “He says he’s not to leave without delivering it personally.”
Instantly a wave of caution crashed into Ligeia’s midriff. Though they did their very best to avoid attention, there was always the frightening possibility that some psuedo-intellectual supernatural society detected their longevity and got it into its head that Charles and she were evil killers requiring extermination.
And Charles hasn’t touched a human host in over seventy-five years! Ligeia fumed inwardly at the thought. She could not remember when Charles had last fed on anyone besides herself. The only killings he had committed were the same sort that any gentleman would have: cutpurses, revolutionaries attacking their coach on the way to Orleans, an intruder in their rooms at Pamplona. And one other man, the Viscount Reddingfeld, who Charles had shot dead in a duel after the foolish fop had placed his hands on Ligeia and made an indecent comment. Those were kills, not feedings.
But her prolonged life span had taught Ligeia the world was never short on fools and misunderstandings. She nodded calmly at Jeanne, not wanting to frighten her, and continued down the stairs. She headed towards the small parlor closest to the entry way. The messenger was a young man, perhaps twenty years old, and his cheeks were sunburned. There was a hungry, threadbare look to him, Ligeia noticed with reluctant compassion. His shabby ill-fitting trousers were too short and made his tall frame lanky. His knotted fingers clutched his simple black cap nervously as she met his eyes.
“I am Madame de Moncrieff.” Ligeia smiled kindly at him. “I will take your message to my husband.” She gaged her voice carefully, allowing warm compulsion to seep into her tone.
The heavy-eyed man shook his head vigorously and muttered respectfully that he could only five the message to Charles.
Ligeia’s expression did not change, but she watched him more closely. He was obviously exhausted and yet remarkably resistant to psychic suggestion.
“My Charles and I share everything.” She pitched her voice an octave lower and slowly held out her right hand. “I will give him the message.”
The man blinked several times and started to shake his head again even as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the small letter sealed in black wax. Ligeia could barely make out the impression in the dark wax: a fantastic dragon image she recognised as Angelus’s.
Ligeia barely restrained a sigh of relief. If he had been an assassin she would have been at a decided disadvantage.
Their fingers brushed lightly as he surrendered the small rectangle of folded thick paper to her and, before she could stop it, Ligeia had a glimpse into his mind. He was so tired, bone-weary. He had ridden hard all day yesterday and most of the night, stopping three different times to change horses and eat a hasty meal. Angelus had promised him four times his normal payment to get this letter to Beauchamps as quickly as possible and he was desperate for the money.
Ligeia had a quick glimpse of a young wife and a pale hollow-eyed son coughing uncontrollably until bloody mist flecked his lips. She slammed her mind shut against these images, not wanting to violate the man’s privacy. The strength of his fear for his son was a tangible thing now that she’d seen it.
“What’s your name?” she asked casually.
“Robert, madame.” The man shifted tiredly. “Will you reply, ma’am?” he asked automatically. He was almost asleep standing up, he never even noticed that she hadn’t yet unsealed the letter.
“Robert.” She said the word softly, allowing the entire sound of his name to resonate in her mouth. She filled her accent with gentle tones and watched him slowly relax. His red-rimmed pale grey eyes drooped lower. “Go to the kitchen.” The command sounded like an entreaty. “Madame Clermont will give you a good breakfast and put you up in a room so you can rest.” She paused, allowing her orders time to set into his conscious.
He shook his head wearily. “I cannot–I must get back–“
Ligeia lifted one smooth beautiful hand in a languid gesture. “You must rest,” she insisted softly. Her voice was only a notch above a whisper. “I will send a new messenger home and you will still be paid.” She added all the persuasion she could to her tone. “You must rest well, so you can be fit to go home to your family.”
Slowly, Robert nodded. “Yes, madame. Merci bien.”
“When you go home,” Ligeia continued in the same softly reasonable voice. “You will collect your wife and child and bring them here to Beauchamps. You will live here with us.”
Again, the man rallied and resisted. Ligeia’s eyes widened at his control and defenses against her suggestions.
“I mustn’t, Madame. It’s beautiful here but the best physicians are in Paris.” His voice began to quaver. “My boy–”
“Your boy will be comfortable and happy here,” she persisted, staring intently into his tired gaze. “The fresh air will be good for him.” More importantly, if the boy was brought to her Ligeia would coax his lungs to stop constricting and convince his nerves and muscles to combat the consumption in his lungs and ultimately expel it. But she could not make it happen from this distance and Charles would not allow her to traipse after every sick child she found. “My husband will find you employment,” she soothed away his natural concern of being able to provide for his little family.
“Yes, madame.” His mouth sounded dry.
Ligeia nodded and smiled reassuringly as she called Jeanne to accompany the near-sleepwalking courier to the kitchen. A remarkable man, she thought, she’d known some humans to be more resistant to her suggestions than others but this man was more resistant than most when he was half-dead with hunger and fatigue. He probably had a touch of the talent himself. He might prove a valuable addition to their staff.
Ligeia broke away the seal on Angelus’s message. It was a very brief note, only a smattering of sentences explaining the sudden crisis, but it was enough to make Ligeia’s blood boil in her veins and she uttered a foul expletive before she could stop herself.
Angelus is a stupid ass!
She had never really liked him and always sensed how dangerously unstable he was. To this day she could not understand Charles’s friendship with him. Even when she had seen Charles’s darker, more demonic aspects they could not compare to Angelus’s chaotic nature. Since the overconfident fool had not sealed Ramadevi, he would be unable to track and find her without psychic assistance which he wanted Ligeia to provide.
And that poor girl must be brought back to him. He is already violent and unpredictable. Without her blood to help temper him he’ll become a monster!
Ligeia swore again, softly, and headed back toward the grand staircase. Charles would not be pleased to know their holiday was interrupted. He would rage and storm if a servant told him, it was better for Ligeia to explain it to him herself.
****
Approximately one week later...Launaye fascinated Ramadevi. She had entered the small coastal village two nights ago while a gypsy carnival was passing through. The musicians and dancers charmed her with subtle reminders of her happy childhood. Tambourines, flutes, guitars and violins serenaded the dusky twilight and the brilliantly coloured skirts and sashes of the dancers brightened the approaching evening. Clapping hands and flashing dark eyes. Ankles bound with dancing bells and long flowing hair similar to hers. The music gave her a lift she hadn’t known she needed and she dawdled to enjoy it while she tried to decide where to go next.
She was closest to Spain but she wasn’t sure it was far away enough from Angelus for her to feel truly safe and free of him. England was also too close. In fact, it seemed very probable Angelus knew England better than France. Scotland appealed to her because of all the interesting stories Charles had told her about his homeland. It was so obscure, perhaps she could find a place to hide there.
Is this my destiny? To live out my life hiding from Angelus? Rama wondered as she watched other guests in the tavern at the inn. The general atmosphere was jovial, the local townsfolk and some peasants mixing easily with travelers passing through.
“You’re too serious, Prince Rama, when there’s such fresh beaujolais on the table.” The tall sandy-haired man seated across from her at the table looked at her pensively.
Rama gazed into her worn pewter goblet for a moment. It was just as full of the dry sweet wine as when it had first been poured while Jacob Baldwyn was on his third serving. The American intrigued her with his liberal ideas and frank way of speaking. His language was fluid and romantic when he was in a good mood and coarsely cynical when he was not.
She had met the aspiring poet shortly after she first arrived in Launaye. She had been admiring a display of beaded jewelry at the caravan and Jacob had been admiring the voluptuous woman selling it. His frankness had shocked her at first, for he was dressed like a gentleman. Eventually, she had realised he talked frankly with her because he thought she was a boy. He used none of the gallantries and courtesies custom required for ladies.
His poetry was surprisingly good, considering he spent every waking moment indulging his taste for good wine and loose women. Ramadevi squelched her laughter as she thought perhaps all this debauchery makes him a better writer!
“Drink up, Rama!” he urged. Jacob glanced at his young companion speculatively. With his smooth face and lush mouth, Rama was pretty enough to pass for a girl himself. He had been listening with rapt attention to Jacob tell him stories about his home in the United States.
“It sounds like such a wonderful place,” Rama told him in richly accented English. “I don’t know why you would want to leave.”
Jacob grinned, malice dancing in his deep-set green eyes. “My father packed me off for a Tour,” he said glibly. He considered mentioning his father’s scandalised indignation when he discovered Jacob sporting in bed with his mistress and decided against it. Rama was something of a nancy-boy and seemed easily shocked. “I think he thought Europe would polish up my rough edges.”
Rama sipped her beaujolais. She wondered if she had enough money for passage to America. An entire ocean separated it from Europe. It was a huge, vast continent. Could that be the place for her? What would she do when she got there? She was running out of money quickly.
Her only talents were the ones Angelus dictated she be taught. Piano, singing, English, mathematics, wifely arts. Perhaps I could teach at a school, or maybe I could become a governess.
She was determined she would not dance for a living again. It was plain the western world looked upon the sacred custom as a form of debauchery, the sort of thing fine gentlemen enjoyed in private and denounced in public. It galled Ramadevi that her sacred position had no footing among the Europeans, but she would have to learn to live with that. If she chose to dance at a tavern or another nightclub, her status was more or less equal to prostitution. A governess was a respectable lady’s profession.
“Come out with me tonight, Prince Rama,” Jacob entreated as he rose from the table and plunked his top on his sandy brown hair. “Rhawna has several lovely cousins.”
Ramadevi shook her head. Jacob had nothing further on his mind than making love to one of the pretty gypsy dancers who performed earlier at the carnival.
“I want to sleep,” she told him. “I move on tomorrow.”
Jacob’s mouth turned down in disappointment. The Indian boy intrigued him and Jacob wished he knew him better. Everything about him was a paradox. He was so damn cautious and secretive! His manner was much too educated and refined for him to be of common blood, yet he was not particularly well-dressed and traveled all alone. There’s a story behind him for certain.
“Why don’t I bring her to your room?” Jacob offered affably. “We might have her together.”
Ramadevi’s heartbeat jumped and she sipped her drink slowly. For a moment she considered Jacob’s offer. He had not offended her; indeed she was very flattered. In her own culture it was not uncommon for a man to share his wife or mistress with a close friend. Her own father had often sent his lesser palace women to serve esteemed guests and visitors.
She smiled inwardly and wondered what her plain-spoken American friend would say if she agreed to share his gypsy beauty with him. What would he think when her trousers slid past her softly curved hips and her discarded bindings revealed her true gender to him? Would he be angry and disgusted with her or would he be even more excited?
”A more virile man often enjoys making love with two women if they are amiable and agreeable. The two women lie on the same bed and the man makes use of them both. While he is mounting one, the other, excited, kisses him, and, after pleasuring one, he brings the other to orgasm. If the women are his, and are fond of each other, the man can devise love-play with both of them.”
Jacob was tall and ruggedly attractive. His skin was ivory kissed by the sun and his hair was fair and light. He was as far removed from Angelus as a person could be. He was warm and vital, alive...
Ramadevi imagined herself enjoying the satiny softness of a woman’s body as well as a man’s muscular hardness. She imagined fondling the silky skin of another’s woman’s breasts, kissing her lips, fingering and exploring the private folds of moist flesh between her legs. Jacob was not a cruel man, he surely would not hurt her. Temptation bloomed in her body, but it was born of curiosity, not desire.
Jacob cleared his throat. “Is it a difficult choice?” he prompted his friend.
“With great regret, I must refuse.” Ramadevi blushed with shame as she thought longingly of her guardian’s (captor’s) dark embrace, the feel of his lukewarm mouth brushing her forehead, his fangs in her throat. (No other man in this world can give me that pleasure. I MUST learn to forget!)
Jacob shrugged casually. “Suit yourself. Bon soir.” The kid’s either a virgin or a eunuch, he decided as he headed towards the front of the tavern. Too bad he’s leaving the country. I’d have him baptized in the Parisian brothels. He’d lose that missish-ness soon enough.
“Sorry,” he said when he bumped into a broad-shouldered pale man in the doorway. The grim-faced fellow jostled him to the side and Jacob could have sworn he actually snarled at him, like some sort of animal. Jacob shook his head and scolded himself. Too much beaujolais.
Then he stepped out into the crisp autumn evening and didn’t think about Rama or the man again. His mind was flooded with images of Rhawna astride his lap, her magnificent breasts bouncing as she rode him slowly, the delicate gold rings in her nipples gleaming in the moonlight, the dancing bells on her anklets jingling softly in rhythm with her movements. Ah! Lovely whore!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ramadevi gazed moodily into her half-filled goblet. The wine reflected her own sorrowful dark eyes and reminded her of how lonely she was. All around her people chatted and dined and drank. The fire crackled cheerfully in the massive stone fireplace amd candlelight illuminated many happy faces. People were enjoying themselves, enjoying the small carnival.
She’d first understood how lonely it was to be a Deva when she visited Maat-Kheiphiros and blessed the harvests. She’d been respected and adored, but from a distance as befitted her station. Her father had given her loving attention throughout her life but even he had distanced himself when she was of age to visit Maat-Kheiphiros. In his own way, Singh had known that part of her really didn’t belong to him.
And it’s a sickening irony, Ramadevi thought bitterly as she rose from her chair and headed towards the simple wooden stairway in the back of the inn. The only person who never gave a damn about the Devi is Angelus. And he’s the one I can never have.
She turned tiredly to mount the steps to her room, her heart heavy with guilty sorrow. How can I miss or want Angelus? He’s done such horrible things to me! I should hate him with all my heart! I should kill him, I have the power. If I spare his life he’ll only hurt and kill more people! A Deva has a duty to defend people from the Rakshasa. But I cannot take his life. Even when he was so cruel, he was the only man bold enough to make me feel like a woman, like the Deva didn’t matter.
She glanced back into the tavern at the quietly chatting townspeople and travelers. A man had just stepped into the room and her breath caught in her throat because he looked so much like Angelus. Tall with massive shoulders in his heavy carrick coat and a prominent brow beneath his top hat, he gripped a riding crop in one gloved fist as he seemed to be looking for someone.
And then, his face turned towards her and her lips parted in shock because the man’s burning obsidian gaze met her head-on and Ramadevi knew she’d been found out.
Angelus!
Her stomach plummeted within her body and she convulsively gripped the worn handrail of the stairs. For a moment, to her surprise, she felt an incredible wave of relief, the sureness that Angelus was taking her home and she no longer had to make any choices about where she would go, what she would do, and how she would live. She no longer had to exorcise Angelus from her system. Her heart thumped it’s pleasure at seeing the handsome man creature again. How I missed you, my love, how I wanted you.
Angelus watched her calmly as he walked around the cluttered arrangement of tables and chairs and useless bodies (they all deserve to die) seperating him from Ramadevi. She stood still, a cornered doe with nowhere to flee except up the stairs where she knew he’d take her anyway. He glared disapprovingly at her boy’s clothes. So, he mused, that inspector at the coach pass told me the truth about only collecting a boy passenger the day she went away. I shouldn’t have broken his arm for lying. He felt a surge of new rage at the sight of Ramadevi’s neatly shaped legs in slim trousers and boots, the light wool fabric softly hugging her hips. She huddled closer into her duster and Angelus smiled grimly. She knows what I’m thinking. He met her eyes and hesitated, truly shocked by the longing in her look. She seemed to radiate joy, pleasure to see him and be near him once again. She grew more beautiful even with her wonderful hair pulled back tightly from her face. Her lips were soft, quivering a little, and her beautiful dark eyes shone in the candlelight.
Ramadevi felt her stomach quail. He was angry, it was obvious in the glittering darkness of his eyes. He gazed at her, unblinking, like a shark gliding ever closer to her. Her eyes flicked to the tavern entrace on the other side of the room. She could not hope to get past Angelus and get away. He would chase her and catch her before she reached it. Above her, upstairs, were the bedrooms for guests of the inn. There was no other way out. She was well and truly trapped. He is so angry. And a pang of her conscience assured her she deserved his anger even as she dreaded it. She heard the creak of his leather glove as his grip tightened on the riding crop.
Suddenly, he was standing right before her and his strong arms pulled her closely against him into a hard embrace. His mouth crashed down on hers and began to devour her. His lips punished her, tongue parting her lips and sweeping within her, branding her with his cool touch. Instinctively she recoiled and he forced her against the wall. She cried out, muffled by his hard possessing kiss. He pressed his body into hers and it felt like he would crush her, smash her body into the wall until her bones broke.
For a moment, she thought he was trembling but that was surely not possible. But there was no mistaking the moan in his throat as Angelus drank in the taste of her mouth like a starving dog.
She felt his entire body against hers and Ramadevi desperately pressed herself closer to his sturdy figure. She felt his hard legs and thighs against hers, his hips, his chest, his hard arms clutching her close. The contour of every precious muscle of him imprinted itself against her flesh through their suits. Hot desire possessed her and ignited fire in her belly. Her body gloried in being close again to this man she feared, this man she had thought was lost to her forever.
It seemed he would not stop, perhaps he could not stop kissing her, plundering her with his hard cool lips. The world grew darker, redder, and seemed to swirl around her. Slowly, Angelus drew his mouth away from hers. Gasping, panting for breath, Ramadevi raised her gaze to his.
His eyes were shuttered with black emptiness as he stared back silently. She nearly gasped in fear of his indifference. What did he mean to do with her?
She glanced past him towards the tavern. Several people glanced frequently towards them, expressions of mixed curiosity and disgust on their faces but nobody actually got up from his chair or came forward to investigate. And well they should not, Ramadevi thought, not a man among them was equal to Angelus in size and stature, presence and strength.
Dear Gods, I love him so and I don’t want to!
Abruptly, Angelus glanced over his shoulder to see what Ramadevi was looking at. He sneered at the curious stupid sheep behind him. Of course he understood what shocked them. Ramadevi was dressed as a boy, this group of fools thought they were a pair of sodomites. He turned a wicked black gaze back to his woman (I found you! I found you! his heart triumphed.)
He eased one hard hand into the collar of her coat and yanked out the thick braid of hair tucked into the back of it, smiling patiently at Ramadevi’s brief high-pitched scream.
“My love,” he said clearly. The hint of Irish brogue played in his voice and Rama shuddered uncontrollably. His resurfacing accent meant he was short on controlling himself. “If you want to play my Ganymede, you need a more convincing disguise.” He dropped the braid carelessly, allowing it to drape over her shoulder all the way down to her hip.
Nervous laughter twittered from the curious onlookers and Ramadevi’s eyes widened. She whimpered softly as they turned away from Angelus and her. So far as the crowd of travelers was concerned, this was a private matter, not their affair. They recognised her soft voice and delicate limbs were not an adolescent boy’s but a nubile female’s. And the great gentleman clearly knew her and claimed her. It was no one’s place to interfere.
Angelus’s lips spread into a tight smile. His eyes were still shark-empty as he gripped her upper arm and guided her up the stairs. Ramadevi recoiled from him and her right hipped bumped against the cold oak wall; she could get no further away from him than that. Angelus snorted and thrust his arm forward, rushing her ahead of him.
When they reached the upstairs landing Angelus continued to propel her forward until they stood before the third door in the west hall. For the love of all the gods, how did Angelus know this was her room? Had he been spying and watching her all along?
Angelus opened the door with one swift movement. He thrust her forward so hard she stumbled over her own feet and caught herself on the footboard of her bed before she retreated to the wall on the far side of the bedroom and stood between the small fireplace and the one window.
Angelus glared at the pitiful trappings around him. The room was clean enough for an inn but he felt a draft and the bed seemed sparely made. There was no fire lit in the room presently though perhaps she had one at nightfall. He shut the door hard behind them and Ramadevi’s eyes filled with dread as though he had shut her in a dungeon.
Don’t test me, my darling, by God and the Devil I’m angry enough to do it!
Interminable seconds passed as they stared silently at each other. Angelus noted she seemed relatively fit, not injured or fatigued from her journey. She was a trifle thinner, perhaps, or maybe the slender fit of her clothes made her seem so. Every fucking man on the road had seen her shapely legs and trim firm thighs, her luscious ass. She had traveled from Paris to Launaye dressed in trousers that allowed every man Jack on the street to see all that belonged to him!
Ramadevi swallowed in a dry throat. She knew he was angry with her, but his expression was so empty and cold it was impossible to guess what he actually meant to do with her. Her heart ached at the sight of Angelus’s anger and suddenly she wanted to cry.
Bravely she lifted her chin and asked him a question.
“How did you find me?”
Angelus’s lips twisted in an ugly little smile that did not meet his eyes. “You led me along, Egypt,” he replied bitingly. He gave a short laugh at her confused scowl. “The drought broke in the midlands, I understand the grain harvests were nearly lost before that. And peasants are a superstitious lot,” he continued conversationally. “They talk constantly of traveling angels. Do you know an angel disguised as a simple boy visited a small manor just a week ago and not only delivered fair weather to save their vineyards, but even healed the lord’s lame foot?”
Ramadevi stood stock-still. “How is that family now?” she asked, barely audible. She had sought shelter at a manor house and the gentry family had been very kind to her. She had seen no harm in healing the middle-aged lord at the time. The lord had no way of knowing she was responsible for that. She should have known the locals would carry tales about it.
Angelus continued to stare at her and Ramadevi waited until she realised he was not going to answer her question. She bit her lower lip hard to force back the tears. Angelus was nothing if not subtle in his choices of punishments. He might have killed the entire family and he would not tell her, or they might all be sleeping snug in their beds. Either way, she would never know.
“Take off your clothes,” he ordered coldly.
Ramadevi blinked at him. She would have stepped even further away from him if she could but the wall did not yield to her back. Wistfully she recalled their last night together, how hot they’d both been for each other. He’d wanted to take her home and promised her pleasure and she had wanted to accept him. Now he would violate her to punish her, to prove to her once and for all that her body was well and truly his. There would be no affection or even respect in such a coupling.
Angelus scowled warningly at her. Surely she didn’t expect him to let her keep wearing the offensive man’s suit? Enough men had enjoyed the sight of his woman. He had ordered a trunk of her clothes to be sent with him and she would dress like a proper lady in his company. There was an androgynous appeal to Ramadevi in her boy’s clothing, though. Angelus considered taking her like a boy, her trousers down around her knees as she knelt on all fours before him. He was not attracted to his own sex; still, there was a curious thrill in such pretend play. But he was too angry to do it right now. He would not want to use her gently and would probably injure her.
“Did you hear me? Get out of those fucking trousers!” he commanded sharply.
Ramadevi’s heart quailed and she winced at Angelus’s ugly language. Oh God, no! She could not do this! She could not! Whimpering softly, she curled her arms around her own body protectively and pressed against the corner with useless desperation. She thought to beg him, plead to him for pity and patience. But what could she say to move him?
Angelus snarled and stood directly before her in the blink of an eye. He seized her right shoulder in his left hand while his right hand grasped the side of her duster coat and he pulled roughly until the fabric yielded and ripped away from her in a huge piece. Ramadevi cried out inarticulately and stared at the hank of torn cloth in Angelus’s hand as he flung it to the floor. She pushed against him, throwing all her body weight into him and he was as hard and unyielding as the wall behind her.
She took a quick breath as he gripped the shoulder seam of her coat and tugged it until the seam split and the garment hung from her other shoulder. She smelled Angelus, delicious, so much a part of her and so missed! Her nether lips grew warm and moist.
“God damn it!” he swore at her disobedience. Ruthlessly he jerked her body around and ripped the remnant of her coat away. Ramadevi cried out sharply as he pulled the broadcloth shirt almost in half and let it fall round her hips, it’s lower edges still tucked inside her trousers. Angelus tugged and yanked hard on the wide linen bands binding her body and pulled them off. Ramadevi couldn’t suppress her relieved groan as her breasts were released from their bondage. Suddenly his hard arms surrounded her and her breasts overfilled his cupped hands. He cupped and squeezed her breasts attentively, pressing his body against hers from behind. His nimble fingers tweaked and pinched her nipples until they hardened and enlarged for his touch. Angelus kissed her temple softly as she shuddered all over. Her back arched and he treated her nipples more roughly, pinching harder until she moaned.
“No!” she gasped. “Please! Not like this!”
Angelus growled. One arm dipped passed her ribcage and surrounded her slim waist, clutching her tightly as he lifted her up. Ramadevi gave a little wail as he hauled her towards the bed and he grinned fiendishly as she wriggled and struggled, digging her fingers into his forearm to pry his hold from her.
She was afraid of rape and Angelus gloated at her panic. Let her be afraid. Let her know something of the fear he had carried himself for the last nine days of searching. Fear that she was lost forever, his little woman... He winced as she kicked backwards and her booted heel thudded against the thickly fleshed bone of his shin. He caught her long braid of hair at the base of her neck and tugged hard, forcing her head back.
Angelus sat down on the side of the bed and threw her across his knees. Pressing her face down into the bed with one hand, Angelus slipped his other hand into the waistband of her trousers and jerked until the buttons in front strained and popped free. He grasped her soft cotton under drawers and yanked them down with her torn trousers until they hung round her knees above her riding boots. Briefly, Angelus considered pinning her down to remove the boots as well but he decided against it. An erotic thrill surged through him that she was bare-assed naked yet still clothed at the same time from her knees down.
Ramadevi cried out in shock when Angelus’s first hard open-handed slap cracked against her firm flesh. Another slap followed, harder. And another. Then a rain of blows so fast she could barely count them, hard and stinging on her bottom.
“You don’t say when!” He scolded her harshly. “I say when!” He whacked her harder than ever. “You will obey me! Take off your fucking clothes when I tell you to!”
Another barrage of hard slaps. It seemed he struck everywhere, the smooth tops of her buttocks, the lush fleshy middle, and the sensitive lower curves. There was no relief anywhere, all of it hurt.
“How dare you run away from me!” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
“I am your guardian! You’re my responsibility!” SLAP!
“Didn’t you think I’d be worried?” Cra-crack! “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt!” Smack! “Or robbed!” Smack! “Or raped!” Smack!
“ANYTHING could have happened to you!” Angelus brought his blows down hard as she wriggled and shifted desperately in a useless attempt to avoid them.
“I could have lost you forever!” His voice cracked as he whaled her ass even harder.
“If you even THINK of trying this again you will live out your life shackled to my bed in NOTHING but your bracelets!” SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Ramdevi panted with the effort to free herself from the iron-like weight of his hand in the middle of her smooth back. His punishment was appallingly effective in its simplicity. She felt the awful helplessness of a naughty child turned over her father’s knee and her ass felt hot, twice its normal size.
His hard words and angry voice were even worse than the blows, though. Ramadevi felt terrible at his obvious disappointment and anger with her. She tried to argue with herself that Angelus was in the wrong, that he had treated her badly and was treating her badly now, that Angelus had no right to expect loyalty or obedience from her. She believed all of this in her heart.
So why, why WHY did his scolding make tears flood her eyes even when the hard blows could not?
And, most shameful of all, her sex was ripely swollen and wet in spite of the pain. Her body was overjoyed to be near him, to feel him in any capacity. Please no!
Angelus smiled grimly as the perfume of her arousal wafted to his nostrils. He’d missed it so much! He aimed a hard slap against the softest portion of her upper thighs so that he just hit the very back of her pouting labia. Rama gave a little scream at the shock of pain that drove her pelvis into his thigh and put pressure on her clitoris.
Ramadevi jabbed her elbow into Angelus’s ribs as hard as she could and he grunted. Her legs scrabbled desperately and she rose up, her knees digging into his thighs as she tried to fling herself bodily away from him. Her legs were still tangled in the mess of her trousers and drawers and she tried to kick them away but they were tucked into her boots.
Angelus’s arm snaked around her waist as he yanked her back over his lap for more punishment.
“I smell how much you want me,” he accused her.
Rama gasped as he slapped her ass hard, driving her body downward and grinding her clit against his muscular thigh.
“You deny it all the time! And here you are, soaking wet, when all I’ve done is smack you!” Angelus gave her two hard slaps on the lush lower curve. She kicked her legs futilely.
“Why do you fight me?” He slapped her left cheek up higher, near the small of her back.
“Why do you fight what you want?” Now her right cheek.
“Stop fighting it, Rama!”
He slammed his hand down harder than ever on her naked ass. Or perhaps it only seemed harder because she was already so blistered and tender. Either way, her hips surged forward against his legs and Ramadevi felt the orgasm bloom deep within her center, then slowly extend throughout her entire body like an erupting volcano of unstoppable passion.
“Anngellllllllluuuuussssssssss!”
She went limp, her entire body quivering, out of control as the spasms wracked her. Her bottom tingled and burned, an exquisite contrast to the throbbing waves of ecstasy possessing her. Ramadevi burst into tears–tears of pleasure, tears of relief, tears of humiliation that Angelus had taught her body to respond to him even in pain.
Angelus’s hard hand lay still on her bottom as she thrust and trembled, panting and weeping. Her ass was a beautiful sight, severely punished, nearly scarlet in colour, the barest traces of handprint bruises beginning to show. God, he had longed for a good reason to do this! Her sex leaked hot liquid pleasure so generously he felt it soaking through his pants onto his cool skin. When she was quite finished, and lay still across his lap, he drew her up on her knees.
“Now. You tell me,” he ordered coldly, “why did you leave me?” His eyes were as dark and empty as they were when she first met him downstairs.
“Because I can’t bear this!” She was shocked to hear herself cry out. “I can’t bear how I feel! I’m not supposed to love you! You’ve hurt me! You're Rakshasa! I don’t belong with you, I’m forbidden to you!” she sobbed. “And I want you so much it hurts inside! I love you and I want to belong to you and I CAN’T!” Her fine hands balled into fists and she began to pummel his chest and shoulders ineffectually. “Don’t you understand? I’m the Deva and I love you and I can’t!” She pressed her face into his shoulder as she struck him harmlessly over and over. “Please! Please! Please!” she sobbed bitterly.
Angelus enfolded her in his arms, and crooned softly to her as she wept. “There, there, sweetheart.” He whispered to her in Gaelic, words of love and tenderness she would not understand though their tone offered consolation and comfort. She shuddered and then relaxed against him, all the fight in her gone. He gently kissed the crown of her head, then her forehead.
Ramadevi sniffled and trembled at his wonderful scent. She had missed Angelus so much that even her throbbing buttocks seemed a small price to pay for the comfort of being held close. She felt the trace of stubble on his chin as he lightly kissed her forehead. He was as gentle as a nursemaid, cradling her body, cuddling her, murmuring soft words as she wept until she was too tired to weep any more and rested silently in his arms while he kissed her face all over and stroked the loose tendrils of her hair.
He guided her up to kneel facing outward from the bed. Gently, he tugged her ruined trousers out of the tops of her riding boots and tossed them carelessly to the floor.
“Open your legs,” he whispered thickly. He watched her thighs part at his command. “Do you know how fucking beautiful your ass is right now?”
She was silent. Angelus casually cupped one sore sensitive cheek in his hand and she whimpered. “Answer me, Rama,” he advised.
“I can’t see it,” she replied hesitantly.
“It’s red in some places, dark pink in others, and it’s nice and warm when I touch it,” he whispered to her.
Slowly, she curled her arms around Angelus’s neck and they kissed, a languorous dance of lips and tongues twining and exploring. He traced her spine with his fingers and she shivered, moaning softly into his mouth. Angelus moaned back. He began to kiss a wonderful path from the corner of her mouth over her chin down the delicate column of her neck where he nuzzled and nipped her softly, love bites that teased her and made gooseflesh swell on random patches of skin. He cupped one of her breasts and thumbed the nipple until it stiffened and rose, hard as a blackberry, while he repeatedly kissed her pulse.
His hand drifted over her ribcage , gently smoothed over her hipline to cover her precious little quim. Softly, he fondled her dark tight curls; they were so thick with her moisture they were plastered against her labia. Angelus’s fingers eased into the cleft. She moaned and her head fell back in the ultimate submission, her throat and her sex readily open to him. He probed her opening and withdrew, satisfied that her hymen was still intact.
Angelus considered deflowering her immediately but decided to wait until he took her home. Once she felt his body inside her in his bed she would understand exactly where she belonged. Besides, her bottom was sore right now from his overly harsh discipline. He smiled in grim pleasure.
Ramadevi sighed as Angelus found her clitoris and gently fondled it, tracing its shape with the pads of his fingers, massaging her slowly.
“Did you miss me?” he asked her.
“Mmmmmhhhhh! Oh yes!” she sighed.
“Tell me.”
“All I thought of was you,” she answered in trembling desire. “I was sad because I knew I didn’t want another man to touch me.” She bent her head to his chest and Angelus groaned when her tongue flicked and stabbed at his nipple. She licked him and suckled, teased him with her teeth until hot little stabs of pleasure pierced Angelus's chest. He cupped the back of her head in his hand to massage her scalp with his fingertips and continued to pleasure her between her legs.
“Are you happy I found you and beat your ass?”
She was silent. Angelus reached behind her and pinched the sensitive underside of her bottom. She shrieked. He returned to her clit and continued petting her.
“I wanted you with me,” she admitted slowly.
“If you didn’t come hard enough from it,” Angelus whispered darkly, his lower lip lightly caressing her ear, “I can do more.”
“No!” The thought of his heavy hand on her backside made her bruised flesh scream. “I–I–“ What did one say on such an occasion?
He softly pinched the hard little pearl of her clit in his fingers and raised his eyebrows at her.
“It was pleasurable,” she said. “But it was enough.”
Angelus smiled softly. “Come now, Egypt,” he ordered softly.
His fingers quickened against her clit and Rama felt the familiar burning in the depths of her body. Her hips rode forward against his fingers. Wet heat trailed down her inner thighs and she moaned aloud.
“Yes, good girl, that’s it.” He watched her eyes darken and grow hazy as she tightened her grip around his neck and a low cooing noise rose from her lovely throat. He hugged her around her waist and nuzzled her neck as she dropped into another searing climax. Her body quivered and her face flushed as she gazed up at him.
Angelus inhaled her arousal and smiled in pleasure as his demonic features emerged. He buried his fangs in her throat and Rama cooed again, quivering against his strong body. Her fingers feathered and ruffled his wonderful hair and she hugged him tightly.
“Ooooooooohhhhhhh, Angelus,” she moaned. “Oh my love, my only love.”
He trembled against her and swallowed the mouthful of her crimson life. His chest smarted in that strange and wonderful ache he felt with Ramadevi from time to time. His yellow eyes burned. He swallowed a second mouthful. He had missed her so much! This liquid wealth within her veins was only part of what he’d missed. He licked her torn throat until the skin sealed over on itself and he softly kissed it as his demon retreated.
He kissed her mouth passionately, growling softly, thrusting his tongue deep within her soft interior. Rama kissed him back with equal fervor and Angelus realised, astonished and pleased, that she kissed him like a woman would. No longer did she passively accept his erotic worship, she returned it in kind.
“Tell me again,” he urged huskily.
She moaned against his hard lips, said the thing he wanted. The vampire felt his own veins burning with swooney pleasure as she sighed passively against him.
My love! My only love!