by Linda Nightingale
Restlessness propelled Meggie Richelieu up and down the flagstone terrace. But the ghost of yesterday had compelled her into the country night. The hand running along the rough stone wall no longer trembled. She'd wiped the sweat from her palms, but memory lay on her skin like the blanket of humid air. Twelve years since she visited Fievre Faire. She'd never forgotten its wainscoted rooms and high ceilings of pressed tin. Nor the beauty of the plantation's green pastures dotted with bay, black and chestnut mares with their spindly-legged foals. The fields were empty now.
Through the French doors, a waltz drifted, slow, Southern as the big yellow moon riding the tops of the oaks where the parkland surrendered to forest. Somewhere in the swirl of colors, guests came to welcome the Richelieu's home, Jeff danced with her mother, while his new bride wandered the veranda alone and gazed at purple shadows turning black on the lawn. She tried to keep her eyes from wandering to the brooding outline of the Gatekeeper's Cottage.
But she had insisted on returning to the scene of the crime, hadn't she? Shrouded in somber trees, the Cottage waited in ominous, obliging silence for her to come and look upon the stained floor. The pain would never go away. A glaring red horror had been painted on her mind's eye. Grief was in her genes, in Father's voice when he ordered the sale of each and every one of the horses. Yve's horses. Even in her mother's eyes, the pain remained. Meggie shivered in the warm air.
Music, laughter, dancing feet, an incessant roiling noise, reached out for her. She couldn't immerse herself in the hot, confining crowd. The cool shadow of the tower drew her as if someone were silently calling her name-a vibrating summons tugging at tense nerves. Her Guicci shoes beat a rapid staccato on the stones. She found herself immersed in complete blackness, beyond the grasp of light. Like a heavy cloak, the aloneness, the loneliness fell from her.
"Welcome home, Meggie." Soft as the night wind, a man spoke She whirled, startled. "Who's there?"
A shadow moved, a moon trick. "As to who I am," the silken voice stroked her from afar, "I'm not at all sure. Perhaps, you can help me identify myself."
Suddenly, a long, lean monolith in blacks and whites materialized at her elbow. She inhaled sharply. Her body went rigid as the marble statues on the lawn. The darkness clung to him as if the shadows were a cape he folded about him. A tremor of fear rippled her stomach. "Are you...Fievre Faire's ghost?"
Deep and melodious, a laugh whispered into the inches separating them. "Not a ghost."
"The servants say..." It was difficult for her to say, but she wasn't afraid, "that my brother's ghost haunts Fievre Faire."
"Ah," a soft sigh. She saw a hand lift and float toward her. Tentative fingers drifted down her arm, trailing a pleasant shiver over her skin. He turned. Moonlight grazed a symmetrical profile.
Meggie gasped. "Yves."
Cool but corporeal, living flesh-he took her hands. "Your brother died in the Gatekeeper's Cottage. You went away. Did you like New Orleans, Meggie?"
"No." The truth surprised her. "I love Fievre Faire."
His eyes glowed an odd golden-green. He smiled slowly. She felt oddly giddy, light-headed as he studied her.
"You look like my brother. A little." Her hand lifted of its own accord to fondle an errant strand of brown hair slicing his face to the chin. Soft it was. "His hair took the sun and got really light. He wore it very short." The stranger's hair curved, thick, straight, half way between neck and collarbone. Much longer than was fashionable. "His eyes were-I don't remember the color of his eyes." A poignant sigh. "Nor the sound of his voice. Isn't it funny how memory fades? Did you know Yves?"
"Yes," a breathless hesitation while he studied their entwined hands, "In school. People remarked that we looked alike."
She felt languid, tranquil, but a heat throbbed through her. There was passion in the stranger's touch, in his voice. Deliciously wicked, delightfully sensual-something Meggie had never felt before. His full lips curled in a secretive smile. She wondered what those lips would feel like caressing her neck.
Her gaze ran down a body that bordered on thin. Not Yves' athletic build. She found her eyes lingering at the apex of long legs. A thrill shot through her core. The cotton trousers clung, hiding nothing.
"Look your fill." He stood with a graceful confidence. "I've come to claim you."
Her guilty gaze darted to his, became trapped in sea-green-gold. Yves had never owned this man's raw animal magnetism. The stranger was a force to fear. "I'm a married woman."
"Just married this morning," he sang quietly, "how happy they are." He quirked an eyebrow. "Are you happy?"
"Of course," she snapped. But Jeff had never incited hunger. She'd married him...because it seemed the right thing to do. In whose eyes? Her parents'. "I must go back inside."
"You don't want to leave. You're intrigued. I can see through you." His gaze drifted to the low-cut bodice.
Denials sprouted, flowered into laughter. "Sure of yourself, aren't you?"
He slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a loose, companionable hug. The brush of his hip on hers was everything but comforting. "Yves told me about you. He wanted to introduce us."
"But he died." Grief shaded her voice husky.
Long fingers played in the curls on her nape. A scintillating shudder swept her. Amazingly, she felt the brown skin around her nipples wrinkle. When the hard nubs rubbed the stiff fabric of her bodice, a throbbing awoke between her legs. She wished Jeff could call the lightning, make her heart thunder. "I must go."
He turned her into a lover's embrace. "Stay with me for a moment." His breath warmly burnished her ear.
No one had ever made her hot with the mere brush of breath and fingers!
"No one can touch you as I do." Hypnotized by the elegance of the languid gesture, she watched him tap his heart. "From the heart." He traced the top of her breast. "And your heart."
"This shouldn't be happening."
"Oh, but it should." He lifted her hand to his lips-feeling more delicious than they looked. A facile, practiced tongue drew a warm, wet circle on the sensitive palm. "Do you believe in destiny?" Whispered heat, breath stroking like gossamer wings.
"No." She couldn't repress another shiver. Arousal pulsed low in her body. She wanted to strip off her clothes, feel his naked body on hers.
"Yes," he breathed as he waltzed her back, lifted her to a stone table, a shadowy altar.
The low pulsing intensified to a throbbing ache as he swept her skirt above her thighs and inserted his slim hips between her legs. She was in heat-no doubt about it. Uninhibited fingers delineated the perfect shape of his ears, then plunged through the nut-brown hair, relishing the slick, silken texture. When he traced her lips, she sucked the reverent digit into her mouth, nibbling gently. A low moan escaped her tormentor. He leaned slowly forward, pinning her with those incredible eyes. Resistance evaporated. She flung her arms around his neck as he tugged her hips to the lip of the table. Her silk-sheathed crotch rode his erection. Teasing her with the big knot of his desire. They were going to fuck. She wanted it now. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. No longer Meggie, but a need that demanded to be filled, she leaned into him. Anticipation was a spasm in the cavity he must enter to crash against her thudding heart. Torpid, turgid, she couldn't keep her eyes open.
A butterfly landed on her lips, flew away, alighted like a snowflake. Her eyes drifted open on a sigh. He was staring at her as if she might disappear. Confidently, he guided her hand to the coiled serpent. Her breath caught in her throat. Jeff cuddled. This man would bind her to the rack of passion and break her beneath him.
He shook his head in an agony of denial. "Any man would sacrifice his soul to have you."
A war was fought and lost. Without a word, he jerked the bodice to her waist. His eyes locked on the snowy caps of her breasts. His lips worked as if he were already tasting the rosebuds. Her heart lurched, stopped, thundered. Like magic orbs, he rolled her breasts in his hands, his palms grazing the nipples with fire. Helpless, he lowered his head to suck, tongue, nibble. A sharp scrape on the sensitive bud jerked Meggie's head back on a groan. He'd bitten her! Nails digging into his scalp, she drove his mouth deeper into the plumpness of her breast. Little sharp touches, teeth raking her skin bred cardinal sin. Sinful his touch, ah, blessed, sweet sin! She wriggled down on him, rotating her hips, wetting him with her need. She'd never so craved a man.
His mouth left her breast with a gentle sucking sound. He drew back, his eyes hooded with passion.
"Oh, please," she begged. A dark flower bruised her breast above the heart.
Cool hands mapped the topography of her shoulders, arms, torso, leaving quivering awareness where they touched. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, "I die to possess you."
Moonlight gilded his hands as he tugged his zipper down. She needed no invitation. Nimble fingers parted the light cotton fabric. White skin. Her incubus disdained undergarments. He trembled as she massaged the flat muscles of his abdomen, her hand exploring the valley of his naked flesh to find the forest where the serpent lived. A fingertip brushed a hot, swollen slickness. His head went back sharply. Breath exploded from him, shaping her name.
She grabbed his face, and he allowed her to guide his lips down on hers. Wetness devoured her. Blackness swallowed her. Rigid, strong, his tongue shot into her mouth. Her hand closed on his organ. The tight, sliding stroke paced the rhythm as his tongue simulated sex and stimulated their lusty battle. Madness escaped on ragged sighs. There was nothing beyond this delirium. No one but this man torturing her with passion.
Succulent lips drifted to the base of her neck. Sucking tenderly. Holding her flesh between his lips until she shuddered, letting go, to imprison her again. When his mouth was on her, she couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. She imagined her tongue parting the tiny slit in the cobra's flared head. Moaning, he wrenched her soaked panties aside. A long finger delved into her, retreated to pinch and pull at the nether lips.
Her groans, her grip on him, synchronized to the plunge of his fingers. Orgasm quivered, head-to-toe, but she wanted that big snake slithering into her. Suddenly, he fell on his knees between her thighs. Before he could bury his face under the folds of her dress, she caught his chin and forced his head up.
"I hadn't intended it to happen like this," he murmured *in agony.
He looked like a tormented angel about to plummet into the abyss. Erect against his stomach, pleasure stood. The wheel of desire did a slow roll of expectancy. Deep inside, muscles clenched as if she were already milking the hunger out of him. If she freed him, he would flick his tongue inside her. He would suckle her with that gorgeous mouth. He'd make love to her with his fingers. Suddenly, she thought she would go mad.
Her fingers bit into his cheeks. "I want you to make love to me, not to torture me with your mouth."
His face washed clear of expression. He caught his lower lip between his teeth. Black beads formed around his incisors. He sucked his lip into his mouth, a drinking of pain. Meggie found herself moaning at the carnal gesture. His eyes bored into hers. Lightning struck the kneeling angel and the new bride.
Here, before her, was the man she had yearned for, had dreamed of. A throbbing ache froze her heart. Not Jeff.
He levitated to his feet. There was no ugly unfolding of limbs and torso. "Yes, Meggie. I've always known." His voice was dark red velvet, strong red wine.
She felt blissfully drunk. His shaft was rigid, veins distended. Desire pouted his lips. In a galaxy far away, music played. Night creatures sang. He tilted his head back and gazed at the heavens. A retreat. Anger surged on passion's tide. Her mouth locked on his nubby tit. Her hand snaked between his legs. His balls were tight, ready to explode. Another flood of pre-orgasm wet the male and female parts. She imaged his organ glossy with her excitement. She pushed herself down on his shaft and gently kneaded the velvet sack. On a desperate little cry, his head came down from the sky. His body formed a marble arch above her. Caught in desire's ruthless clutches, he thrust the full length into her, hurting her lusciously. Pumping. Gorging. She was full of him. She'd swallow his arrogance. Milk his ruthlessness. They were coins minted from the same mold. The first magnificent shudder of satisfaction locked her teeth on the top of his shoulder.
Frantic voices rose on the wind. "Meggie, Meggie, where are you?"
An anguished hiss came from her phantom lover. She grappled at him as he struggled back. The cobra's hood collided with her rigid trigger. Orgasm knocked her flat on the table.
"I should have waited. Come to the Gatekeeper's Cottage when you can slip away. I'll be waiting." The wind whispered or maybe the words formed in her head. When she could open her eyes, he was gone.
She heard footsteps. As the search party invaded her dark haven, she adjusted her dress, smoothed her short dark curls.
"Darling, where've you been? Deserting your own party. Why you insisted on coming back here is beyond me." Her mother engulfed her.
Meggie was suffocating on her mother's perfume. Jeff hung back like a confused puppy. Coldness settled on Meggie's heart. Soon, her husband would bed her. She shuddered. Father met her dark, haunted eyes. Her lips smiled a dry smile. Did Father contribute any genes to his children? Yves had resembled his tall, fair French mother, the first Mrs. Richelieu. Meggie was petite, dark like her own mother. But there was a steel chord in Meggie's spine. Her mother had no backbone.
A tall, gaunt shadow wavered on the periphery of the chattering party. Across the multi-colored heads, Meggie met Marion's wise, ancient eyes. Like crows wings, Marion's brows arched. The chatelaine of Fievre Faire for time immemorial tried to search Meggie's soul.
***
Dawn found Meggie a prisoner of reality. She moved like a ghost amongst the living. An astral traveler whose body went through the motions. Time crawled. Finally, Marion cornered her in the kitchen.
"You shouldn't have come back, Miss Meggie." The mulatto housekeeper said, "Fievre Faire belongs to him now."
"The ghost?" Meggie polished an apple on her jeans. "My brother's ghost? That's nonsense."
Sinister shadows fled across Marion's face. "Not a ghost. Ghosts don't seduce a bride out of her husband's bed."
Meggie swallowed the fear clotted in her throat. Ridiculous that Marion knew what had happened on the veranda. "No more old wives' tales. It's 1944. We'll join the war against that devil Hitler. Mark my words."
"He won't leave you be. He died to have you."
"Whatever are you babbling about?"
"Yves was in love with you."
"How dare you say that." Meggie grabbed the kitchen cleaver from the chopping block and furiously severed the apple. "You knew Yves. He was your favorite. The family scholar, the historian." She had a clear vision of Yves leaning over her, explaining the reasons for the French Revolution.
"The scholar who taught his sister to kiss." Marion smiled bitterly. "Remember the day I caught you two down by the lake. That was no brotherly kiss. He was too moral to take his own sister. He couldn't love you in that way of man and woman. Death was the door by which he could come to you."
"Stop it! How cruel. Yves was murdered-"
"You know as well as I, Missy, Yves Richelieu isn't dead." Marion folded skinny arms. "That little taste in the shadows won't satisfy him. Nor you."
***
"Meggie," the whisper awakened her.
Two o'clock. The house slumbered.
A fever was on her. She slipped out of bed, grabbed her robe from the chair. The moon rode a sea of storm clouds, but it lay a silver path to the Gatekeeper's Cottage. The gate creaked on rusty hinges. A faint orange glow lighted the dusty windows.
The door blew open. Marion's words haunted her. Yves had been twenty-eight when he died. The man waiting for her was no older than that, and twelve years had passed. She stepped over the threshold. Her phantom lover stood by the fire, his back to the door. "You've come at last," he said without turning.
The cottage was clean, a rug covering the black stain of Yves' blood.
"I couldn't get away." She inhaled a gasp as he faced her.
The embroidered silk robe was open down the front. Her gaze caught on the solid bar of flesh at his groin. A phallic fashioned by the fire from copper. He smiled, sensing her body's awakening. The amber snake ducked its head in tribute. He opened his arms.
An irresistible force propelled her. They met and melted in the firelight. Her robe fell unnoticed as she stripped him. And they melded on a puddle of silk. He slithered down the front of her. His tongue parted the lips of her sex. While he licked at the swollen nub, his fingers plumbed her. She came in a sudden, violent storm of fireworks.
She opened her eyes to see him propped on one elbow. With a faint smile, he was savoring the glow of her pleasure. Firelight blushed his skin. Big, hard as rock, ready to please her, his rod pointed at her. She gazed at him for a moment, wriggled down and swallowed his manhood. He gave a little cry. His back arched into the wet embrace of her mouth. He grabbed her hair as she ate him.
"Ah," he moaned, "Meggie, let us quench this holy fire."
She climbed him, taking handfuls of his smooth flesh, until their eyes met. She reached between them and stroked his throbbing desire against the opening to the mystery. He flipped her over as if she were weightless. Passion rammed into her, lifting her off the floor. With a wild, lusty laugh, she sank her hands into his hair and hid their sin-their splendor-under a living silk cloak. She was being split asunder and slammed back together. She squeezed her eyes shut. "No," she screamed as he pulled out.
Hot eyes sizzled gold. He held his shaft in his hand. He spread the sensitive lips and tapped the nub with his glans. She went mad, grabbing at him. Laughing wickedly, he drew back, stroking, tapping. Inch-by-inch, he fed her his manhood until he was buried to the hilt in her demanding body. She clamped her legs around his hips as his shaft sounded her depths. Slowly, he stroked, stoking the conflagration. Sucking, bruising kisses burned her neck. Shamelessly, she twisted beneath him.
"So good," she moaned. "Oh, now, please now."
A sharp, stinging pain stung her throat as she rose to a star-studded climax. His body stiffened, jerked spasmodically. He grunted as the hot gush filled her. Wave upon wave of wonder swept her. She went limp, but her interior muscles convulsed. His hands were locked on her skull. His mouth locked on her neck.
"Look at me, Meggie." He had risen to his knees, astride her, held within her. "I am Yves." Sharp, blood-stained incisors punctuated his smile. "But your brother no more. Not dead, but changed into-"
"A vampire?" She gasped in disbelief, spellbound by salaciousness and his unearthly beauty.
"Love will have its way. To be with you, I had to become someone else. I gave myself to Raoul, the vampire. Tonight, my only love, you'll join me in forever."
"No!" Meggie glimpsed a silver streak behind his head. She heard the sickening thud as metal delved through muscle and bone. Blood showered her, splattered her eyes, her lips. She screamed the iron taste of blood. For an appalling second, Yves headless corpse hung like a maimed puppet, then fell, pinning her in a river of blood. Screaming, weeping, in a grief too deep to understand, she fought the weight drowning her in the red tide.
The body was rolled off her. She opened her eyes. Blood everywhere. A crumpled body that had once been beautiful and a bloody lump shrouded in nut brown hair, streaked not with gold but with crimson.
And then Marion's face materializing above her.
"It is done." A kitchen cleaver hung from the old woman's spidery hand. Tears melted Marion's caramel cheeks. "You are free. Poor, dear Yves is free. Fievre Faire is free."
About the Author:
Linda is a transplant to South Florida from South Carolina. Her work has won several awards, including the Georgia Romance Writers Magnolia Award in Mainstream (Cardinal Desires--vampire novel); Southeastern Writer's Conference winner of Short Story, Non-fiction and Mass Market (Sinners' Opera--a Morgan novel). She has written articles for national equine magazines. Besides writing, her passions are her Andalusian stallion Alegre, whom she rides in musical freestyle exhibitions, dressage, English Civil War reenactments, and fast cars (oh, and Dodge Diesel Ram trucks!) And, of course, the darling of the concert hall, Lord Morgan D'Arcy.
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