His Immortal Embrace. Lynsay Sands
arrogance and anticipation. Whatever her reasons were for offering herself, one of them was certainly not desire. Inwardly shaking his head, he headed for his bedchamber. He wanted only one woman anyway, and he could not have her. Not only did she probably not understand how to prevent a child from taking root, but he could not subject her to a bedding by the beast raging inside of him.
A bath awaited him and he took quick advantage of it, scrubbing the scent of death from his skin. Although he ached to find the strength to turn away from the meal set out for him, he could not. His hunger was too great and he feared what he might do if he did not slake it in some way. Alpin tore into the meat barely seared on either side, his speed in finishing it born of both need and revulsion. He poured himself some of his enriched wine and stood by the window, staring down into the torch-lit bailey. A little of the ferocity within him eased as he fed the craving that so disgusted and terrified him. When would enriched wine and raw meat cease to be enough? he wondered.
He tensed as he heard someone slip into his room. The fact that the scent he picked up was Sophie’s did not ease his tension at all. This was a very bad time for her to come to his bedchamber. He listened to her take a few hesitant steps toward him, then stop. Slowly, he took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he savored her scent. She had bathed; her warm skin smelled of woman, with a hint of lavender. To him she smelled of laughter, of warm sun and wildflowers, of hope. He could almost hate her for that.
Another scent tantalized him and he grew so tense his muscles ached as he opened his eyes to stare blindly out of the window. Sophie smelled of desire. Alpin hastily finished his drink, but it satisfied only one hunger. There was another now raging inside of him, fed by the hint of feminine musk. He breathed it in, opening his mouth slightly to enhance his ability, and the blood began to pound in his veins.
“Go away, Sophie,” he said. “’Tisnae a good time for ye to be near me.”
It took Sophie a moment to realize he had spoken to her. From the minute she had entered the room to see him standing there wearing only a drying cloth wrapped around his lean hips, she had been spellbound. She had cautiously moved closer to him, her palms tingling with the need to touch that broad, strong back. He was so beautiful, he made her heart ache.
“I felt ye return,” she said, taking another step toward him. “I wished to see that ye had come to no harm.”
“I am still alive, if ye can call this living.”
She sighed, but decided not to try to dispute his words this time. “I felt—”
“What? The beastie in me? The ferocity? The bloodlust? Or,” he looked at her over his shoulder, “just the lust?”
Alpin realized his error the moment he set eyes upon her. Her hair was down, hanging in long, thick golden waves to her slender hips. She wore only a thin linen chemise, the delicate curves of her lithe body easy to see. Her wide eyes were fixed upon him, more green than blue. Sophie was all soft, womanly sunlight, and he craved every small inch of her.
Sophie shook her head. “I felt that ye needed me, but, mayhap, that was just vanity.”
He turned to look at her more fully. “Nay, not vain. I do need ye, but I willnae allow myself to feed that hunger.”
“Because of Lady Margaret?”
“Nay.”
“Then why?” She forced herself not to reveal how his sudden move toward her startled her, knowing how easily he could read it as fear.
“Why?” He nearly snarled the word, standing so close to her he had to clench his hands into tight fists to keep himself from touching her. “Look at me. I am more beast than mon.”
He did look quite feral, she mused, with his eyes more yellow than golden brown, and they had changed in that odd way again to look more like an animal’s than a man’s. His teeth had also changed a little, looking far more predatory. Subtle though the changes were, they were alarming, but not because she feared he could hurt her. She had seen such changes in him before, although not this clearly. The changes were proof, however, that nothing she had done so far had lessened the tight grip of the curse.
“The mon is still there, Alpin,” she said quietly.
“Is he?” He strode to the table and picked up the plate that had held his meal. “Does a mon eat naught but meat, meat barely cooked, simply passed o’er the fire until it becomes as warm as a fresh kill?” He poured the blood that still pooled upon the dish into his tankard, then filled it with more wine. “Does a mon drink wine heartened with blood?” He took a long drink before setting the tankard down. “And the mix grows more heartened with each passing year. The craving grows stronger.”
He walked toward her again. “And what mon, save the most bestial, takes such delight in battle? I have blood upon my hands, Sophie. I have washed them but I can still smell it. From the moment I first swung my sword this night, my bloodlust raged. The smell of blood and death were a heady perfume to me. I ken not how many men I killed, and I care not. I can kill as fiercely with my bare hands as with my sword. And, this night, I killed a mon with my teeth,” he continued in a hoarse voice. “I fell upon a mon and tore his throat open with my teeth. For a moment, as his blood heated my mouth, I was filled with a savage hunger. I wanted to drink it all. It was sweet and the mon’s fear made it taste even sweeter. Is that the act of a mon?”
It was a particularly gruesome tale, and a very bad sign, but she placed her hand upon his arm and quietly asked, “Was the mon unarmed? Was he offering his sword in surrender? Was he crying out for mercy?”
His gaze fixed upon that small, soft hand that touched his skin, Alpin shook his head. “Nay. His sword was about to take Eric’s head from his shoulders. That doesnae matter,” he began.
“It does. Aye, the manner in which ye killed the mon is worrisome, for it means the curse still holds ye firmly within its grasp. Yet ye had to kill him or he would have killed Eric. This mon was armed and your enemy. Any mon would have killed him. And none of what ye have said truly answers my question, for I have kenned what ye are from the verra beginning.”
“The why is because ye are a virgin, and so ye cannae ken the ways to stop my seed from taking root and use them. The why is because I can smell your desire and it has the blood pounding so fiercely in my veins, I near shake with need. ’Twould be no gentle bedding I would be giving ye. Nay,” he continued in a softer voice, “I want to sink myself deep into your heat, Sophie Hay. Sink deep and ride hard. That isnae the way to take a virgin.” He started toward the door. “And ’tis wrong to take a lass’s maidenhead when I cannae wed her.”
“Where are ye going?” Sophie was not surprised to hear how husky her voice had become, for his words, his seductive tone of voice, had stirred her almost as strongly as the sight of his strong body so meagerly covered.
“To one who kens how to keep her womb clean. Anne may not desire me, but she is always willing to service me.”
“ ’Tis the wrong time for me to conceive,” Sophie said, desperate to stop him from going to another’s bed. She would lose him to another soon enough.
His hand tightening on the latch of the door, Alpin hesitated. “How can ye be sure?”
“I am a healer, Alpin. There is also a potion or two I can drink.” Something she had no intention of doing, but he did not need to know that. “And when was the last time The MacCordy bred a bastard, or e’en a second child?”
Alpin slowly turned to face her. “Never,” he replied, feeling somewhat shaken by the realization.
“Of course not. For the curse to continue unthreatened, there can only be one heir. Each Galt woman has but one daughter. Or, as was shown by my mother and aunt, one birth producing a female or twin females. Thus the curse can continue in us as weel. If there was a brother, then the firstborn son of The MacCordy could have been slain ere he bred an heir, thus ending the curse. E’en a bastard son could have done so. Mayhap e’en a girl child.”
“Bairns can die,” he said as he