He sat bolt upright. "You can leave off with whatever game you're . . ." He intended to get up and loom over her and send her screeching from the room. But he didn't move. Her eyes got even redder--almost carmine. They seemed to hold him. He couldn't speak, he couldn't move at all. He just sat, one leg stretched toward the floor, the other tucked up under him.
It was frightening, to be helpless like that. She moved closer. Her hair hung, unbound, over her shoulders and down her back. She wore no jewelry other than the girdle and needed none. Her features were fine, and her eyes, though red, were sad. She seemed to float as she moved toward him, but he could see her bare feet peep out from beneath the translucent dress that trailed on the floor. Now he caught her scent. Cinnamon, and underneath that something sweet. What was it? Ambergris. The combination made a heady perfume.
He realized that the electric feeling he had experienced all evening came from her. It was an expectant vibrancy. Had she been near all night?
She reached out one small hand and touched his shoulder. It was shocking--not shivering cold as a ghost's touch was supposed to be, but warm and terribly alive. She recoiled and jerked back her hand, as though she felt a shock, too. Her eyes faded a little. He squirmed, but then her eyes went redder again and all hope of movement was gone. She moved her hands over his chest and again the sensation shot straight to the core of him. Must she thumb his nipples? They peaked and tightened. The sensation found its destination and his loins grew heavy. He was getting aroused by a . . . a something who could hold him immobile while she touched him. The possibilities were frightening, and . . . exciting.
One hand moved over his hip, the other slid over his biceps, as all the while she stared into his eyes. She glanced down. He knew what she would see. He was fully erect--almost painfully so. He had been saving himself for Emily for months. He couldn't be held accountable for his reaction to being touched by a beautiful ghost or trespasser, or whatever she was, while he was naked. Maybe the reason he couldn't move was because somewhere deep inside he didn't want to move.
She pushed him gently backward, his head on the pillows that still smelled slightly musty. She made a very unghostly dent on the bed as she sat beside him. One hand cupped the nape of his neck under his hair, the other still moved over his bare chest. Her palm across his nipples made him feel like jam inside. The hand moved lower. Was she going to . . . ?
It brushed across his cock. He arched involuntarily. Lord, in a few moments she had him in such a state he was like to spill his seed right on his belly as though this were a wet dream when he was fourteen.
Maybe this was a wet dream. How else could he explain the red eyes? But his wet dreams had been the usual male expressions of his burgeoning strength and power, noticeably lacking in this one. Still, the very thought that she could do anything to him while he was in this state was exhilarating as well as horrifying. He must tell her that he was saving himself for Emily. He made several ineffective grunting sounds before she touched her finger to his lips.
"Shush now," she whispered in that very attractive accent, "I won't hurt you."
That was a very strange thing for a ghost to say, even a ghost in a dream.
Why was she trying to comfort him? She wanted to frighten him. But the pounding of his heart against her palm could not help but bring a morsel of remorse. All the pain she and her sisters had given Aspirants, all the torment of raising their capacity for arousal and then suppressing their release, had become too much for her at the end. She didn't think what they did was right. So the last thing she wanted was to feel the thumping of his heart in fear or see the very pronounced erection she had caused. He was definitely aroused.
As was she, if truth be told. She was unable to resist touching his body. How long since she had felt the warmth of a strong male form, its miracle of soft skin covering the hard muscle beneath? And this was a very attractive specimen. Actually it wasn't just that he was attractive. This man had written that letter. She trailed a hand across his hip again, so near the delightful erection she had just caressed so lightly . . .
She must not succumb to her desire. Under compulsion, any kind of sexual dalliance with him was nothing short of rape.
She'd just take his blood and let him go. He had to be frightened enough to keep others away. There was no way around that. But she didn't want him having some sort of apoplexy.
He was staring up at her as though he was the one who was hungry. But he wasn't of course, not for the same thing she needed. She turned his chin gently to the side, baring the big artery under his jaw. She felt his heart gallop a little irregularly as she leaned down, pressing her breasts against his chest. She kissed his neck, gently. His skin was salty from the heat, though the breeze had dried him. His smell, unique to each human male, filled her nostrils. His hips rose, his body arching as she murmured reassurances.
She let the power coursing through her veins run out her canines. She cradled his head in the crook of her arm and sank them carefully into the artery. He jerked against her, once. The twin circular wounds leaked sweet, copper-tasting life into her mouth, thick and satisfying. Her Companion practically purred. She let her canines retract and now there was only licking and sucking, making soothing sounds at him while she lapped. He did not relax as they sometimes did, though. Instead, his hips began to move against her in rhythm with her sucking. She could feel the hard rod of his erection pressing into her hip. How sexual this act was, for both the donor and the receiver of the blood, though normally she managed to control its effects. Not now. She fairly hummed with arousal.
The blood is the life, she thought. It had been so for millennia, tied as her kind was to humans in this most intimate of bonding. They lived one to a city, so that humans would not know vampires lived among them. It was a lonely existence. The only place her kind could congregate was Mirso Monastery, for most of them a last resort when ennui or the insanity of eternal life had made them unfit for the world. She and her sisters had been born at Mirso, and lived out their lives making Harriers there. She had never lived in the human world until now.
She raised her head when she had taken enough. He watched her steadily as she licked her lips. "Thank you," she said, sitting up. "For your generosity." Even though he had no choice.
His eyes were big, dark blue in the moonlight, but they were no longer afraid. They were . . . speculative. That was not good. Was he wondering if she was real? If he told people there was a real woman at Ashland who drank blood, they'd be up with torches to burn her out. He had to believe the place was haunted and there was nothing he could do about it except leave.
She rose. "You have been touched by the spirit world," she intoned, and let her Companion make her voice echo. "You will go from this place immediately."
She called for even more power from her Companion. The familiar whirling darkness started at her feet and began to rise up over her knees. He sat up now that she had released him. He was still erect. Two tiny rivulets of blood coursed down his neck. He stared in fascinated horror as the darkness engulfed her. His bedroom disappeared around her. One moment of familiar pain, and she popped into her own room. She hurried across the hall to look out the windows of a dank room whose ceiling was collapsed in one corner. It looked out to the stables. He was a brave man, and he wouldn't leave a horse like that behind.
What the bloody hell had happened here? Drew struggled to his feet, feeling light-headed. That was no doubt because his entire blood supply was currently engaged in the area of his loins. A woman had . . . Had what? Held him immobile while she drank his blood? Given him the most incredibly sensual experience of his life?
And let's get back to the "woman" part. What woman could do what that one did?
"There are no such things as ghosts," he murmured to himself. Ghosts weren't warm to the touch. Thinking about how warm she was, and what she had done with that touch, was definitely not redistributing his blood supply. And what ghost made a dent in the bed when she sat on it?
&nb
sp; On the other hand, what human had red eyes and disappeared in a whirl of blackness?
His head ached so he couldn't think. He ran his hands through his hair. Wait! He strode to a mirror, fingering his neck. It was too damned dark in here to see. He crashed about looking for the candelabra. When he finally found it by nearly knocking it over, he felt for the flint and lit it, then took it over to the mirror on the dressing table, craning to see his neck.
Two tiny wounds drooled blood. "Christ Almighty!" he whispered. What had happened here? He held the candelabra high and looked around the room. A shiver starting down his back was ruthlessly suppressed. He went to the window. It was a sheer thirty feet to the ground. But there were some vines crawling halfway up the wall. Not enough. She hadn't got out that way. He whirled. Maybe she was hiding in the dressing room. Flinging open the door, he saw it contained only shelves for shoes, a headless mannequin that held coats for brushing, and a tangle of clothes hangers, just as it had when he'd come in to get the hip bath. She wasn't here now. He opened the door to the room beyond. The dust on the carpet was disturbed near the door. But no trail of footprints led to the hallway. She had not escaped this way either. He went back to the dressing room. Nothing said she had ever been here.
Except the faint perfume of cinnamon and ambergris that lingered in the air.
She had watched him from the dressing room.
Perhaps all evening. He had felt that strange electric energy all night.
As he bathed? She had ducked into the room adjoining as he got the bath, standing near the door. Had she watched as he wrote, naked, at the desk? As he slept?
It was intolerable. And strangely erotic. He had never experienced anything more sensual than that light touch on his naked body and the gentle sucking at his neck. Even now his cock was stubbornly erect.
He took the candelabra back into the bedroom and set it down. His eyes fell on the letter he had written to Emily. He steadied himself. That was why he was here. To find love again that would bring him revenge and heal the wounds he had suffered so long ago, deepened by bitterness until they had eaten away part of his soul.
He wasn't going to let some ghost, or some trespasser pretending to be a ghost, shake him from his resolve. She could order him to leave this house as much as she wanted. He had survived much worse than a little erotic haunting. He was not about to turn tail and run before he tried to claim what was his. Drew wouldn't miss the look on Melaphont's face when he finally recognized him for anything in the world.
He folded the letter and put it in its envelope. Tomorrow he would have this letter taken to Emily, and he'd know where he stood. She was no longer married, and she must remember their love. Now, if her father had not poisoned her against him, he had a chance. If the bastard had, well, then Drew would be sorry. And then he'd skip the part about Emily and take revenge on Sir Elias Melaphont in some more direct and forceful way.
He stalked to the bed, blew out the candles defiantly, and eased himself down in the bed. He did not need light to stave off what lurked in the dark.
That didn't mean that he would sleep.
Drew strode into the Goose and Gander rather later than he intended. He had fallen asleep after all, whether it was from loss of blood, or just the adrenaline subsiding, he wasn't sure. And he had dreamed, waking with another erection. The dreams had not been of Emily.
The whole thing seemed outlandish in the light of day, except that he had to tie his cravat rather carefully to cover up the twin wounds on his neck.
Still, he'd decided that it was a trespasser, not a ghost. Didn't some Portuguese friar practice an oriental version of Dr. Mesmer's animal magnetism to exert control over men without using magnets? Abbe Facia. That was the fellow's name. That was how she had controlled him. She must have used some trick of light to make her eyes glow like that. They'd looked just like animal eyes glowing when light shone on them at night, except red. And the wounds? A pair of tacks perhaps--he hadn't seen a knife. The whirling darkness was no doubt a swoon on his part from loss of blood. Well, he was going to search the place in earnest for her later and send her packing.
"Barton," Drew called. Old Henley was about the only one in the taproom at this hour. He was nursing an ale in the corner. The tapster stuck his bald pate out from a curtain that separated the kitchen from the taproom. He looked pale and drawn. The sheen of sweat on his brow caught the light.
"Didn't expect ta see ye here this mornin'. Did ye spend th' night?" Barton asked.
Drew had forgotten the wager. "Yes," he said in clipped tones.
"Did ye see th' ghost?" Henley wanted to know.
"I saw someone." He didn't care to go into detail. "I think I've got squatters up there."
Both Barton and Henley snorted. "Squatters doesn't suck blood," Henley remarked. "Did she suck yer blood?"
Drew felt himself coloring. He did not want to have this conversation. "Barton, do you have a boy who could take this note round to The Maples?"
"Jem took th' cart into Camelford for supplies," Barton apologized. "And Billy's come down with th' influenza. His ma says he's bad." Barton wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. His hand was a little shaky.
"Damn," Drew said under his breath. He didn't want take the note himself. Was he afraid of meeting Emily?
"I'll take it fer ye." Old Henley had somehow appeared at his shoulder and was peering at the envelope. He looked up at Drew with a strange expression on his face. Pity? Ah, he had seen it was addressed to Miss Emily Melaphont. That likely wasn't her name any more since Henley had intimated that she had once been married.
"I'll make it worth your while." Drew fished in his pocket. He didn't care if delivering notes to young widows wasn't respectable behavior.
"Save it. Ye can deliver it yerself. I'll show ye th' way. I'm goin' right by there."
No one "went right by" The Maples. It was four miles from the village and stood in its own impressive grounds. He hesitated. Still, Henley was already starting out the door.
"Don't ye want to collect yer pint?" Barton called.
"Later," Drew flung over his shoulder. Henley didn't give him any choice.
Drew had to pace his long strides to the older, shorter man's. The creature was still spry for all his years. Drew thought he would have to field a lot of questions. But Henley was silent. Drew's pulse raced. He might meet Emily face-to-face in a matter of moments. Henley turned off the road. Drew looked around, disoriented. They were heading up the hill to the church. It was a small affair, fifteenth century, its rough stone mellowed golden with age. His pulse quickened. Perhaps she was dressing the altar with flowers. Would she know him? They had been in love. How could she not? The expression on her face the instant she recognized him would tell everything. He and Henley crunched up the gravel path to the ancient wooden doors, carved with undecipherable pictures in bas relief. He was reaching for the great iron latch when Henley pulled him to one side.
"Around th' back, son."
He started off, eager. Then his steps slowed. The churchyard was back there. Was she putting flowers on a grave? Perhaps her husband's.
There was no one in the churchyard. A breeze leavened the heat up here. The grass between the graves still smelled of summer.
He knew then. His intestines knotted and threw a loop around his heart. He couldn't seem to breathe. Henley was pointing. He didn't have to. Drew walked slowly to the area fenced off with iron spikes topped with tiny fleur-de-lis. The Melaphonts were all buried there.
His eyes filled so he could hardly see the inscription on the stone.
Emily Margaret Melaphont Warner. 1788-1806. May she and her unborn babe find peace everlasting in Jesus' arms.
A year. She'd lived only a year after he'd been sentenced. She'd married so soon? Had Drew meant so little to her? She'd died while he was still on the prison hulk. All these years of longing for her had been so useless. She'd been pregnant, too. Who was this Warner fellow she'd loved? He felt cheated. All his dreams of ma
king her love him again, of marrying under the nose of her father in spite for all he'd done to Drew, seemed foolish.
Drew felt Henley come up behind him. Anger surged up from his belly. "You said she wasn't married, that she was still here."
"Aye. Truth, when ye come ta think on it."
He didn't know what to ask. What difference would any of it make now? His throat was so full he thought he might choke.
" 'Er father found 'er a 'usband before th' summer turned brown th' year ye left," Henley said philosophically. Drew saw out of the corner of his eye that Henley had taken out a pipe and was tamping down the tobacco in its bowl. " 'E were a nice enough lad. Family was weavers, I think. 'Ad factories up ta Cumberland. Paid 'andsome for th' Melaphont name." Henley took an old flint striker from his pocket and lit the pipe, drawing on it to make it catch. "Melaphont made 'em live under 'is thumb up at Th' Maples while 'e put on th' new wing with Warner's money. Said she were poorly and 'e daren't let 'er go. But you know 'im. 'E just wanted control of th' both of 'em." Drew knew. Puffs of smoke curled into the air. "Warner went back to 'is people when she died."
Poor Emily. Sold off to provide a new wing for The Maples. It had always been a symbol of Melaphont pride. Wait. Through his haze he had let one fact slip by. "The year ye left." Henley knew who he was. He turned fierce eyes on the old man. "Don't think to spread my identity about. You'd find me a formidable foe." He hoped the threat did the trick. He wouldn't actually harm the old man.
"So ye slipped yer chains," Henley mused. "They can throw ye back inta prison if ye ain't served yer full time. Must 'ave wanted ta come back fair bad."
"I have a marker to redeem," Drew growled. "You wouldn't want to hold one of my markers, old man."
"No. Expect I wouldn't," Henley said. " 'Ard to believe an old fool knows 'ow to 'old 'is tongue, Carlowe, but I do." He stabbed the air with the stem of his pipe. "Just ye 'ope ye don't get what ye think ye want right now. Bad business, that. Rots a man's soul."
Dead After Dark Page 18
