Blood Wicked

by Sharon Page

  “I’m not so cold anymore, mummy,” the girl whispered.

  “Oh, that is so good, my love,” Miss Dare whispered on a sob. She hugged her daughter.

  Heath’s heart gave a twist in his chest.

  Outside the bedroom, in the hallway, footsteps whispered. Heath jerked his attention to the door as Julian appeared on the threshold.

  “Did you get the crone from the apothecary?” he asked softly.

  Julian shook his head. “She was gone when I got back there. The shop was locked up, Heath. I broke in—”

  “Broke in. Hell, the woman will know that when she returns.”

  Julian’s lower lip went out. “I was careful. I picked the lock, and I didn’t touch anything. She won’t know. Place is grungy and disgusting. There were jars of stuff she must use to make her medicine.”

  “Anything unusual? Eye of newt? Any animals in any state of evisceration?”

  “There weren’t any animals. Just powders and liquids.” Julian nodded toward the bed. “What’s wrong with the girl?”

  “I don’t know. Can you sense she’s dying?”

  “I can hear her heart.” He gave a young man’s jaded shrug. “It’s weak and slow. Can you heal her?”

  “I don’t know. But I am going to try.” A young girl’s life? It wouldn’t begin to balance the evil he’d indulged in as a vampire, but it would be a start. “I’m going to need some time alone with the lady and her daughter.”

  Julian frowned. Then he gave an abrupt nod. He turned on his heel and left, his greatcoat flapping around him like a bat’s wings.

  Vivienne sat with her back to Heath. She’d discarded her gloves—funny, he hadn’t noticed her do that—had thrown them on the floor.

  She held her back straight and tense even as her hand flowed over her daughter’s long curls, stroking, reassuring, loving. Her gaze never left her daughter, she never turned, but he knew she was aware of him.

  He waited while she felt the girl’s forehead again. She pulled up the bedclothes, smoothed and fussed, and tucked her daughter in securely.

  It was hard to imagine this woman had once been known for her ability to drive a man mad with her clever use of a riding crop, her tongue, or even just her smile.

  Harder to imagine she was a demoness.

  She crept backward, carrying her candle, and only when she had retreated past the bed did she turn to him. Raw hope blazed in her large blue eyes. “Can you do anything, do you think?”

  “Come. We need to go somewhere private. Quiet. Where we can speak of what is wrong, what could be done … and what you’ve already done.”

  Sarah was safe again. Safe for a few days. And now Vivienne had to pay the price for this temporary miracle. That price was striding behind her into her drawing room, exuding all the masculine smells she knew so well. Sandalwood soap that had been lathered over his bare skin, witch hazel slapped to his cheeks after a shave, the polish rubbed into his leather boots, the rich earthy scent of his sweat.

  She remembered his mad claim that he was a vampire. But he smelled like a live, healthy, carnal man.

  Vivienne moved shakily to the brandy decanter. She wanted to ask him about Sarah, but she had to seduce him first—though all she yearned to do was fall onto the rug in front of her, shut her eyes, and sleep.

  “Would you care for a drink?” she asked, keeping her tone throaty and sultry.

  A chair creaked slightly as Heath settled into it. He stretched his endless legs out straight before him. His friend Julian had left the house. “Don’t trouble yourself, love. Warmed brandy and fluttering lashes won’t work. I’ve resisted some of the best.”

  There was no one better than she was. “Perhaps it is a thank-you for the rescue on Derwent Lane. Perhaps I want nothing more than to serve you, please you in this simple way.”

  “You’ve a pretty voice and you are a delectable woman, Miss Dare. But I don’t believe you want to thank me for that.”

  Miss Dare. He’d used her real name. How had he known?

  “I know you were with my brother. And now he’s missing.”

  Before, when he’d demanded to know about his brother, he had grasped her arms hard and she’d expected violence. Even that had not been as terrifying as the way he kept his voice restrained now—like thunder before a storm that could fell a mountainside.

  “I don’t know anything about your brother,” she repeated on a frustrated rush of breath.

  “Indeed. Lord Matlock. Did you sleep with him?”

  She jerked and brandy splashed to the inlaid table. How had he known about Matlock? “Yes,” she answered, feigning composure. “Though that is none of your business.”

  He fired four more names at her suddenly, watching her with a steady, penetrating, unblinking gaze. Lord Wentworth. Cavendish. Beltane. Avers.

  She had retreated behind the table, her gloved hands clutching the decanter, and his gaze settled on her grip. He must know she was holding it like a weapon.

  “Were they your protectors?”

  “No,” she whispered. Then she saw a way out. “Yes. And they were all peers—so it is obvious I never bedded your brother.”

  “The pattern of the deaths has intrigued me. You sleep with a man for a month. A fortnight later, on a full moon, he dies of an attack of the heart. Matlock died in a boxing ring. Wentworth in a gaming hell. The third, Cavendish, in a brothel.” He counted on his long, elegant fingers. “Fourth during a horse race. Fifth in his wife’s bed.” Even in the dark, his eyes gleamed. Two silver disks, glittering like a predator’s eyes.

  The last one made her blush. She had normally taken unmarried protectors. But with the last man, she’d had no choice. No matter how much she had protested, Mrs. Holt had been unmoved. “I have done nothing,” she said. “And I’ve hurt no one.” But was that entirely true?

  “So you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence that five of your lovers are dead?”

  “They all died naturally. Their hearts gave out. Men do die, my lord. They drink excessively, they live hard, and they die.” She set the decanter down with a harsh clank. “Who is your brother, my lord? How could you think I’ve had anything to do with him? I do not even know who he is.”

  “His name was Raine. Raine Winthrope.” Pain vibrated in his voice. “Brother to the Earl of Blackmoor.” He took a deep breath. “He looks like me, only he is more handsome.” He grinned at that, lines cascading around his sensual mouth. But his eyes threw light back at her, cold and untouched by his brief show of amusement.

  Fear slithered through her veins. What would happen if she could not pay Mrs. Holt’s price? “Why do you think I had anything to do with your brother? Or his disappearance?”

  “I saw you.”

  Her hand tightened on the glass decanter. “You could not have done. It is impossible. I have never been with him. I do not know any man named Raine. And I have never before seen any man who looked like you.” Which was true. All her lovers had been delectably handsome, but none had eyes that shone like moonlight in the shadows or a smile that made her legs jelly, or displayed a lithe, animal grace even without moving at all. She’d never seen a man with dark auburn hair and a strong chiseled jaw. With such sharp cheekbones and oddly slanted auburn eyebrows.

  “Then how could I have seen you standing at his side?”

  “Quite possibly because you are mad?” she threw at him. Inwardly she cursed. Hardly a way to begin a seduction. “I didn’t mean that,” she said softly. She moved to him, letting her hips sway, using the walk that was said to mesmerize men. And he stared at her every step of the way. “Not after what you have done for me. Of course it has not escaped my notice either that my former lovers were killed. But I didn’t do it.”

  One tug of his hand ripped his cravat in half. His collar points fell away from his throat, exposing pale skin, skin that seemed to glitter in the light. She watched him swallow. “And you believe I’ll accept that?”

  “Why would I have done it? I would gain
nothing by killing those men. They were … friends. I cared for them. I didn’t get any money when they died. I had no reason to hurt them.”

  Light fell over her, cast by his reflective eyes. “So who do you think did it?”

  She had the sense he was playing with her. “I don’t know. Perhaps they could have been poisoned. Perhaps that was why all their hearts gave out. They were titled. Someone benefited from their deaths.”

  “True. Who is Sarah’s father?”

  She blinked. Why on earth would he ask that? “You can’t think Sarah’s father killed those men out of jealousy. I was a courtesan. Men didn’t love me. They possessed me for a little while, until a shiny, new temptation came along.”

  “You said you were a courtesan. I thought, pretty one, you still are.”

  “I—I’m not. I accepted nothing from those men. I didn’t ask them to buy me.”

  She could feel his gaze. She poured brandy, but for herself. “Why not?”

  “I have everything I need.” Except Sarah’s health. Except the certainty my daughter will live.

  “You seduced them to pay the old crone for her medicine. Why would she ask that of you?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t you think I’ve asked that a thousand times? And she says nothing in answer!”

  She stood only a couple of feet from his boots now. She moved around them, to the side of his chair, and she lowered herself to her knees.

  Men liked submission. Just doing this, this one simple gesture, and she would normally have a man. A little bit of submission could put a woman in control.

  He shook his head, a rueful smile quirking his lips. “There is no point trying to seduce me when you look like you’re going to collapse with exhaustion, love. Go to bed. Go to sleep.”

  She had to do this. Had to. But he got to his feet so swiftly, she didn’t see him move. “Come to bed with me?” she asked desperately.

  “I don’t sleep until dawn, my dear. You will want to be up in the day with your daughter. I’d love to fuck you until you’re screaming for mercy, but we’re not going to do anything tonight.”

  Fuck you until you scream for mercy. She bristled at the coarse words. Hated the way her body grew hot at the sound of them, the way they rumbled in his deep and arrogant voice.

  “Go to bed, Miss Dare. Brave, daring, Miss Dare.” Then, again moving like a ripple of wind through air, he scooped her into his big, hard arms.

  She wasn’t brave. Desperate, perhaps, which made a woman do crazy things. Her hands closed on his waistcoat lapels. She’d intended to struggle, but he moved as though she weighed nothing. And strangely, she didn’t want to fight. She wanted to press closer to him.

  She must coax him into her bed. She rubbed her cheek against his elegant waistcoat. And purred. “Please, please bed me.”

  Men loved this. A woman humbled by need. Need for them. “Ah, I can only do it once, love. I’d much rather do it when you’re awake enough to ride me hard and fierce and rip your nails into my skin when you come.”

  And with that echoing in her head, she saw her door fly open, pushed by his boot; saw her bed loom toward her.

  He lay her down with infinite gentleness. “I need to undress.”

  “That I can do, Miss Dare,” he murmured. Small buttons on her gown popped free, and he drew it down from her. She saw his jaw tense as he revealed her corset, her thin shift, the way her pink, round nipples strained against the fine muslin. “You are a temptation in every way, aren’t you?” he asked, his smile rueful.

  “They are yours to play with however you wish. I’ve had a child, after all. If you like, you can be rough with my nipples. And I will enjoy it.”

  His throat moved as he swallowed hard. “Another night. When we know enough about each other to actually like each other. How’s that?”

  Then he unlaced her corset with speed, drew it over her hips. He tucked her feet beneath her sheets, pulled her counterpane right up to her chin. Suddenly the sleepiness fell away from her. “Sarah—” She hadn’t meant to speak aloud. Was Sarah safe around a madman?

  “You are afraid for her. You don’t trust me.”

  “I want you to stay in my bed.” She pushed down the sheets he had so conscientiously tucked in, exposing her naked breasts. Most men could be distracted from anything by the sight of breasts bouncing, swaying, jiggling, or simply lying there, nipples waiting for a mouth.

  “Ah, I see. That way you will know where I am. And your daughter will be safe.” He pulled off his boots—boots sewn to fit like a glove to his muscular calves—in the blink of an eye. Normally it took a boot boy and a lot of struggling. Then his brow cocked up and he eyed her with an astuteness that cut like a blade. “All right. How naked do you want me to be?”

  “Completely,” she instructed boldly.

  Without countering, he took off his tailcoat. Beautifully tailored, but he dropped it to the floor like he would a rag. With a flash of moonlight on silk, his waistcoat followed. Then his shirt. White linen fluttered through the air like a disoriented ghost.

  Moonlight splashed on his body, glancing off his straight shoulders, pouring over the pronounced curves of his pectoral muscles. His nipples puckered at once. Soft hair, also auburn, sprinkled the muscles and shot down toward a rock-hard belly.

  His trousers came down next, of course, and he had to bend to yank them off. So for one breathless moment she couldn’t see—

  Then she could. He wasn’t aroused. No, his member was soft and lay to the right, but even in its sleeping state, it fell quite far along his thigh. Good heavens.

  “It grew,” he remarked casually. “When I became undead, interestingly, that was the one part of me that changed. A remarkable and often inconvenient four inches.” Then he winked.

  He must be crazy to think he was a vampire. But he was a beautiful, strong, very well-endowed madman. She did not think his length inconvenient. It was rather intriguing.

  But he climbed into her bed, on the side opposite her, as though they were an old married country couple and he expected to come to bed for sleep and warmth, not sex.

  Nerves shot off inside Vivienne like a barrage of cannons. She had learned to take care of herself with any man, but with the attacker she’d encountered in the lane tonight, she had proved she wasn’t as invincible as she’d tried to become.

  She rolled over toward Heath. She was so tired, but she reached out to his naked body. Why now, after years of being with men, should she feel awkward?

  She was bedding a stranger. One with a title, but a stranger nonetheless. She always took care to know as much as she could about her lovers before she even allowed them to grace her bedroom. In the stews, she had seen what a man could do. Even gentlemen. The ones who smiled, who dressed well, and called a woman “love,” just before they would hit her in the face.

  There was danger in this. Real danger. A woman could end up dead like this—and she was supposed to protect Sarah. And she’d grown up watching her mother having to have fleeting moments of sex with strange men for a few coins, to keep a roof over their heads.

  Now she was doing it. Because she had to. To keep her own daughter safe.

  She touched his waist, marveled at the solid feel of his muscles behind his soft skin for one breathless second; then he caught her wrist. He moved her hand back, where she wasn’t touching him.

  “Tonight, love, you should sleep,” he insisted. “We touch when we’re ready.”

  Ready? For what? She was quaking inside. Hot, bubbling, confused, yearning. And afraid. “Can you really cure my daughter?”

  “I don’t know, and it’s too close to dawn. Let the medicine work tonight, and tomorrow night I will try.”

  Tomorrow night. To pay her price she must seduce him night after night. But she’d never encountered an unwilling man before. He pillowed his arm beneath his head and smiled at her. And apparently intended not to lay a hand on her. But he made her feel anticipation and need, things she hadn’t felt for years and years.r />
  Without even touching her, somehow, he was seducing her.

  Vivienne expected to lie awake all night. Instead she must have gone to sleep the moment her head landed on the pillow for she found herself in Hyde Park on a sunny spring afternoon, in the hour before the ton went there. When courtesans came to flirt with gentlemen who would later be seen in the park with their wives.

  She couldn’t be there in reality, so she knew, as dreamers did, that none of this was real. Arousal wound up in her, tighter and tighter, like silk stretched to a point where one more tug would snap it.

  Even in her dream, she knew she had come here to seduce the Earl of Blackmoor. Something whispered that in her mind. And warned she would have to be scandalously daring to do it….

  Dawn dragged him down into sleep. Heath had drawn the drapes in Miss Dare’s room to protect his skin from the sun. Then he had realized what she would do first thing in the morning: fling them open. So he’d left her bed and found a dark corner of the attic in which to give in to the day sleep.

  One moment he had been staring into the dark, seeing every detail of the roof timbers, every flicker of dust in the air. Then he had been staring at the ripple of green leaves as sunlight dappled them.

  He heard the clop of hooves, the nickering of horses, the shouts of gentlemen, and the tinkling laughter of young ladies.

  He looked around in disbelief.

  Hyde Park.

  How in blazes had he got here?

  He hadn’t. He had to be dreaming.

  It wasn’t the fashionable hour. The pretty women were courtesans. The gentlemen were here to peruse the lovelies and select new lovers. He wasn’t riding. He was walking, bathed in sunlight, swinging his walking stick, aware of the swell of so many tempting breasts spilling over tight, low-cut bodices.

  But the one thing that really aroused him? The feel of the sunlight on his skin, the way it made sweat trickle down his collar. The way it tempted him to strip naked and have his way with a bountiful woman on the soft grass.

  A hand stroked down his back from behind, and as the hand slid down, his cock stood up. He turned, smelling a bouquet of sin: jasmine, roses, something sultry and exotic, and the rich, luscious smell of a woman’s arousal.